HeadHighGlassy

Winterized

2012-01-19T12:54:00.000-08:00

Been having a ton of fun shaping (and surfing!) midlengths lately. EggyHullySpeedyTrimmy stuff in the 6'8-8'0 range. Lots of convex up front to flats and concaves in the back.

Design-specific to Northcoast beachbreak.

Glassed up nice by Fatty Fiberglass in Ft. Bragg. Jake Sacks is carrying on the tradition of excellent, small-batch, attention-to-detail glasswork and has some pics up on his blog as well (click his name).

Poplar rail fins of the 'tiny' variety.

7.11x22.

Winter fun.

Log

2012-01-10T11:39:00.000-08:00

Yellow Longboard.
Red fin.

Noserides.

Shana Tova

2012-01-02T09:12:00.000-08:00

First board of the year!

I like New Year's Day more than New Year's Eve--clean slate and all that. Celebrated the arrival of 2012 with some foam mowing followed by a trip to the coast with the girls. Kites were involved, as were refusals to wear jackets.

Then tears.

Then ice cream with rainbow sprinkles.

Finished the (glorious!) day with a bit of champagne that we hadn't gotten around to drinking the previous night because we have kids and we're tired and we were busy with an epic Super Mario Kart session on the (glorious!) Wii, anyway.

This fresh 9'4 with a green high-density foam stringer bookended by dual cedar sticks will get a shiny candy shell at Almar Glass Works, then head to The Shop in Humboldt. There it will be ogled, fondled, caressed, until it speaks to someone so loudly that they will gladly hand over currency and make it their own.

On the way home, they will crack a window and turn the music a little louder. They will smile slightly as they imagine themselves flying across a wall of liquid energy, knees bent, fingers trailing in the purest green they could possibly imagine.

May we all experience such joy this year.

Qlear Quadsword

2011-12-08T15:25:00.000-08:00

Thursdays are the best. First, my employer provides lunch on the condition I sit through an hour-long meeting without any lewd or unseemly outbursts. Done!
Second, it’s not Wednesday, which is the worst.
Finally, I take a moment for myself on Thursdays to post a recent board and fling wide the doors to the HHG inbox to see what’s on the minds of my comrades in the surf-bathing community. Here’s Paul's Quadsword 8'7 and a letter:

Dear HHG, When did you know you were getting old?

Sincerely,
Sleepy in Sebastopol
Good question, SiS. I first realized I was old one morning while suiting up in the parking lot with the stereo cranked. First, I was cranking it because I could barely hear it. Second, I realized that my get-stoked-for-a-session selection was Morning Edition on NPR. It was pretty hard to continue with my denial after that point.
We’ve been dialing in Paul's quiver for a while now, and this midlength really fills a critical niche in our unforgiving waters. Nice to have a little foam under your chest to paddle, nice to have a bit shorter board under your feet to throw around like it’s play money and your Boardwalk property is swathed in tiny plastic hotels.

Dear HHG, is my board ready yet?
Your Friend, Mr _______________ (note to readers: this is not the same Mr. ______________that appears in Alice Walker’s excellent novel The Color Purple. That guy was a total dick)

Dear Mr. ____________,
Yes!
Just kidding, it’s not.
Clear glass job by the stoked folks out at Northern Light Surf Shop in Bodega. Glass fins by Rainbow Fin Co. in La Selva.

Dear HHG, I’ve noticed that when my three-year-old puts on her pants, she leads with the right foot. Does this mean she’ll be a goofy? I love my three-year-old, but the rest of us in the family are regular foots, and I don’t want to have to consider a trip to Raglan when the rest of us are stoked about Scorps.
All Right in Guerneville

Dear ARiG, as parents, our job is to support our children no matter their stance predilections. That said, goofyfoots are an abomination of nature. Has there ever been a goofyfoot in the Whitehouse? I rest my case (I know what you’re thinking: Martin Van Buren, eighth President of the United States, was a goofyfoot, which is incorrect—he was actually the first switchtance surfer to reach the presidency). What’s of greater concern, though, is the probability of two regularfoots giving birth to a goofyfoot: one in sixteen hundred. I’m not saying it’s impossible, but you might want to ask yourself this: was your significant other ‘just friends’ with any Kiwi surfers/yoga instructors/massage therapists about four years ago? Remember, the accent might not always be a reliable indicator. Dreadlocks, unkempt beards, and juggling with devil sticks are dead giveaways. Good luck.

And with that, I once again close up the inbox and retire to my afternoon meeting. I hope there are cookies.

Of Thanksgiving, Turkeys, and Fresh Foam

2011-11-29T09:56:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving!

For some, the mere name conjures food porn of the highest order: turkey, duck, chicken (sometimes in the same overall package), ham, mashed potatoes, yams, and more pie than you can shake a big, pie-shaking stick at.

For others it's about family, offering thanks for the many blessings we've received during the year, and maybe having a few too many dry reislings before telling your uncle that he could probably better understand the Occupy Movement if he rolled down the windows of his Lexus and took his first deep, un-airconditioned breath of inequality. Oops!

Most of the world doesn't give a shit about Thanksgiving, though, and that's fine with me. Babies continue to be birthed, waves continue to roll toward shorelines, and my 1998 Toyota Siena minivan continues to guzzle coolant like someone I know guzzled dry reisling before having a few fateful words with their newly-estranged uncle. Oops!

And surfboards! Surfboards are dreamed-up, fantasized about, laden with impossible hopes and dreams, belabored, ordered, anticipated, then finally received in a ritual as complex as the holiday itself. The following is a journey of two fresh boards--one for Mike and one for Kelsey--delivered, surfed, and toasted during our recent Thanksgiving pilgrimage to SanO.

1. The reveal: 7'6" quad egg and 9'4" log.

2. The First Wax. Child labor makes the process faster, though much more likely to get wax in places where wax doesn't go, Like on the bottom. Or on fins. Or in finboxes. Tough call.

3. The Kicking-of-the-Tires: gonna be a good noserider! My 2yr old channeling George Greenough's hair.

4. The Hero Shot.

5. The Locating-of-the-Sweet-Spot.

6. The Staying-Out-Until-Near-Dark-and-Trading-Boards-and-Experiencing-General-Euphoria.

The seasonal spirit more than made up for the I5 traffic, though I have to admit the first spirit I hit after twelve hours of driving was a wee bit of the Talisker 10yr--another reason to give thanks.

As Artie from the Larry Sanders said of Talisker 10, "one day you will die and go to heaven. When you enter the pearly gates and meet God for the first time you will say 'hello' and he will say 'hello' back. When he does, this is what you will smell on his breath."

In my dreams God also has a post-sess saltwater nasal drip going, some serious surf hair, and a smile that says my secret spot is snapping, and I'm in a giving mood. That's an idea of heaven I could really get behind.

Thanks for reading, and hope you had a great holiday.

Blues for Tues: of Mini-Simmons, Thanksgiving, and Snickers

2011-11-21T21:37:00.000-08:00

Nothing says, "America's fuggin rad" quite like the calendar stretch that encompasses both Halloween and Thanksgiving. The two holidays capture America at its best: creative, free of secular nonsense, and steeped in sharing.

They also capture the best as aspects of consumption, which, when it comes to Russian River pinot noir and Snickers Bars, isn't a bad thing at all.

These four weeks also hold the promise of epic surf conditions for California--active storm systems to both our north and south, warmer water temperatures, and an end to the devil winds of summer.

Not so much this year, though.

The good news is that despite this season's meager surf offerings, creativity and consumption have flourished. Especially if you're Fred, who has already consumed several waves on this baby blue 5'7, and expressed his freaky side on their wide-open faces.

And a solid community put this thing together: foam by the good people of US Blanks, glass by the talented hands at Almar Surf Works in Santa Cruz, and fins by Marlin Bacon of 101 Fin Co.

Have a great Thanksgiving. Don't forget to call someone and tell them you love them, even if you're exaggerating a little bit--they'll never know, and you'll feel that much better as you dig into some beaujolais nouveau.

War Pony Chronicles: Urho the Milk Drinker

2011-11-15T14:05:00.000-08:00

In a department store in Minnesota in 1956, Richard Mattson invented the patron saint of Finland. He called him St. Urho. Why? Because Finland needed a patron saint, damnit, and their current one, Henry, Bishop of Finland, kind of sucked. For example: Henry could not guzzle sour whole milk in obscene quantities. Urho could.

Henry could not expel plagues of grape-munching grasshoppers from the countryside. Urho could.

And Henry’s name was Henry, for God’s sake, not Urho. Would you rather pray for strength to a saint whose name translates to Hero, or to one whose name translates to, ahh, Henry?

My point is that I’m calling this board a Jet Pony. I’ve tried other names and they don’t stick. I care not what anonymous blog commenters (“sounds like a Power Puff girl character” and ”isn't that the Care Bear with the rainbow on her overalls?”) or that one grumpy guy in France (“Not at all masculine. Also, a fish must be under six feet in length”) thinks. It’s a War Pony with a jet tail and it just makes sense.

This particular Jet Pony (or Jet Poni for my Croatian readership) is for North Bay surf-bathing enthusiast Keefe, who likes to shred Ocean Beach when he’s not consulting international startups, Occupying London, or blazing our local single-track offerings.

It's 6'4, very shiny, and sports a quad setup (patyo sa loob for those in the Philippines). Just the thing for OB, which has no shortage of steep walls and likes to reward those with superior rail-to-rail quickness.

Fast.

I Love Log

2011-11-08T15:37:00.000-08:00

I Love Log.

Fall Haiku

2011-10-21T06:06:00.000-07:00

Fred's Mini-Simmons.Curves all over the goddamn place.
Just in time for fall.

Sneak Peek

2011-10-13T05:44:00.000-07:00

People ask me all the time. They write or email or call and say, hey HeadHigh, you’re a handshaper (sometimes they say ‘boutique shaper,’ or, ‘small-batch shaper,’ or, ‘dude who needs to work on his calf muscles’) how can you possibly put your boards through the same paces as one of the Big Guys like Al Preisendorfer, or Matt Carper? How much of your budget is allocated for research and development? How do you achieve perfection without a stable of fourteen-year-old boys offering fourteen-year-old feedback about the radness of your boards?

Sometimes I’ll address these missives by extolling the virtues of the one-off shape, the uniqueness of a board that’s been created for exactly this place in space in time, for a surfer’s homebreak, their wetsuit thickness, their shoe size, and what a combo swell does to their sandbars. Sometimes, if I’ve had a Bud Light Lime or two (don’t ask), I’ll pontificate upon the energy that is passed from the hands to the shape—to the rails, the rocker, the foil. The electricity of skin on foam, the life of the thing.

Sometimes, however, the inquisitor is left unsatisfied. They want more—proof, equations, science. Code on a clipboard. In these rare instances I lift the curtain a bit and allow a peek—a brief sniff, if you will—into the inner workings, the hidden workings, the underground workings of the entire HHG operation. The kinds of workings that require a hard hat and a one piece zip-front jumpsuit. The kinds of workings that demand humorlessness and a square jawline set at a certain angle. The kinds of workings that can only be fulfilled by one man: Juaquin de Largo.

Every board that comes out of my shop has been subjected to Juaquin’s Rigorous 3-Point Inspection Process of Inspection. In the name of full disclosure, I now part the curtain and allow you a glimpse into the process as Juaquin takes our new model, The Heater, through the painstaking Process of Inspection. This is a special day.

1.Does it Float? You don’t hear too much about this factor from the Big Guys, but it’s pretty important. As you can see, Juaquin devotes an indescribable intensity (and impressive flexibility!) to this Inspection Point.

2. How Does it Look From This Angle? Most of the Big Guys neglect this Inspection Point entirely, but it’s crucial. Juaquin studies the fresh board from AT LEAST two different angles, both formally AND casually (pictured).

3. Is it Facebook Profile Worthy? The most recent addition to the Rigorous 3-Point Inspection Process of Inspection (remember, HHG was carving out boards long before Al Gore even considered inventing the Interwebs). Self-shots involving the board are taken from two angles: the head-on (pictured), and the overhead. The head-on is specifically designed to remove the Creeper Factor from the profile imaging process, and is favored by men of a certain age. The overhead shot is tested for maximum lip poutiness and studied nonchalance, usually employed by teenage girls and those who want to look like teenage girls.

I hope you have enjoyed this behind-the-scenes peek into our commitment to serving. We are also committed to safety, as evidenced by Juaquin de Largo’s shiny hat. We are also pretty committed to local zinfandel, so that’s three things.

Redwood Tramps

2011-09-27T13:25:00.000-07:00

Things were simpler back then, when hobos ruled the earth. There weren’t as many pressures to appear ‘clean’ or ‘hygienic’ or ‘nonthreatening to children’; Whiskers were encouraged, explored for crumbs, made pointy. Food fell into two categories: stew and whiskey. Often the stews featured whiskey.

And people looked you in the eye. Unless, of course, they were missing an eye and the other tended to wander. There was a lot of that. Perhaps because of the whiskey stew, which was really room-temperature turpentine in a metal bucket.

Anyway, surf transportation was better then, too. No namby-pamby googaws like 'wheels,' or 'a roof,' and the combination of a plein air handcar, turpentine poisoning, and scabies made for a refreshing trip to the coast.

And the waves!

The waves were at least 100 times better then!

Or maybe they were 100 times worse.

It's tough to say, really, as the hobos wrote their histories in charcoal on the insides of their lambswool vests, then either traded their vests for berserker tonics or ate them outright. Oh well.

Although these days the redwood hobos are almost extinct, a few still survive. The most notorious are the Northcoast’s AppleJack Gang. Neither handsome nor in possession of a remarkable mental acumen, the AppleJack Gang is known more for shredding single fin logs with oldschool style, flagrantly experimenting with midlengths, and mercilessly schralping teeny fishes and eggs, mostly while under the influence of their self-distilled namesake thirst quencher (pictured bolted to car).

A rare sighting indeed: the entirety of the AppleJack Gang (From left to right). Boxcar Brent Bafflegab, the Soup Slurper. Dogballs Dan Dogballs, the Man With the Cat-Like Testicles. Linty Jay McStinky, the Cotton Sock Enthusiast. Acrimonious Andy O'Feely, the Absquatulator (aka: Sir Francis Drank).

There is beer on the beach, but you should paddle out for a few more. You stroke back out to the lineup on your 7’6 egg. You spin and catch and glide and swoop. You throw your arms over your head. You should paddle out for a few more. You are in Mexico, the water is warm, there is beer on the beach and the waves are small and clean and soon it will be dark.

Blues for Yous

2011-09-09T17:56:00.000-07:00

I don’t really know what do to with this word: community (I also don’t know what to do with the word moist, though that’s for another time). It’s not a tricky one to define—from the Latin cum for together, and munus for a gift, literally translating to ‘a gift to be shared’—it’s just that the word’s spread a little thin.

We’ve heard the term Surf Community as many times as we’ve heard our other surf clichés of the moment (Kelly Slater is a ‘Freak of Nature,' as well as everything that comes out of Dave Rastavich’s mouth, such as the endlessly repeating commercial where he states, ‘I’ve been gifted the opportunity to not have a 9-5 job…’Gifted? Good Lord. He also abuses blessing, for which there is no excusing). So are we experiencingcommunity when we surf? It’s a ‘coming together’ for ‘gifts,’ but, as we know, most waves are actively and purposefully un-shared. And what if you have not only nothing in common, but different values entirely than those in the water with you? What if they're dicks, or disparage others, or applaud when Rick Perry boasts of 234 executions while he was governor of Texas? Does it negate the community experience, or is there a sub-community of surfers who have little regard for human life?

What about when we’re out of the water? If we’re not sharing waves, or coming together, are surfers still in any way a community? If not, why are we constantly being told that we are?

Sorry for so many questions on a Friday, people. My eldest started pre-school on Tuesday, and I've been vexed with thoughts of her fragility.

What if her peers look askance at her bowtie noodle lunch? What if she puts her hands into the class orange juice again? What if she's the kid with a booger sheet stashed in her desk? Today is Show and Tell, which I think should go well. Christ, I’m a mess.

What am I talking about again?

Oh yeah, ChrisTofurkeys new 7somethin Cigar Volant. The young buck’s chasing down a sandwich with the same intensity he applies to beard growing and shredding barefoot on leashless logs in Northen California beachbreak. Dude’s committed is what I’m saying.

How much more blueberry can it get?

None more blueberry.

Beachbreak

2011-09-03T17:12:00.000-07:00

I love watching long period swells go from this:

To this:
Couldn't bring a board to the coast today, but hit it with the Lil' Ladies and managed to capture an air and a drop-knee on the same wave. Makes a dad proud.

Lids

2011-08-17T06:26:00.000-07:00

Hats are a fast and dirty way to make a statement.
A properly selected headpiece can announce, "I support an elitist class system that's outlived whatever claims to relevancy it once purported! " (see this summer's Royal Wedding), or, "I'm not smart!" (see all seasons of Jersey Shore).
This sturdy gem, however, is different. It claims, "I haven't washed my parking lot changing towel in a long time and I don't give a damn."
It warns, "if you're riding a popout, you best be on purple-nurple high alert."
It quietly shouts, "I'm gonna have another Tecate, them I'm gonna think about having another Tecate."
As the latest of my ill-advised forays into merchandise, I present to you the corduroy hat.
It's not impregnated with stretchy shit. It will not wick moisture or make your biceps look huge, and it's not silky-smooth-like-butter right out of the box. Do you have other people chew your food for you, for chrissake?
Hell no, because you're a do-er, and you're not afraid to break in a new pair of Carhartt's, or Levi's 501s, or a friggin' bronco.
And this baby blue bronc requires some breaking in, a little manhandling, and a lot of days on the range before it accepts you as its superior. It wasn't washed with cobblestones, massaged by authentic villagers, or 'distressed' by whatever it is that distresses things.
It was sewn up by snow-and-surf shredder/limited-run lidmaker Tommie at Dedicate in Jackson, Wyoming. We're only doing a few.
What your hat will say is, "I'm not trifled by wide-wale corduroy and, yes, I do know that corduroy is translated from the French cord-de-roi, or clothes of the king. Did you know that badass is French for what's perched on my head?" That'll show 'em.
Because you know that a good thing requires some real work, but once it's broken in, it's all yours.
Unless, of course, someone steals it. Then it's theirs. That's what you get for letting someone steal your hat, dummy.
Email me if you're interested in one. headhighglassy@gmail.com
$25 should do it.

Tastes of Summer

2011-08-09T18:28:00.000-07:00

How much fun was last week (surf-wise)?

How great are Dark 'N Stormys?

How posed does this shaper-scoping-freshly-glassed-stick pic look?

Answer: it's only semi-posed. Posed in that I held a surfboard against an industrial backdrop while a picture was taken. Semi-posed in that the bulk of my attentions (which aren't that great to start with) were genuinely committed to not dropping this thing.

How great is Bud Light Lime?

Before you judge, amigos, let me recount a conversation that happened last week with one of my oldest and best friends who currently lives in Cleveland. It was 96 degrees in his house and it was nine o'clock. At night! And there was absolutely no hope of the temperature even reaching the low nineties during sleeping hours.

"How are you coping?" I asked.

"Well, there are some, um, things with lime that help take the edge off..."

"Like what?"

And he whispered the following three syllables which changed the shape of my summer (or really just the taste of the last week).

Bud Light Lime.

This man relayed this information is an artist. He has an advanced degree in Industrial Design. He hiked the entire expanse of the Appalachian Trail--some of it in Tevas. He's a Jew for god's sake!
So I did the only thing I could do: buy a twelver of BLL and have at it. Know what?
Magical.

And by that I mean Bud Light Lime magically transforms Bud Light into a greater version of itself--the version of itself that was nice to everyone in middle school, despite whatever was going on with their pores. The version that likes spending time with old people and other peoples' kids.

What, you ask, could be so different about the addition of a single word, a swart nub of a single syllable like lime? I ask you this: can you note the difference between awesome band Rush, and not awesome band Rush Limbaugh?

The addition of a single word.

Do you sense the relief of tension between Salmonella and Salmonella negative?

One word.

Billy Baldwin and Alec Baldwin?

A word substituted, but still.

Enough. Here's more surfboard.

The Writing on the Wall

2011-07-26T15:02:00.000-07:00

Amen.

Blue Monday: of eggs and llamas

2011-07-18T07:42:00.000-07:00

Much has happened in the last week, amigos. Team HHG has flown across the country and back with two kids under five and survived, Harry Potter has engaged in the usual epicness with You-Know-Who, and some stuff has gone down with Rupert Murdoch and his news agencies across The Pond that would be exciting if it weren't so damn boring.
And it's Blue Monday!
For those of you who are just joining, Blue Monday is when I fling wide the doors to my private email account, and also share the blue board of the week.
Like this 5'10 wetsanded egg.
On to the questions!
Dear HHG, yesterday a lady paddled out into the lineup, and a weird thing happened: everyone started to be nice to each other, when minutes before we were kinda being dicks. What's the deal?
E. Masculated in Marin

Mr. Masculated, yesterday you experienced 'civilization.' Although rare on the Northcoast, civilization can lead to increased sharing of waves, more smiles in the lineup, and a decrease in references to manparts. In much of the world we refer to this as 'value added.' You do have a few responsibilities, though. First, no staring. Second, you're going to have to start using a towel to change out of the wetsuit. That's the deal.
Back to the boardporn!
2+1, cedar stringer, and a pulled-in tail to keep things real in the pocket. Good for all-around beachbreak shredding.
Dear HHG,
In the last month I've noticed an increase in hobos in my local lineup--beards, flannel shirts, a general unwashed vibe. What's the deal?
NoHobo

NoHobo, unless there was a recent bum conference nearby, I think you're experiencing either of the following. 1. Hipsters or 2. Teachers on summer break. Both are harmless, and both can be placated with cheap canned beer.
Poplar rail fins--I love foiling these because they smell like vanilla. Seriously. Michel and crew glassed them on.
This week's final question comes from my two-year-old daughter, who wants to know what that llama is doing in the photo. I told her I have no idea, but that board is waaaaay too small for it. She agreed and then went outside to play with the hose.

Handfull

2011-07-10T10:11:00.001-07:00

Ahhh, summer. Pinot grigio consumption is measured in gallons, nobody can remember the last time my four and two year old daughters wore an actual article of clothing, and Team HHG jets across country for our annual pilgrimage to coastal New England.
This year necessity, that old mother of invention, dictated our baggage-fee-friendly East Coast quiver (quivah):
Fish, pintail, winged pin.
Know what feels good? Stroking into your first wave in the Atlantic for a year, stretching the body out full, and washing away fourteen hours of travel and midair diaper anxieties.
Also, littleneck clams.
Know what feels bad? When you get back from the beach, and you struggle to close your door, but it won't go all the way because it's swollen in the New England humidity, then your sister yells, 'close the damn door, I can see your manparts!" even though the door is only cracked the tiniest of slivers.
Also, bugs.
Back to Califonia on Tuesday!

Found Footage

2011-07-05T13:38:00.000-07:00

Reports that this board exists cannot be confirmed or denied, or that it is a 5'8 MiniSimmons twin fin for new homeowner (and roof repairer), married man, dog rescuer, solar enthusiast, and all-around stoked bro Chad.

If such a board were, in fact, to exist, it may or may have not been glassed by Junod and crew at Almar in Santa Cruz.

Done With Resin

2011-06-18T13:46:00.000-07:00

It’s official: Leslie Anderson (Founder, President, CEO, CFO, Laminator, Sander, Glosser, Finner, Hotcoater, Pinliner, Ding Repairer, Head Chef, Delivery Lady, Love-Life Consultant, Hottub Custodian, Trampoline Enthusiast, Reptile Breeder, Cat Fanatic, and Zealous Lover of Specialty Cheeses) of Fatty Fiberglass is moving to Alaska.
She’s in love.
Leslie’s early reputation on the Northcoast was limited to the low-voiced murmurings of Those in the Know. I procured her email in 2004 (third-party client. Sworn to secrecy) and received a terse missive in response to my query: Full glass shop ready in a month. Call later.
Attached was a list of references: Wayne Rich, Clyde Beatty, Steve Walden, Gene Coope. Yater for god’s sake.
A month later, shaped blanks snug in their bubblewrap cocoons, I wound through vineyards, redwoods, and finally the Mendocino Coast. Her property was a zen garden-like gathering of outbuildings, each beautiful in its own artistic right—redwood construction, perfectly balanced yards, chickens, cats, dogs, a strawberry patch, and a deep sense of peace. A far cry from the industrial parks down south and their parking lots littered with bags of foamdust, layers of tough guy action-sports stickers plastering the walls.
Then, Leslie. She appeared behind a couple dogs. Walking slowly. Beer in hand. Shy smile.
As I wrestled with unloading the blanks, she produced two glasses of syrah—one for me, and one for my lovely lady.
She then pointed out her hottub.
“What?”
“It’s over there,” she said. “I’ll unpack those boards.”
And she did.
We ended our first visit, as many who visit Leslie do, staying for wine, pool, conversation, and Leslie’s notable culinary talents. We left well into the night, promising to stay longer next time.
And we did. We took tours of her chicken coops and gardens and greenhouses. We sat in hottubs and talked about cacti. We played with dogs and ogled boards and listened to stories of the Heavies down south—Rich taking a chainsaw to a shaped blank because the customer requested an adjustment, Brom’s legendary grumpiness, Cooper’s white lab coats
And her glassjobs were insane. We’d always end up in her shop, hands fondling perfect glossy finishes, savoring the smells of local red wine and new surfboards..
Leslie loves surfboards as much as anyone in the industry, but what really spins her wheels are colors. The Fattyshack itself is awash in color—birds, boards, plants, reptiles. In fact, I’m sure her current obsession with chameleons stems not only from their amazing color patterns, but from their ability to change colors to suit their mood. She’s jealous.
Leslie’s a lady full of contradictions, too—the mark of complexity. She would belabor a board’s appearance for days. Call me several times in an hour, email me, text me, whatever. Then, if I would do the same she would quip, “it’s only a surfboard.”
“What?”
“A friggin’ pool toy. A plastic hoo-haw. Go surfing and chill the heck out. Maybe then you’ll stop whining and get me some more orders.”
This from a woman who once called me in tears because a color of a tail patch came out a quarter shade darker than what she had in mind.
“Is the customer going to notice? “ I asked.
“No.” She said.
“Will anybody notice?”
“No,” she said, then thought for a moment before adding, “ but I will…”
It didn’t matter that the board was bound for the east coast in two hours and she would never see it again.
I sometimes wonder if other glassers do this. If they call the shaper with a catch in their voice when the creation doesn’t meet their vision.
Or if they ask their shapers to pick them up something at the farm supply store on the way over. Or if a board dropoff turns into a café visit and conversation over coffee. Or if their favorite gratuity isn’t beer or weed but Idiazabal cheese and chai tea.
I wonder how many glassers sign off a phone conversation with ‘Love ya!”
And that’s the thing: when I first met Leslie, I had no idea we’d join in this adventure together. That we’d talk almost every day, that I would grow to respect and love her tremendously.
Of all the things that stand out about Leslie, one thing is standing out for me this morning: she always refers to the boards by the name on the stringer. It’s not the ‘blood-red quad fish with the yellow pinline,’ it’s Garrett’s Board. And even though she never met ¾ of the recipients of the boards she spent so much time working on, she always called to find out how they liked it. “How did Danny dig that abstract?” She cared because she put herself into everything she did, and I can think of no greater compliment than that.
In a culture where ‘whatever’ forms the dominant tone of many conversations, and ‘meh’ is used to describe something, to care—and to care deeply—is a rare gift.
So don’t worry about Les—she’ll be a bit chilly, but fine. And don’t worry about Fatty Fiberglass, it’s now in the capable hands of Leslie's right-hand dude Jake Sacks, family man, beard enthusiast, and stoked boardbuilder.
I currently have boards on the racks at Almar Surfworks in Santa Cruz, entrusted to the uber-talented hands of Mike, Tony, and Michel. They’re solid guys with amazing skills, and though the boards will be mindblowing, I doubt I’ll be signing off any phone conversations with, “lova ya.”
Still, you never know--Michel's about as nice a guy as them come.
The adventure continues for all of us.
I’ll shut up now and finish just how Leslie would want—with her work speaking for her. She glassed each of these from start to finish. The last one is Leslie('s legs) with my eldest daughter--one of her biggest fans.

p.s. If you see this rig anywhere between Ventura to Southeast Alaska, get her attention then buy her a chai tea. She's good people.

The More Things Stay the Same

2011-05-26T19:47:00.000-07:00

Men of a certain age do strange things to recapture their youth--cars, combovers, tight black ribbed t-shirts, whatever. I shape twin fins. Why? Because these days my idea of abusing drugs involves a fistful of ibuprofen before a surf session, and at this point in my life my knee goes out more than I do. In other words, I'm a man of a certain age.
My first surfboard was a quad, but after an unfortunate encounter with the inside rocks at Rhode Island's P__n_ J__i__, it was a twin. I was fifteen years old.
The board was not what some would describe as 'good,' or 'capable of being surfed,' but it was my first board, and it was pure love despite its coffee-colored foam, its delaminated deck, and its tendency to spin out even when paddling. Eventually, a dude at Warm Winds surf shop took pity and gave me two salvaged fins and some roving, and I restored my beloved quad to her former four-finned glory.
But not before scoring some great rides. So, like many first loves, our relationship was a complex stew of the sublime and the awkward. It was clumsy, it was ugly and awkward, but so is every first love. Remember middle school dances?
Exactly.
It's the shape I return to when I think of my favorite surfing moments, and the one I try to reproduce the most in the shaping bay.
And this one comes pretty damn close--the TwinFin Jet Pony which, now that I see in print, is a terrible name for a surfboard model.
Aside from having two fins, this stick differs from its predecessors in almost every other design element: rocker, fin placement, bottom contour, rail shape..etc. What it has in common is glide and effortless speed. What it adds is hold, drive, and a thruster-like positivity without the drag. It recaptures the feeling, but thankfully not the actual experience.
If it looks like there's wax on it, that's because I waxed it. Then I rode it. Then I cranked some Black Sabbath for the drive back home and, for a moment as I passed through a eucalyptus grove with the windows down, I almost believed that there was a lukewarm case of Black Label beer in the trunk and I was going to get busted by my parents for missing dinner again.
Some things change for the better.

Local Legend Part Deux

2011-05-18T11:58:00.000-07:00

There are many theories in circulation as to how Dogballs got his name. One version claims that upon the moment of his birth, the Wikopi shaman presiding over the affair stated loudly, “This boy shall heretofore be known as Dogballs.”
“Why Dogballs?” Dogballs’ father asked.
“Because his balls look like my dog’s,” the shaman replied.
The Wikopi are a literal people.
Another version has Dogballs' early vocabulary limited to these two fateful syllables for the first four years of his life. It was the response to every query (“And how old are you, little guy?” “Dogballs!”), the source of every frustration, the proud exaltation of every private joy. Identity is formed in strange ways.
The third theory involves a hot day and three pounds of ground lamb, but I’d like for my blog to retain it’s Family-Friendly rating, so we’ll leave it at that and instead enjoy this nice shot (taken by Dogballs!) of his new stick nestled amongst the poppys.
Either way, Dogballs is an aficionado of The Glide and rips on all kinds of surfcraft, so he deserves his own model (he’s also 5’18” tall, weighs more than me holding a full-grown St. Bernard with a fifty-pound weight in its mouth, and fires a Browning 12 gauge with a shocking absence of safety considerations). This one's 8ft, features a trim-and-shred style bottom contour and rocker, and a bevy of fin options for the tinker-minded schralper.
Glassing, of course, by Leslie Anderson of Fatty Fiberglass.
Speaking of which, rumor has Leslie relocating to a point waaaaay up north, so if you've been holding out on having her glass your next board, better get to it ASAP. Like, now.

The Painted Lady

2011-05-09T11:33:00.000-07:00

Art.
Abstract acrylic on foam by Jay dL—local charger, Puerto barrel enthusiast, inspired artist, informed horticulturist, slayer-of-all-boards, and rocker of pearl-snap full-yolked Western shirts. He can also fix your computer, lead pumpy trad climbs on steep granite, and brew a mean yerba mate. Clearly, a Renaissance man.
The board’s a tweaked-out, Northcoast-speficic 8ft. hull-inspired trim machine. 'Lighter Than Ice' blue tint and thinnest-of-thin white resin pinline by Leslie Anderson at Fatty Fiberglass, a hell of an artist in her own right.

Cherry, Cherry

2011-04-23T17:42:00.000-07:00

Flawless deep red resin tints are the mark of a skilled laminator.
Leslie Anderson is a skilled laminator.
This shiny slice of candy apple goodness--standing 8'4" long, 22" wide, and sporting a 2+1 fin setup for ultimate summer beachbreak fun--is available for fondling and purchase (not necessarily in that order) from the good folks at Sonoma Coast Surf Shop in downtown Petaluma. Call 707/763-3860 or stop by 9 Fourth Street; Drew and Crew will steer you right.
It even comes with a leash cord.

War Pony Chronicles: the Jet Pony

2011-04-18T08:27:00.000-07:00

Like every surfboard ever made, the War Pony is an amalgam of flats and curves. Because it's designed for punchy surf, some curves are enhanced while others are reduced. Flats and curves. Zeroes and ones. A binary principle tucked into a three dimensional form.
This particular War Pony has a few extra flats in the back. Not great when you're with a lady, but super fun when you're looking for more release through the tail.
The jet-tail's been around for a while, but credit goes to Daniel 'Tomo' Thomson for its recent resurgence. The fish's roots may be buried deep in San Diego, but its branches extend globally.
This one's a quad, but there's a twin fin (or tween feen if you're Australian, Kiwi, or Kirk) on the glassing racks presently.
The rear panels have some crazy fun flex. I keep sneaking back to the shop to squeeze 'em.
Do my fingers look fat? Could be the lighting...

The ______board Revolution

2011-04-05T19:43:00.000-07:00

These are not the best days to be a Middle Eastern dictator. Nor are they great for polar bears or allergy sufferers. Mortgage owners, too, have cause for concern.
However, these are unbelievably exciting times to be a surfer or a custom surfboard shaper. The last five years of surf culture has seen the rules of the game change so much that there are no longer any rules. Last century, surfers laughed when the odd twin keel fish made its way into the local lineup. Now I can’t even wax up my Mini-Simmons in the parking lot without a handful of passersby deliberating design nuance: single or double-foiled fins? Concave all the way out the tail, or flat behind the fins? Would a shallow swallow tail give it more release?
The Shortboard Revolution of mid 1960s saw surfers hacking down their longboards six inches at a time. Shorter and shorter they got—ideas ping-ponging between California and Australia as traditionally designs were reinvented monthly.
Monthly. Can you imagine that? It’s a sloth’s pace compared to what’s going on today. It takes a month to fill a laboratory dish with bacteria. It takes two weeks to buy a gun (and feels a lot longer) in California. It takes minutes for a stoked surfer to see something online that captures their imagination, copy it, send it to their custom shaper with a few tweaks and a question (“what do you think of this but as a quad with a more pulled-in nose?”), and decide on a color.
The Shortboard Revolution was, as indicated by its name, unidirectional: shorter.
Today’s surfing revitalization is three dimensional: longer, fatter, shorter, thinner, more fins, fewer fins, concaves, convexes…etc.
It works with mindboggling speed: A backyard shaper in Portugal redistributes foam in an interesting way and posts it on his blog. Online surf communities initiate substantive discussion before the board even finishes curing. A California shaper gets inspired, fires off a few testpieces, and sends a crew to Baja to film and post up some video. The Big Guys see it and push a new model into production, but by then it’s too late. The dude in Portugal has moved on, deciding that the board would work better stringerless with carbon rails. The California shaper, too, decides to widen the tail, change the fin configuration, and push the widepoint back.
The target has shifted. The conversation has changed.
Suddenly, we’re talking about a teenage girl in New Zealand who hacks foam out of her parent’s mattress, glues an innertube to it, and shreds the reforms. The conversation continues, it expands, it contracts, it pulses like a jellyfish. It moves, literally, at the speed of light.
The result? Everyone is relieved: grizzled old shredsters are no longer talked into underfoamed, overfinned, banana-rockered potato chips with the float of a kickboard and the shelf life of swiss chard. Gremmies aren’t hounding after the latest ‘CT hero model guaranteed to blast them over the lip in 2ft beachbreak windswell, and the rest of us are encouraged, gently, to experiment.
Interestingly, it’s been a collaboration between the old and new guards that has brought us here. Elder statesmen like Kenvin and Ekstrom have enlisted the energy and talents of stoked groms. Everyone wins. The kids have their minds significantly blown over the pleasures of trim and glide, and the older guys get to reap the benefits of more user-friendly boards without the stigma.
Case in point: Big John had a vision for a specific board for a specific wave that requires a specific (read: dealbreakingly long) paddle to access. The wave is powerful and known to throw big, legit barrels on the right swell. He wanted paddle power. He also wanted it to be able to handle juice and steep walls. Not a longboard, not a gun.
Also: pulled nose and tail, e-wings.
Also: a bonzer setup. With bamboo fins.
Also: enough foam to float a guy as long as my car.
Also: banana/mango yellow tint with a tapered black resin pinline.
Try finding one of these on the racks.
It's not that a board like this didn't exist ten or twenty years ago--it did. The difference now is that the kids in the back row, the ones grinding their popcorn into the carpet while texting their girlfriends and downloading seven movies simultaneously, are now the ones standing up, aiming their camera phones at the world, and saying, "that's rad."
And it is.

All Clear

2011-03-24T14:51:00.001-07:00

Foam
Cedar
Fiberglass

The Stuff of Life

2011-03-03T20:35:00.000-08:00

All the literary heavies have succumbed to the powers of the grape at some time or another. Hemingway refered to wine as, 'The most civilized beverage in the world," Emerson demanded wine to wash himself clean, and it can't be more simple than the declarative statement of Roman poet Petronius: "Wine is life." Even the sciences back it up, as Louis Pasteur claimed it to be the, "most healthful and hygienic of beverages."
Based on the comments I get on this blog, I am clearly preaching to the choir, but it must be pointed out the great things wine has inspired: poetry. Literature. Civilizations. Sweet sweet love (though Shakespeare warns us it, "provokes the desire but takes away the performance").
And surfboards.
Ranger Fred makes some damn good wines up here in SoCo.
He also makes lots of children and clean lines on cold beachbreak waves. His 9’0 performance log sported a ‘glasser’s choice’ order card, so Leslie busted out a Zinfandel deck with champagne bottom inlay.
Probably the last thing a winemaker wants to see on his days off but, hey, he left it up to a lovesick temperamental artist with an affinity for reptiles and carnivorous plants, so what did he expect?
Pintail keeps it smooth off the back foot.
Thomas Jefferson wrote, "wine from long habit has become an indispensable for my health. Much like pulling in to a glassy barrel" (the second part is my own addition).
I'm a sucker for the 'reverse wrap' glass job. Leslie rolls her eyes when I wax poetic about them, muttering something about sanding into the weave blah, blah, blah, but the tucked laps really tie the whole bottom together.
Cheers.

Responsible Use

2011-02-25T15:30:00.000-08:00

We don't judge up here at HHG. If a stoked surf enthusiast requests a board and shows appropriate measures of stoke, gullibility, and inebriation, discussions will ensue and a board will be created. This guy had all three in spades.
(not sure what's going on with his hand here, but something tells me it's not ok...)
I'm not going to drop any names, as my business is built upon a solid foundation of confidentiality and shaper/client privilege, so I'll just refer to this gentleman as 'Chaim.'
Chaim was stoked about an 8' something, 2+1 fin setup, and rounded pintail to manage the beachbreaks of Norcal as well as the warm water goodness of a forthcoming Costa Rica pilgrimage.
Chaim's choice of a gunmetal deck pigment job, and hourglass bottom laps was spot-on--the dude's clearly got taste, and Leslie made it sing in trademark Fatty fashion.
One thing is for certain: this board's in for some wild times.

Up for Grabs

2011-02-17T08:31:00.000-08:00

Newly Unattached: Broadsword 2+1.
Measurements: a svelte-yet-curvy 8'5x22x3.
Reason for Breakup: Handsome Steve's employment termination.
Likes: the ocean, long walks on smooth peaks, steep and deep pockets, big stuff, little stuff, and everything inbetween.
Dislikes: waiting in the car on hot days.
Interesting Facts: smells like red cedar, would love nothing more than a good waxjob.
Another casualty of a dispirited economy, Handsome Steve had to surrender his freshly-shaped-yet-unglassed Broadsword this week (don't worry about Steve, a man that undeniably handsome is seldom out of work for long). By stepping forth, you have the opportunity to help a board in trouble AND realize the glassjob of your most pure/prurient desires--clear, solids, stripes, swirls, bubbles, darts...etc.
This is what she looked like when freshly shaped:
If unclaimed, the board goes to the shop with a glassjob of Leslie's imaginings, which will most likely be blue, reflective of her mood since The New Man returned to Alaska until summer.
Speaking of Alaska, if your board was in yesterday's pickup/dropoff cycle, it had the opportunity to experience snow, as evidenced by this picture I took at low speeds Somewhere in Mendocino County:
The white-knuckle driving affair (perhaps brought on by the weather hubris of my last post, and pointed out by Dr. Jay in the comments section) was only overshadowed by this stunning rainbow, shot at high speeds through the window with my camera on manual setting and no possibility of looking through the viewfinder. Nailed it! (sort of).
Bonus Question: if you name the Highway 101 exit closest to this image, you receive a FREE RESIN PINLINE on your next board order. Hint: it's between San Francisco and Crescent City. One entry per surfer, please.

Smiling Dutchman

2011-02-07T08:45:00.000-08:00

In a merciless display of God's cruel irony, or perhaps some sort of conspiracy plot by those dastardly, ever-conspiring Masons, Northern California has been basking in a freakish run of good waves and unbelievable weather. This, while the rest of the nation hibernates under an impenetrable 'blanket' of continually building snow and ice.
Sorry, rest of the nation, but we're doing what we would want you to do of you were in our flip-flops: applying sunscreen, ordering surfboards, and shredding (without our hoods!) our local waters.
Like Dutch here, with his new quad fish.
But have no fear East Coasters and Midwesterners, we will get our comeuppance: I think I saw some clouds in the forecast for late next week or something.

Real Big Fish

2011-01-29T19:11:00.000-08:00

What does this have to do with surfing, surfboard shaping, or surf culture NotB?
Not a goddamn thing, but I have a few in me and like this picture of my second-born daughter's first excursion to the SF aquarium.
That's Mrs. HHG's nose resting gently on the back of that sturgeon.

The Perfect Storms

2011-01-20T09:03:00.001-08:00

Who was it that said, "I love it when a plan comes together"? Hamlet?
FDR?
B.A. Baracus?
No matter, the enduring aspect of a quote isn't the first person to speak it, but the latest person to speak it. Up here, it's got to be Northcoast shredster Shawn, who just got this:
And along comes this:
And this!
Up here NotB, we have a name for this trifecta of stoke: The No Fu@#ing Way, or the NFW.
In Shawn's case, it would be uttered slowly, almost breathlessly, with emphasis on the final syllable.
Other instances the NFW could be employed are when the wife/girlfriend tests positive for impending daddydom--correct pronunciation in this instance would be long pauses between each word accompanied by a wide-eyed stare into the distance.
Or, a macking set on the horizon with you in exactly the wrong spot. In this specific case, there is no preferred pronunciation--elocution will be specific to the size of approaching set, quality of the utterer's wetsuit, and one's personal prediliction for being held down in the dark, dark, cold, deep for extended moments.
Hope you score some.

Cowabunga!

2011-01-09T19:49:00.000-08:00

If you live in Sonoma County, chances are your surf commute looks a lot like this:
We have greenery, we have a wild, wild ocean, and we have cows.
Perhaps the countless pre-dawn miles logged between SebTown and B-Bay put the zap on Bobert's melon--they say that the imprinting impulse of the human brain is equal to that of ducks and geese.
Mathematicians would undoubtedly reference the Transitive Property of Equality: if stoke is associated with waves, and waves are associated with cows, then cows are the proprieters of stoke. Or something. I was an English major.
And I just finished my second homemade margarita.
Regardless of the principle, the thinking is sound, and what better thing to represent our local surf culture than the Holstein cow? Holsteins are described by an unnvervingly deep-voiced narrative on my daughter's first-season of Sesame Street DVD as, "warm, calm animals," and they are.
Until you piss them off. Then they become much like our local surfers: territorial, aggresssive, and improprietous.
Just kidding. Sesame Street had them pegged at warm and calm. I'll add curious, but that doesn't really strike fear into the hearts of interlopers. Unless they're from a Red State.
So what does this have to do with Bobert's new stick?
Nothing, yet. The initial order was standard: 8'3 Northcoast rounded pintail e-winged five finner with a beefy stringer to withstand our punishing surf conditions. It looked like this:
Then, things started to happen. Bobert began, appropos of nothing, to refer to his new stick, resting gently on the racks at Leslie's, as the Bovine Board. He initiated an email thread amongst his surf crew, extolling his enthusiasm for the cow.
This may not have been wise. The crew, eager to pounce on deviations of any stripe, responded.
Images of unicorns appeared in subsequent email. The winged beast Pegasus was attached several times. There were rainbows and wings and equine nuzzling and a disturbing, anatomically correct (?) manhorse named Steed. There were references to Disney and Trapper Keeper notebooks and, worst of all, Celine Dion.
But Bobert had a vision and, like all visionaries he let the jokes, the chides, and the castigations fizzle.
Bobert endured. He had a vision, and it was good.
The Cowabonza.
The Cowabonza is both in and of NotB. The shape reflects long paddles, steep drops, and frigid, lonely, zero visibility mornings. The glass (and keep in mind all color is done by Leslie Anderson with pigmented resin) reflects our past, our ideology, the basic building blocks of who we are.
And who are we?
We are lovers of place, of ocean, of community. We are smitten with tradition, and innovation, and hand made things.
And it helps if these hand made things are useful, and lovely, and help you get over the ledge at S__m__ _re__ on a morning when nobody else will see you through the fog, or the wind, or the rain. And if someone you don't recognize comments on your CowBoard in the parking lot, just remember you are of this place: a warm, calm cow angling through the pit of an overhead grinder, hardened against the Northwest winds and glassy-capped ocean surface, dancing with the dark green. You are a warrior, and a cow, and I just dove into my third margarita so I'll shut up now, as I am a small man with a small tolerance for all things alcoholic.
Fresh limes from your own tree are the key.
Lots of stuff coming up in 2011!

West of Eden

2011-01-05T21:38:00.000-08:00

Sorry West Coasters, but the East has us beat in this department:
They also have us beat in the old-people-falling-down-on-the-ice-and-breaking-a-hip department, so it balances it out.
The Holiday Season, however, is not really known for restraint, as evidenced by my in-laws family dog, Jack, who has to endure this treatment every year. It seems not even our pets are spared a healthy dose of holiday shame.
Speaking of dogs, shame, and succombing to temptation (as I did with a lovely bottle of Lagavulin 16 presented on X-mas day by the lovely Mrs. HHG), this pair awaited me this morning outside my shop.
Why do I shape with non-matching footwear? Because my previous dog struggled with restraint.
Why do I no longer shape with non-matching footwear? Because my current dog, Ben, dances with the same demons.
I had a moment of nostalgia thinking about the 200 or so boards this pair helped me carve out (as I unceremoniously tossed them into the dumpster), but reminded myself that Ben is just passing on the New Year's message that it's time to move on. Auld Lang Syne asks if old aquaintances should be forgotten, then answers its own question: nope.
Instead, it asks its audience to grab a pint, join hands with a friend, and commemorate Old Times (the translation of the song's title) by downing the draught although, "seas between us broad have roared."
And speaking of roaring seas, word on the street is that the ocean's been smiling lately up here NotB. I'm not going to personally verify it's been good or bad.
But it ain't been bad.
Happy New Year.

Of Sparkplugs, Sandbars, and Seasons Greetings

2010-12-24T08:24:00.000-08:00

I love it when this:
Turns into this:
6' Sparkplug for bicoastal surf enthusiast/surfboard sketch artist Kevin, who's flying out from the East Coast, grabbing his new stick, celebrating X-Mas with the in-laws, then jetting to Mexico all in about a 12 hour period.
Five Futures finboxes of fun. The Sparkplug is packed full of curves and designed for maximum rippage in small to a-lot-larger-than-small sized surf. It works well as a three or four finner. Up north, e. shreds his gen 1 Sparkplug with a bonzer-inspired setup.
Speaking of the East Coast, Mrs. HHG, the little HHGitas and I just arrived here and you know what? It's freaking freezing and I've gotten no fewer than 10 emails in the last 12 hours informing me that my homebreak is totally snapping and everyone is getting so pitted and it's the best, cleanest surf of the winter and the agricultural runoff from the rain isn't that bad as long as you've had your hepatitis shots...etc.
Still, as I write this, stuffed into more fleece than in an entire REI catalog, parked in front of a space heater, sucking down hot tea as if it's the elixir of life itself and contemplating how soft I've gotten, I can still muster enough holiday spirit to wish everyone a Merry Christmas. And coming from a semi-frozen Jew, you know it's real.

Orange Egg

2010-12-16T15:07:00.000-08:00

Does anyone remember the van with the external speakers in Robert Altman's (brilliant) Nashville? For some reason it was a highlight for me, as was seeing Elliott Gould in full 70s, gold-necklaced, hairy-chested glory. The van, a rolling audio advertisement for Hal Philip Walker's political ambitions, asks the question, "does Christmas smell like oranges to you?"
Well, for local wave-enthusiast Lucas, international shredder and dashing man about town, Christmas came a bit early this year, and it's definitely orange.
7' something egg, glassed with the lovely lady-hands of Leslie Anderson at Fatty Fiberglass. Lots of finboxes for lots of fin options.
Tight.

New Yeller

2010-12-09T18:58:00.000-08:00

A typical conversation with Unde starts with some stoked screaming. “Yeeeuuuuuwwww, Murray!” he’ll belt into the phone, Rhode Island accent unmistakable through the slurry of vowels. Sometimes the exchange won’t progress any futher. There’ll be a click and a dead line and you’re left wondering if Unde got shacked bodysurfing Ruggles, or if Unde scored a new pair of Birdwell trunks, or maybe he just pulled some hapless, waterlogged tourist out of Narragansett Bay. Sometimes there’ll be follow up—Unde will be on a new aquatic trip and will want to share. Taco Bell tray sliding. Prone surfing in a flowered Esther Williams swim cap. A new Van Duyne rowing surf boat to play with once the lifesaving season is over.
True Unde Story #1. I knew Unde for two years before I discovered he had a real name: Jimi.
True Unde Story #2. When Unde lived, taught, and shredded in Japan, his students called him Pantsu which, I believe, means Undies in Japanese.
True Unde Story #3. Unde loves the ocean more than anyone I’ve ever met. East Coast. West Coast. Whatever.
This latest of Unde’s aquatic schralp machines measures in at 7’2 x thick x wide. Leslie lay down a beautiful classic yellow tint with matching deck patch inlay. Dark brown resin pinline to match the cedar stringer. This five fin-boxed egg is designed for anything Unde cares to paddle into. Which is just about everything.
Unde: more stoked than my one-year-old about a grasshopper. Pretty much sums it up.

The Man who Loved Water

2010-11-30T08:51:00.000-08:00

You'd be hard-pressed to find someone who loves water more than Tim Palmer. In fact, you'd be hard-pressed to find someone who loves the natural world more than Tim Palmer, who has authored twenty books on rivers, river conservation, mountains, California, the Sierra Nevada, Yosemite...etc. He grew up canoeing the waters of Pennsylvania, then bought a rad van (pictured in below photo), converted it into a mobile outdoor-lover/writer/photographer transport module, and set to exploring America's wild places.
Tim's as hardcore as it gets. He walks, runs, wades, backpacks, paddles, drifts, or floats every inch of his subject material. The guy's up before dawn each day, and has probably seen more sunrises than Robert Downey Jr. He is understated about his lifetime of adventures, but his speaking and slideshow tours always reveal some true narrative gems.
His new book, Rivers of California, is a gorgeous display of photography and writing at its finest and would make a great holiday gift for any nature lover. Check it here!
Our own Russian River even makes it into the edition.
Tim is currently touring with a slideshow. He's in Sonoma County tonight at Copperfield's Books in Sebastopol at 7pm. He'll have a mindblowing presentation, his new book Rivers of California, as well as some of his other offerings. They're all great. He can even sign one for you.
If you can't make it tonight, he'll be at Guerneville's River Reader at 7pm for the same deal. Still can't make it? Here are some tour dates.

Something Wicked This Way Comes

2010-11-19T16:09:00.000-08:00

When the Weird sisters, foretellers of Macbeth’s fate in Shakespeare’s play of the same name, describe Scotland with, “fair is foul, and foul is fair,” they may as well have been talking about surfing the Northcoast. Surfers get absolutely jazzed about conditions up here that are, by most standards, terrible. Wind, cold, rain, wind, cold, fog, wind, thunder, whitecaps, monstrous sucking beachbreak dumpers, sharks, wind. Whatever.
The first year I surfed up here I made the mistake of bitching about the wind to another surfer as we hunkered in the lineup, sideshores blowing so hard we had to keep our eyes squeezed shut. “Not a big fan of whitecaps,” I confessed after an hour of this nonsense.
“Whitecaps?” he asked, spinning his board and clawing into an absurdly thick double-up. “Up here we call ‘em glassycaps!” he shouted, then disappeared over the ledge.
Several years ago I was checking a sandbar at one of our local beachbreaks on a typical day: windy, blown-to-bits closeouts, glassycaps galore, and not even the hint of an open face. Still, five guys were on it.
As I watched, absolute in my decision to head back home to a hot cup of coffee, all five spun on their boards and made haste to the beach. Not a common sight up here, but not an uncommon one, either.
“See a fin?” I stupidly asked one of the guys as we stood on the shore, squinting toward the ocean.
“Couple,” he said.
“Gonna pack it in?” I asked.
He shot me a what-you-talking-about-Willis face and said, “and miss out on this?” His hand gestured to the malevolent shorebreak, the pounders beyond unloading onto an ill-formed sandbar barely visible through the pea-soup air.
Five minutes later the five men huddled, agreed the two sharks were long gone, then paddled straight back into the fog. I made my way back to the parking lot, quickly pulled on my wetsuit, and agreed with the dude on the beach: who would miss out on this?
It’s not until the fourth act that the Northcoast/Macbeth parallel dissolves.
“Such welcome and unwelcome things at once,” says McDuff, the play’s moral champion. “’tis hard to reconcile.”
If he were a surfer up here, it wouldn’t be hard to reconcile at all.
This 9’something LB is for local shredder/teacher JL, stranger neither to The Bard nor our frigid waters. Shaping boards for teachers is a pleasure—these guys understand community better than almost anyone I can think of. Plus, you can say something like, “let’s screw our courage to the sticking place” when suiting up on a big day and they don’t think you’re insane.
Win win.
As per usual, all color is pigmented resin, and all glasswork by Leslie Anderson at Fatty Fiberglass who may or may not be making out with some dude in Alaska at this very moment. Much to give thanks for this year!

The Semi-Conductor

2010-11-09T13:59:00.000-08:00

Shaping boards for smaller waves is groovy. The ouija-board dance of wave, wavecraft, and rider is vast, and projecting what lines the surfer will take is an exercise in limitlessness—over the wave, under the wave, on top of, through, around, out, in, whatever.
It’s a different experience in the shaping room with a bigger-wave board on the racks. The lines a surfer takes on gun or semi-gun are more prescribed, the choices fewer. The drop. The turn. The race for the shoulder. The paddle back to the peak.
Rather than possibility, the bigger-wave board is about the experience itself. The fierce, watery thing of it. It’s about size, and about the fingernails-into-the-palms grip of fear and adrenaline and pure marine energy.
This 7’5 for MendoShredder BigL isn’t meant for the biggest our coast can handle, but rather for long paddles through coves thick with urchin-encrusted rocks and kelp. For thick, riotous masses of salwater pumping onto rock reefs that are about 600,000 years shy of perfect. And the cold of the Northcoast--not just the fog or the wind or the rain, but the cold of not knowing when the next cleanup set is coming through or how long you’re going to float, legs dangling, in water as dark as iodine for the right wave to come.
And, of course, the warmth: the joy and relief of putting the head down and feeling the unmistakable surge of water pushing surfboard. The moment when everything is crisp and decided, and the head only chants, quietly now, “go, go, go.”

Three Fin Twin Pin

2010-10-20T19:22:00.000-07:00

Carl Ekstrom developed the first asymmetrical surfboard in 1965. He was twenty-four years old. Although the concept of asymmetry never really gained traction in the surfing mainstream, sailboards and snowboards have been capitalizing on the design idea for decades.
Re-inspired by fish designs of the last few years, Ekstrom again put planer to foam and has been coming up with some cool asymmetrical stuff. This board is inspired by Ekstrom, a low-rockered EPS blank that I’ve had lying around for years, and a demo fish that was returned to me with one keel fin missing. Not broken, just gone.
When I asked the borrower if the board looked at all off, he took a hard look, scratched his head, and said, “well, the color’s kinda girlie.”
So, what to do with an EPS fish blank and one keel fin?
This.
And this.
And this.
Resin pigment work by Leslie Anderson of Fatty Fiberglass. When I asked her what she thought of the board she said, "who cares? I'm in love."

The Best Fiance You Never Had

2010-10-05T14:43:00.000-07:00

The title of this post refers to a short story by Pam Houston, selected by none other than John Updike for his Greatest American Short Stories of the Century anthology. Upon completion of a writing class with Ms. Houston many years ago, I was left with two memorable bits: the first is that if you ever get a novel published, make sure that the cover is blue. They sell better.
Next, she really likes dogs.
That's about it, but not a bad takeaway as far as writing workshops go.
The spirit of the post refers to soon to be married SF surf enthusiast Sara, who ordered this longboard for her fiance. What a lady!
Let's get technical in our discussion of the pigment work on this board: all color except the orange stripes were added via resin tinting during the lamination.
Ok, not really that technical, but impressive nonetheless.
Speaking of love, Fatty's got it bad, and in her ardor has been flipping boards at a fever pitch. Good time to add a new stick to her queue.
Pictured alongside 9'2" surfboard is a 33"tall 3 1/2 year old (seated) for perspective.

Rastaman Vibrations

2010-10-01T10:12:00.000-07:00

Positive.
Tofurkris's new acquisition comes from Northern California, and has rasta resin pinlines by Leslie Anderson. A beachbreak slasher of the Broadsword variety.
My family's new acquisition comes from the pound, and has a killer dogstache. Ben's a fuzzy wolfhound of the toe-licking variety.

War Pony Chronicles: Cars and Stripes

2010-09-24T19:37:00.000-07:00

Aloha amigos, much going on up here NoTB. For starters, the recent south swell seemed to offer many things to many surfers—from glassy peelers to dredging sphincter bombs, depending on where, when, and whether or not there were any eyewitnesses. The Gulf of Alaska is quietly waking up, eyeing the California coastline lying next to him in bed, and thinking, “Let's do this.”
It’s been many moons since we’ve seen ‘overhead++’ on Surfline’s Northern California forecast (though not so many moons, perhaps, since Surfline overcalled a swell), so our fingers are crossed, our minds already selecting boards, breaks, and tidal conditions.
As if this isn’t enough—the bounty of Fall is indeed colossal!—the fourth annual Great Handcar Regatta takes place this Sunday, September 26th, from 10am until 6pm in Santa Rosa’s historic Railroad Square. In case you’ve been stuck on the 101 for a year, the Handcar Regatta is like a shot of Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade dropped into a hot glass of Burning Man, then chased with a nose-clearing dose of what would happen if Federico Fellini and Tom Waits made a baby. Handmade and handpowered rail cars, unwholesome costumes, belly dancers, freaks on stilts, outmoded facial hair combinations, nipples, and more ass cleavage than a whole season of NASCAR.
This year’s theme is Magical India, whatever the hell that means.
Here’s a sample :

This turning of the seasons also requires a tuning of the quiver, and Dr. J’s new War Pony will take him through all of Autumn’s graces—from doily, bubblegum and lace southswell playthings to, stomach-churning, sawed-off, deep water discharges.
Plus, it’s got stripes.

The Golden Load

2010-09-14T06:44:00.000-07:00

The opening lines to William Blake's To Autumn read:
O Autumn, laden with fruit and stained
With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit
Beneath my shady roof.
Sounds familiar to those of up here NotB: we've got fruit in gross abundance, we're up to our nips in grapes, and we'd like nothing more than autumn to park her lush keester under our roofs for a while and end our run of uninspiring windswell.
This autumn's bounty includes Paul's new golden 8' Broadsword pintail, just about ripe and ready for some steep Northcoast beachbreak.
Blake was regarded by many, incuding himself, as nuts. He concludes his poem with autumn rising, dusting off his boots, then:
o'er the bleak hills fled from our sight;
but left his golden load.
It is precisely because of these last lines that I no longer give this poem to high school students.

Love's Labour's Gained

2010-09-06T20:39:00.000-07:00

National holidays always give me pause. First of all, it's unsettling to have garbage pickup on Tuesday instead of Monday.
Second, holidays have a tendency to nag us with the message to think of others instead of ourselves. Who needs it?
Finally, a day off pretty much guarantees horrendous surf conditions.
But each of these dark clouds have their silver linings and Labor Day, unlike other holidays that wrack me with guilt as I pour lukewarm Tecates down my gizzard like they were the elixir of life itself, is designed for selfishness. What's not to love? Labor Day celebrates us, the American worker, just as we are.
It's an interesting choice to give us the day off to celebrate work, but whatever--we're supposed to drink cheap beer and let the littler ones run around with the bigger ones until their shapes are hard to distinguish in the waning light of evening. We're supposed to slap at mosquitoes or marvel at fireflies or vaguely wonder where our sweatshirts or spouses or dogs are as we stand around a bbq grill or sit around a fire pit or, if we're really lucky, stare into the gently pulsing embers as a beach bonfire fades into the fog.
All this because of American labor and all it stands for.
And up here North of the Bridge, it still stands for something. This 6'4 Lil' Pill, e-winged, cedar stringered, built for speed, inspired by the Campbell Brothers, and finned with bamboo was designed, shaped, glassed, finned, sanded, and polished by two people.
Four hands.
A singular desire to build something good.
It is also colored with resin in Laphroaig-bottle green.
My neighborhood sports a genuine old school steakhouse with a mind-boggling, wallet-draining single malt scotch menu. Surfboard building business has been conducted there through the years, and single malts have been sampled, extoled, heralded, cursed the next morning. The language of Scotland's chief export occasionally makes its way onto order cards: highland butterscotch opaque; Speyside honey tint; Lagavulin 16yr old yellow.
After a recent evening lush with liquid peat, smoke, and brine, the words Laphroaig-bottle green were jotted down. Leslie called soon thereafter.
"What the hell does that mean?" She demanded by way of introduction.
I directed her toward the Google.
"Got it," she said. "You could have just written pine, but--"and this was one of those moments that made the weekly hours-long drive to her glassing studio all the more worth it, "I'm glad you didn't."
Hope you had a great day.

California Gothic

2010-08-29T22:13:00.001-07:00

K&N sped up from Points South, dropped off a delicious MacMurray Pinot Noir (no relation, though I have indisputable ties to this clan), picked up an 8’ Broadsword in EPS for her, a 6’something Lil’ Pill for him, and loaded them up before the cork was popped or sardines tossed onto a hot grill.
Rumor had them gobbling up south swell peelers in Santa Cruz before heading toward Point Conception, giggling as every surf forecast on the planet pointed to fun, solid surf headed their way.
Their dour expressions are just a quiet consideration of the merits of riding her board as a single fin, 2+1, or quad.

Of MiniLongboards, Minivans, and Mail

2010-08-22T16:34:00.000-07:00

Aloha Amigos, the Postal Service may rest on Sundays, but HHG does not. This is why the last Sunday of every month is Full Disclosure Day, where I fling wide the doors to the HHG inbox to allow you, faithful reader, a glimpse into the innerworkings of a machine so complex, so forceful, that Newton's Second and Third Laws barely apply.
I also give you boardporn. Like this 8'0 Broadsword which may or may not be headed to Hawaii in the near future.
Onto the first letter!
Dear HHG,
Last week my boyfriend of six years bought a pair of Crocs, which he now wears all the time. When I asked him where he got such a dumb idea, he cited a blog post where you claimed, “real watermen wear Crocs.” Not cool, brah.
Croc Blocker

Dear Croc Blocker, anyone who disparages Crocs should immediately be strapped to a carseat and forced by a three-year-old girl to listen to "Micheal Row The Boat Ashore" on repeat for, like, ten straight hours. Wait, that's my current life, but still.
The same applies to those ridiculing minivans, midlength surfboards, or sleeping in boardshorts when you don’t ‘have’ to. It is open season, however, on those allowing 'brah' to sneak into their correspendence.
Full board 'honey' tint with a chocolate resin pinline. Delicious.
Onto the next letter!
Dear HHG,
In recent posts, I’ve seen a sprinkling of what looks like a white powder on some of the surfboards on your blog. Is there dust on your lens, or should we be concerned? Mom's already called twice.
Also, you owe me $22 for pizza.
Love, L____.

Dear Big Sis,
That white powder is, in fact, foam dust, which has the interesting distinction of getting everywhere. As I write this, there are foamdust footprints on the living room carpet, there is a fine mist of foam in the laundry room where I shake out my shaping duds, and even, inexplicably, in my undies. The minivan is the worst, as it looks either like a box of powdered donuts exploded into its rich, carpeted 1996 interior, or like it was recently used as a setpiece in a Miami Vice episode.
A $20 dollar check is in the mail. I’m keeping the $2 as recompense for the googlie-eyed stickers you jacked from me in first grade.
Dear HHG,
My buddy just got back from an Alaskan fishing trip, and his freezer is rumored to be packed with over 200lbs of halibut. How can I subtly ask him to share the wealth without getting my ass kicked?
Haliburgular

Haliburgular, if we are thinking of the same dude, it’s no use to ask. There is only action. It’s quite possible that this dude’s family is usually at the park around 11am on Saturdays. It is also quite possible that the unlocked freezer sits patiently, innocently, in a garage whose key code may or may not be 2225. It has also been reported that said bro’s dog can be pacified with beef jerky and a dirty tennis ball.
Remember: you didn’t hear this from me.
Also remember: Fish Taco Tuesdays. I’m coming over.

And with that, I will close tight the inbox until next time.

Back to School

2010-08-18T17:15:00.001-07:00

Spotted at my local beachbreak the other day. I may be wrong, but this doesn't seem like the best idea.

The Sword Also Rises

2010-08-13T14:43:00.000-07:00

Christofuer, a serious devotee of trim and glide, likes to surf our chilly waters without a leash, booties, or concern for his person. And although he is patently opposed to razor blades and eating animals, he is clearly enthused about the idea of quiver expansion.
This 7’11” Broadsword should fit nicely into steep beachbreaky stuff that is ill-suited for traditional logs.
While hashing out ideas for the new stick, we discovered we’d both spent four years feeding our minds (and bodies, thanks to a shared, unrestrained passion for the school's frozen yogurt dispensers) at the same tiny Mid-Atlantic college. It's comforting to know I wasn't the only freshman with a surfboard stuffed into a Central Pennsylvania dorm closet during the Clinton years.
Christofuer catches more waves in an hour than I do in a month. I seriously considered jimmying the bottom contours to slow him down and create more waveriding opportunities for the rest of us.
Tailblock of yellowheart, bloodwood, and balsa. Foiling tailblocks smells a lot better than foiling foam.

Bread in the Bone

2010-08-01T18:54:00.000-07:00

Summer’s like renting a shitty house—it’s a little sketchy, you never fully unpack, the lease is strictly short term, and you’re always left wondering what happened to your money at the end of it.
On the positive side, you don’t really care when stuff breaks, catches on fire, or gets stolen by someone’s pervy shut-in cousin.
Last week saw a fun run of small surf up here North of the Bridge, with classic summer conditions: cool, foggy, and small peelers against a palate of gray water and sky. Pelicans, dolphins, and a whale or two were spotted cruising through lineups, and hoods—and, in one case, booties—were shed to welcome the warming water. It’s good to be back in California!
Foam was mowed, as well, including this 6’6 Lil’ Pill with an e-wing and five fin setup. Good for summer waves and beyond.
Damn, that's a terrible photo!
Still, you get the point--a little pulled in, a touch more rocker, a bit sleeker foil throughout.
Lots of fun stuff in the trunk.
Another terrible photo! This one's going to Leslie later this week for some laying on of hands, resin, and fiberglass. I've also seen her lay beers, glasses of wine, and bearded iguanas on surfboards. And corn snakes.
It's good to be back in California!

The Greymember

2010-07-20T08:38:00.000-07:00

William Shakespeare didn't live in Northern California. If he had, his Sonnet 18, which compares his beloved to a summer's day, would have mentioned northwest winds, coastal fog, and dry riesling before 5pm. He redeems himself at the beginning of the third stanza, however, by introducing the concept of the 'eternal summer' inside us. He concludes the stanza with a reference to 'eternal lines' as well. Perhaps The Bard was a surfer after all...?
Anyway, stoked Bay Area shredder Dan has a plan for the eternal lines of summer: The Greymember.
The board stands a diminutive, yet fleshy 5'4" with a slimming dark cedar stringer and Member-specific keels.
The slate gray opaque reverse wrap (tapered!) reinforces the tombstone likeness, and just a hint of swallow tail keeps things lively in the back.
The "S" deck: meat where you want it, neat where you don't.
When I told Dan this was strictly a head high and under board, he said, "I'm gonna ride it in overhead Ocean Beach."
The kid's got moxie!

East Coast Dispatch--the Epilogue

2010-07-07T14:03:00.001-07:00

Every summer sees the whirlwind HHG East Coast tour of New England states, Cape Cod beaches, grandparents, old friends, humidity, mosquitoes, ice cream, irrational liquor sales laws, and air conditioning. In the spirit of sharing, this trip’s lack of surfables has given me a moment to create a coastal New England socio-linguistic primer for those lucky enough to be planning a visit. Anchors away!
1. Appearance. The typical vacationing New Englander dresses blissfully free of irony. We knew we’d be seeing a lot of khaki during our visit, but the variety and sheer volume is what impresses us most. Green khakis. Yellow khakis. Khakis with embroidered whales, khaki skirts, hats, and an unconfirmed sighting (by Mrs. HHG) of a khaki beach blanket.
Below, my father demonstrates the typical accoutrement. Every summer he reaches deep into the suitcase, pulls out this getup, and sports it proudly for the duration of our stay. “When in Rome,” he says when asked about it, grinning. I’m pretty sure my mom makes sure it doesn’t see the light of day for the next eleven months. Let me talk you through it:
Faded Nantucket Red hat, crisp solid-colored polo shirt, well-worn khakis suspended by a sportfish-embroidered belt. Classic. What you don’t see: Boatshoes. No socks. Does it get any better?
2. Language. Often mocked, broadly misunderstood, seldom appreciated. The geography of New England is distinctly variegated—hills, valleys, rivers, snow piles, forests. It leads to not one, but hundreds of regional accents. A typical coastal New England observation about swimming conditions can offer endless variation. If the speaker is visiting from Boston, it may sound like, “This wahtah’s wickitt whumm,” whereas a Long Islander may posit, “Hey, this shit’s freakin’ hwaht,” while a Marylander might speculate , “they got crabs in this wutter, huh-wun?”
Each variation presents a host of invaluable anthroplogical data.
3. Fishing. It’s solid. As per tradition, 10th generation Cape Cod waterman Capt. Kenny Eldredge got Team HHG into some bluefish and striped bass (stripahs). Also as per tradition, Mrs. HHG spanked everone else on the boat, going as far as pulling up two fish at once—a bass and a blue on the same rig. Who said we can’t all get along?
This is what happens to good stripers from Nantucket Sound.
Stoked to get back to the left coast in a few days and crack into a fresh stack of foam!

Pig in a Shiny Blanket

2010-06-27T08:28:00.000-07:00

The widepoint aft, narrow-nosed, rolled-bottom Pig got its name from cowboyin' enthusiast Dale Velzy, who likened its image to that of a pig when viewed from horseback. It's a time-enduring design, and a valid approach to Northcoast surfing.
Unlike the coastline south of Point Conception, the water up here goes from very deep to very shallow without much inbetween. Longboard design elements tend to focus more on controlling speed rather than generating it, especially during the takeoff and bottom turn, and the Pig does this quite well.
It's pulled-in nose adds some curve to the planshape, and fits into a steep curl more decisively. The rear widepoint is an excellent command center, and, in addition to getting into the wave earlier, sets an authoritative line when combined with the 'D' fin and bottom curves.
This particular model is the product of an ongoing effort with Leslie to squeeze the square peg of the design into the round hole of our Northcoast waves. She wrapped this pig into a classy volan blanket, glassed on the fin so skillfully foiled by the good folks at Rainbow Fin Co., lay down a matching resin deck pinline, then polished her up good.
Speaking of coasts, I'm on the east one right now. Did you know that sometimes in New England you have to use your car's A/C at night? I shit you not.

Smoked Egg

2010-06-15T07:10:00.000-07:00

Hola Amigos, the next few weeks find my lovely family and me participating in our annual Screw-Up-Our-Kids'-Sleep-Schedules tour of the East Coast. Overall, things aren't much different over here. They have things called 'bagels,' that are really good. They also have something called 'humidity,' which is really bad. It is indeed a land of balance.

The greatest thing the EC is offering me right now is an air-conditioned room with 42" flatscreen upon which to watch World Cup soccer. Does it get any better? No need to respond.

What it doesn't have is my computer, with its HeadHighGlassy-ready gigabytes of fresh board porn. However, BrotherFromAnothaMutha Fred fired off these snaps of his new 7' something egg, which I pass on to you. Fressshhh!

Fatty always groans when she sees 'smoke tint' on an order card. 'Blah,' she says. 'Boring. Talk them into red.'

She always smiles when I pick them up, though.

When pressed, she can be made to admit that smoke tints are pretty bitchin'. This is all part of our process.

Check out those laps!

Lines Carved in Late Spring

2010-06-07T05:51:00.000-07:00

Aloha Amigos, as we all know, spring is a time of change. Up here NOTB, the fierce Gulf of Alaska swells, exhausted from battering our shores, stagger back north to rest and reload. Our surf attention shifts to the south and, as our inland valleys heat up, fog grips our coastline. The winds are ceaseless, tearing in from the sea with the force and aggression of a pissed-off lover. It’s no coincidence the Furies in Roman Mythogy—the three goddesses of vengeance—appeared as a punishing, relentless wind that was born of the ocean. Even William Wordsworth (1770-1850), naturey-ist of Romantic poets, mentions the wind in his Lines Written in Early Spring:
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
Scholars seem to argue that this line is evidence that, to Wordsworth, nature has the capacity to feel, not just be. It experiences pleasure as it welcomes this most welcome season.
Surfers would probably call bullshit. The last two lines show the speaker forcing himself to understand pleasure, and they follow the word breezy. Clearly, Wordsworth’s spring finds him in a constant state of reminding himself, amidst spring’s furious winds, that the season is indeed lovely, that his allergies will clear up pronto, and it won’t be too long before things turn offshore, the water temp creeps up a few degrees, and glassy barrels abound like so much low-hanging fruit.
A bit much? Perhaps, but Wordsworth did spend a lot of time on the south east coast of England, and there isn’t any evidence to support that he didn’t select a surf-friendly wave-sled from among the planks of a wrecked steamship and shred some coldwater peelers…
Speaking of wavesleds!
8’6 cedar stringered Broadsword for Ft. Bragg George. George is a big guy, and I like shaping boards for big guys—they know what they want, and they can kick my ass. A winning combo that keeps me on my toes.
This is the smaller (8’0), blonder cousin to George’s board. It’s headed to Hawai’i after a brief tour of our chilly waters. Wish I was, too…
There is a family resemblance in the hindquarters.
Hopefully, you're finding wind-protected nooks to practice your craft. Take comfort in knowing that the furies will eventually loose their grip, the sands will turn their collective faces to the sun as they warm, and these winds, too, shall pass.

The Latest

2010-05-24T14:17:00.000-07:00

Over here at HeadHighGlassy we like to keep things light—a quick shot of handcrafted boardporn, and perhaps a few musings on our shared experience as surfers in the 21st century. However, for the last seven or eight weeks, I’ve been sick. Comically at times, but mostly not. Mostly sick in the way that saw my wife and I using vocabulary normally heard in bad medical dramas. Sick in the way that that last week’s lab technician grimaced when she saw the constellation of blood-test punctures dotting my arms. Sick in the way that, over time, the radiologist running the cat-scanner and I learned each other’s work schedules, favorite books, children’s soccer achievements.
As I regain health, I’d love to pen a flip account of my last two months—ending with But Boards Must Go On!—were it not for the fact that I can recall, exactly, how terrifying it all was.
But it’s true, Boards Must Go On. The moon pushes and pulls, tides rise and fall. Pulses of energy gather into waves, hurl themselves at distant shores, reconstitute in different forms. For the briefest of interplanetary eye-blinks, some of us get to tap into that energy, and surfboards are a simple, ingenious way to do this. So while I’m humbled by many things lately—my wife and her infinite stores of patience and love, my mom’s homemade chicken pot pie, caregivers, viruses—I’m also thrilled to be harnessed by something larger than the self. To be a part of a community of weird, inspiring people who call or email or stop by to demand, in no uncertain terms, that their surfboard needs be met. Fortunately, they’re also patient, and this afternoon as I popped in the iBuds and stepped into the shaping bay for the first time in a month, I paused to feel this transference of energy. This live-wire scream of the planer, these grains of foam dust whirling through spider cracks of light, this unshakable throb of possibility. Health waxes, illness wanes. Boards are shaped. Handed over. Ridden. We are immersed, enslaved by joules and the law of conservation. Sometimes this doesn't work to our favor. Sometimes it does. And sometimes it just feels pretty fucking good.
Onto the boardporn!
Esteban's new double-wing quad stealth fish.
The stealth designation is given to any board that immediately goes into a board bag, is sneaked past any economically co-dependent members of the household, and is incorporated (with crossed fingers) into the existing quiver without mention or fanfare.
Although it's doubtful this one will escape notice, a man's gotta try.
As per usual, Leslie Anderson at Fatty Fiberglass makes the stuff pretty. All color, except the resin pinlines, done during the lamination. Badass.
I hope you are all well.

Ate-Oh

2010-05-10T08:29:00.000-07:00

8' Broadsword.
Caramel resin tint and chocolate resin pinline by Leslie Anderson.
2+1 fin setup.
Rounded pintail.
This board sports a logo that's been unemployed for about a decade. For some reason, Fatty had one hanging around her shop and thought it was a match. If you see someone on a board with this brand, you might want to distance yourself. My early clients were, um, spirited. And by that I mean unattractive, drunk, and prone to slothfulness.
They also tended to favor the stinkbug, which should be noted was a personal choice rather than a comment on the design or craftsmanship.

The Evil Eye

2010-04-21T13:56:00.000-07:00

Hola amigos, I know it's been a long time since I rapped at ya, but the waters are not always head high and glassy over here at headhighglassy. I've spent much time recently in bed, and not in the good way. The days unravel like a ball of tired, dizzy yarn, punctuated by the occasional visit to the doc, who's getting closer to putting his finger on what exactly ails me, though I wouldn't recommend anyone put their finger on it, as it probably looks like this:
But boards must be dreamed of, then shaped, then glassed, then delivered. It is the wool that spins into yarn, the grain that feeds the sheep, the water that feeds the grain. It is the child who pulls on your pantleg and turns their sweet round face up to yours, the dog that circles at your feet, drops, and licks your ankle just once. I believe I have a fever. Onto the board porn!
This is Janna's new 8-something broadsword ordered for her somethingtieth birthday.
It has lots of fin options and an Evil Eye on the deck, so don't snake this nice lady if you see her shredding the waves of Northern California or Central Mexico.
Could be the fever, but did I mention Leslie reproduced this design IN RESIN?
Janna comes from a long line of waterpeople--Portuguese fishermen, to be exact--and this Evil Eye has protected them from drop-ins, kooks, and angry gods for generations. I'm going to stare it a little longer with the hope my virus will get exercised and head back into the deep and the dark from whence it came. Perhaps it will leave a little chicken soup and turn the heat up a bit on its way out...

The Little Pill

2010-04-06T11:55:00.000-07:00

While not a new design, the Little Pill has undergone some refinements during the last few seasons. The outline has become sleeker, the foil more tuned in for better waves, and the entry rocker increased.
It's not a groveler, and will go well with south swells--lowtide reefbreak, beachbreak, or anywhere where speed and control are in high demand.
This one's a five finner with a light and snappy set of bamboo side fins by Marlin Bacon at 101Fin Co., but they work well as quads for a little extra oh my! sensation.
My preference du jour? 2+1 . Why? No idea, just feels good.
Know what feels bad? Holding a surfboard like this in a stiff breeze.
Insane resin work, as per usual, by Leslie Anderson at Fatty Fiberglass.
This Little Pill stands 6'5 1/4 x 21, and is up for grabs. Shoot me an email if you're interested. It should be taken several times a day with lots of water.

Blue Monday: the shequel

2010-03-22T20:57:00.000-07:00

Local she-redder Caroline's new stick.
Insane resinwork from the talented hands of Ms. Leslie Anderson: artist, animal rescuer, and occasional wearer of respiration mask.
Five Finboxed War Pony. Cedar stringer. Rocker. Pulled, foiled, gloss-and-polished.
My three-year-old daughter's purple princess shoes. Leslie's tapered laps. Caroline's stoked pickup. Lots of good lady energy swirling around this stick.

Swirly Tuesdays

2010-03-16T12:47:00.000-07:00

As committed, sober HHG fans will note, the Tuesday before St. Patrick's Day is always Swirly Tuesday, where I showcase a stirring representative of Leslie's resinwork. In addition, I fling wide open the doors of HHGs SPAM filter, and invite all to take a peek. Enjoy.
Today's featured swirl is Spencer's 7'2" bat-tail egg.
And our first featured SPAM comes from someone whose linguistic authority appears somewhat deficient, though clearly their Romantic spirit is fully intact. Here's the first line:
Best ladies looking reciprocation in the utility of men USA. True-hearted sex.
This notion is followed by some true gems, but perhaps it can best be summed up by the following line:
I tenderness to acouter in peculiar clothes and come undertake online as a cam maiden when I'm not being a granny.
Onto the swirl!
Clear deck, cedar stringer, five boxes for maximum shred capacity.
My next favorite SPAM comes from someone with a greater command of the language, and wins award for Highest Word Count. It's also surf-specific, sent to us by someone in the employ of Point Break Bar on West 45th Street in the Big Apple. It starts:
I am a surfer and found a "real surfer bar" in Point Break NYC.
Strange, yet compelling. Later in the paragraph the author claims,
I'm kinda jealous ;OPIt's {sic} filled with surfers, people who like surfers, people who like the beach and people who don't want to live close to town.
Losing me.
And when I spill a full tray of shots onto myself, the bartender so kindly remakes them for me?
It is signed Davis Miller.
A cursory search of the Googles reveals that the Point Break Bar has chosen to forego a website in preference to an uber-classy Twitter account rife with Lady Ga-Ga references, free beer specials, and, most damning, exclamation points.
If you have a moment, you might choose to send a message to @PointBreakNYC asking them why they're douches.
Back to the swirl!
Finally, I'll close the HHG SPAM filter with this lean missive sent by an anonymous SPAMer just this morning:
Hello. And Bye.
I'm a sucker for brief, muscular prose. And, right now, dry reislings.

Marching Orders

2010-03-08T19:52:00.000-08:00

The official HHG hand model getting the job done with a 7'3 Campbell Brosesque five fin egg.
If surfboard design were a wine-tasting party, the Bonzer would be the guy who smuggles in a sixer of cold Tecates in cans.
It's a judicious choice for those who like the ball-bearing pivoty feel of a center fin combined with the efficiency of four small rail fins.
Less drag, positive drive out of turns, stick to the wall like flypaper.
Don't let the fuller planshape fool you, this round tailed egg sports a finely-tuned foil and rocker for the steep and the deep up here NOTB. Think of long paddles, bull kelp heads the size of disco balls, and dark shapes on the horizon marching, marching, marching. The dark shapes zap an instant message directly to your frontal lobe: flee.
But you don't flee the dark shapes.
You sit. You breathe. You wait for the dark shapes to march closer.
Then you turn, then you paddle, then you connect to the dark shapes. With the dark shapes. In the dark shapes.
Then you know, and you want more. More dark shapes. Dark shapes marching from Oregon, marching from Washington, marching from Alaska. They march and you wait. You breathe.
You are.

Let's do the Numbers

2010-02-23T11:08:00.000-08:00

Shaper's Index for February, 2009.
Average number of Tecates handed over to shaper upon pickup of up new board: 24
Average number consumed on the spot by customer, shaper, and shaper’s lovely wife: 5
Number of times in the last five years shaper has been offered a ‘giant bag of weed’ in exchange for a custom-shaped surfboard: 4
Number of times blog author has accepted said offer: 0
Average water temperature in Bodega Bay, California: 52.5
Number of sessions blog author didn’t wear booties at his home break last year: 0
Percent of sessions in which blog author did not wear 5/4 wetsuit last year: 5%
Number of times blog author has vomited due to duck-diving induced ice-cream headache: 1
Number of times blog author has left the water due to crowds in NorCal: 0
Percent of EPS blanks shaped this year: 10
Percent change from last year: -10
Chance that my buddy Gus will drop in on someone during a session: 1:1
Number of times he’s been forcibly removed from the water by a girl for said offense: 1
Ratio of full cutbacks to barrels by my buddy Jason in 10 years of surfing OBSF: 5:4,196
Number of shoulder surgeries my buddy Jason has had in ten years of surfing OBSF: 2
Percent of non-surfing friends that asked me last week if I was going to surf ‘The Maverick’s’: 50
Likelihood my glasser is not wearing her mask today: high
Last date my glasser told me she was feeling "tired": yesterday
Number of times blog author has missed a day of teaching due to irresistible wave forces: 2
Number of students blog author has seen in the water on said days: 2
Percentage of times blog author invoked the (fictional) teacher/student confidentiality agreement, “I won’t tell on you if you don’t tell on me” during said days: 100
Average number of fin boxes on boards shaped this month: 5
Percent change from February, 2009: +50
Ratio of surfed days in February before birth of first child, after birth of first child, and after birth of second child: 15:10:5
Percent this bothers blog author: 0
Chance that a board shaped this week is an 8’ cedar stringered rounded-pintail Broadsword: 1:2
Number of times a passing car has honked at blog author, who realized too late that dangly manparts were exposed while towel-changing: 2
Number of times blog author overheard unsolicited John Steinbeck references in local lineups this year: 2
Number of times blog author was called ‘dude’ in local lineups this year: 0

The War Pony Chronicles: St. Valentine's Edition

2010-02-15T18:04:00.000-08:00

What a weekend for surf enthusiasts in Northern California.
The sun stopped pouting and came out of its room, waves of varying size and life-ending potential were served up like scripted folksiness in a Sarah Palin speech, and sweet sweet love was in the air.
Managed to score some waves, spend some time in the shaping bay, lunch on some fish tacos, take the girls to the park, fire up the grill and crack a local zinfandel with m'lady--and that was just yesterday. Feels like spring!
The local beachie, where waves are like a box of chocolates.
The surest sign that spring has arrived, however (besides asthma), is the first time the fan cranks up in the shop. Although scientists earlier today created the hottest temperature ever (4 trillion degrees celsius), my shop's come pretty close. Nowhere near that on Sunday, but it's always comforting to hear the soft whir of the fan over my industrial-strength earphones...
Anyway, forged from the heat of spring, the bittersweetness of dark chocolate valentines, and the birthdays of presidents 1 and 16 was local she-ripper Caroline's 6-something War Pony.
You can't spell SHRED without SHE.
The War Pony is a souped-up fish for our steeper northern breachbreaks. Curvier, slimmer, cedar stringier than a traditional San Diego style fish.
But I've not forgotten about you Northeasterners, or Clevelandites, or Michiganders, as you prepare for another round of snowy winter weirdness, and will share a moment from my weekend that was not entirely blissful: my three-year-old little lady enjoys running ahead of me on our beach walks, which can be inconvenient, but isn't discouraged due to its pride-inducing moxie. Yesterday, as I basked in a euphoric post-surf glow on one of our rare windless afternoons at the coast, I watched her spring, gazelle-like, toward an amorphous, dark relief in the sand. As I got closer, I recognized the form as bloated, decomposing seal, upon which she was suddenly seated. Closer still, and I was able to identify her right hand--perfect in its pink, cherubine innocence--probing deep into the swampy mammal's sagging eye socket.
My firstborn, pride of my loins, was overjoyed. "Daddy!" she cried, "it feels like wet Cheerios!"
And then, as if tying a red sating bow atop a box of candies for St. Valentine himself, removed her hand, held it briefly to her glowing face, and asked me, smile as pure as light, "wanna smell?"

Father and Son

2010-02-08T09:57:00.000-08:00

For a short time in third grade a secret admirer left celery in my locker. The individual sticks were neatly trimmed and placed in small sandwich bags. The first few offerings were anonymous, but later featured notes written in a girlie script.
Then my vegetable devotee began to get creative. Once, there were a few scratch-n-sniff stickers included. Another time a slender packet of ranch dressing accompanied the celery. A note read, “celery and ranch is cool!”
And for a brief time in the third grade, it was cool.
Until I learned that it was not Rachel Stein leaving me the celery, as I had hoped, but my sister. My mom made her do it out of fear that I wasn’t eating enough leafy greens.
What does this have to do with this 5’8 double-wing quad fish for Northcoast surf enthusiast David? Not a lot, other than to point out that it’s nice to have family looking out for us once in a while.
Accompanying David’s order was this 5'10, 80's inspired resinwork grom fish for his son.
Much cooler gift than a sweater.
Speaking of Father and Son, Cat Stevens penned a song under that title, converted to Islam, changed his name to Yusef Islam, ditched his music career, gave a sizable chunk of his fortune to humanitarian causes, sort of called for the death of Salmon Rushdie, then performed on The Colbert Report. In that order.
Just in case you’re keeping tabs.

Situation Identification

2010-02-01T17:34:00.000-08:00

A pause for some of this:
And a little bit of this:
Before we return to our regular programming:

A Board for all Seasons

2010-01-24T10:48:00.000-08:00

As the holidays fade into the rearview and we settle in to some serious winter weather, there are some that refuse to let the gift-giving spirit die.
SF surf enthusiast Sebastian is one such man. His single request after the shaping process: a happy birthday message to his lovely lady to be written on the stringer, then memorialized in fiberglass and resin by the talented hands of Leslie Anderson.
The gift of an 8'2" Broadsword is a romantic one, indeed. With a 4+1 fin setup, round tail, and chocalately cedar stringer (US Blanks has also been in a gift-giving mood with their cedar stringers lately) it's dependable, versatile, and capable of some seriously fun surprises well into the relationship.
It can also handle much of what Northern California can throw at us.
And right now, Northern California is throwing us rain, wind, and rip currents. By proxy it is also throwing me, personally, two very restless girls under the age of three who don't want to spend their entire weekends huddled over crayons, or helping their dad make spaghetti sauce, or watching ten minute clips of Cinderella on Youtube.
They want the impossible gift of sunshine though, right now, they'll be more than happy to settle for another round of hide 'n seek. It's the least I can do.

Tomorrow the Green Grass

2010-01-19T20:45:00.000-08:00

7'2 BatTail Egg.
For Spencer.
A student.
The future is bright.

The Full Blood Princess

2010-01-03T15:08:00.000-08:00

I've written before about Bedroomers--boards so elegant, so innocent, that to leave them in the holding pen (guest bedroom) with the other sticks awaiting pickup would be scandalous.
How can one, in good conscience, place a finely foiled, fragile-as-china displacement hull in the same rack with a mush-shredding gremmie thruster?
What ethical shaper can allow an outer bar gun, high-polished and sleek as a needle to share the same space as a brutish, wide-backed, sand-finish quad fish?
None that gives a damn, I say.
So, on occasion, one of the more enchanting products from the Fattyshack is moved into the bedroom where, if mood strikes, one might gaze upon its lines and be hastened toward an exquisite idyll.
Or until one's wife tells them to cut it out.
So imagine my surprise when, still feeling the effects of East Coast jet lag, I woke in the wee hours this morning to find the lovely Mrs. HHG not just contemplating, but dreamily trailing a few fingertips, along a rail of this full-tint glossy log from her side of the bed. Imagine the betrayal--yet the thrill!--that accompanies such a discovery.
Also try to imagine an intense need for an egg sandwich on sourdough, which is what finally pulled me from the throes of this unanticipated spectacle.
Anyway, this model--a 9'6 Squareback--is designed for the soft and the cruisy up here on the Northcoast. She's headed to 2 Mile Surf Shop in Bobo, where she will hopefully find a good home with a tip-riding enthusiast. And while we're hoping, let's hope Drew and the boys keep her separated from some of the more nefarious shapes I've seen lurking on their racks.

The White Stuff

2009-12-28T09:15:00.000-08:00

New England Dispatch: currently it's snowing, raining, foggy, and below freezing simultaneously. Not sure how this can happen, but there it is. Every time someone opens a door to the outside my California born-and-raised daughters start crying.

The weather does inspire a few of my favorite things, though (alcohol, sweaters, and beards), so I'm all for it.

Ironically, it's not so different from my shop in Northern California, where white-out conditions descended after a dust-collection snafu (Dustgate '09). When I appeared inside after the incident my week my three-year-old said, "Santa came!!!"

And perhaps she was right, especially if your name is Sean and you ordered yourself a spiffy new quad fish this holiday season.

Sean ordered it clear, perpetuating a seasonally-appropriate white-out theme.

Although unglassed quad fish photos aren't really cutting-edge in the surf blogosphere (as recently pointed out to me in an email by gentle reader Tony from North Carolina), these pictures celebrate the last gasp by my beleaguered point-and-shoot, another victim of Dustgate '09. RIP.

Happy Holidays!

Brown Eggs are Fresh

2009-12-14T09:53:00.001-08:00

Stoked bro from the north Konrad showing off his new 7-something egg behind the scenes at the Fattyshack.
2+1 with a Skip Frye flexie and some bamboo under the hood for maximum overdrive.

Ground's a little frosty, sky's a little blue. flannel's a good call .
Ahhhhh, winter!

War Pony Chronicles: The Lost Boys

2009-12-02T09:17:00.000-08:00

For a few short, sweet years in the late 1980s, teenage heartthrobs The Coreys (Haim and Feldman) ruled the Tiger Beat set.
Then they went underground in pursuit of other creative projects, like hanging out and resisting impulses to exercise.
Recently, Corey Feldman resurfaced in Lost Boys: The Tribe, as Edgar Frog, "Vampire Hunter and Surfboard Shaper." IMDBs character page for Edgar Frog states, "This character biography is empty." One can only imagine this still holds true after Feldman took a stab at it.
Not to be outdone by his teenage compatriot/nemesis, Corey Haim began loitering around my shop in pursuit of shaping tips and lukwarm Tecates.
Although he didn't have the skills to shape his own, Corey possessed the eye of a connoisseur, and couldn't resist pulling the trigger on a new War Pony.
Haim. War Pony. Fattyshack.
The War Pony is a vampire slayer in its own right. Curvier than my standard quad fish template with a souped-up rocker and bottom contours specially formulated for driving stakes through the hearts of northcoast nasties.
Haim made a personal trek to the Fattyshack to meet Leslie and have a glass or two of whatever local red Bob was pouring at the moment.
His hair was perfect.
Take that, Feldman!

Airing out the Inbox

2009-11-17T16:00:00.000-08:00

Sophocles once quipped, “The true mark of a man lies in his email activity.” Amen. Modern social anthropologists, like yourselves, long ago forsook sifting through the garbage of humanity in search of answers, choosing instead to focus their lenses of scientific voyeurism onto more digital affairs. Is someone aligning themselves with terrorists? Check their email. Is there one amongst us who shops Amazon with Les Affaires abandon? It’s in the inbox. Do thoughts of adding girth to his flaccid schvantz occupy the lion’s share of your teenager’s time? I wouldn’t recommend it, but a quick AOL search would reveal the answer. You see, only email can fill in the blank spaces on the map our character.
That is why, under the banner of honesty and full disclosure, every third Tuesday I fling open the doors of the HHG inbox from the past few weeks. Onward into the unknown!

Dear HHG,
Is it possible my husband Paul ordered another board from you within the last month? I ask because there’s a blue longboard with double pinlines in the garage that I haven’t seen before. When I ask him about it, he just mumbles and points at our son. He's eight.
Thank you,
Paul’s Wife Who Is Saving Up For The Down Payment On A New House
Dear PWWISUPFTDPOANH,
Under the Shaper’s Disclosure Act of 1999, it is not compulsory for me to answer your query. However, I will say that as of last week, Paul is one step closer to a free sandwich*. Also, when he picked up something the other day (not saying what it was that he slipped into his new 9’6 board bag), he did mention how much he loved you, and how understanding you are. Maybe not in those exact words, but still.
*The HHGSC (HeadHighGlassySandwichClub) offers a free sandwich** from Traverso's, a Santa Rosa tradition for four generations, for customers who reach a certain number of board orders. In order to stave off a run on new orders, I won't give the exact number, though it's between five and seven.
**Sandwich includes one (non-alcoholic) drink, but no chips, as chips are ridiculous.
This may, or may not be your husband's new stick.

Dear HHG,
Is Shakespeare’s Sonnet 73 the best fall-related ode?
Yours in poetry,
Tina from Marina

Hi TfM,
No. It is clear Shakespeare never visited California during this most lovely of seasons when he penned, “when yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang/Upon those boughs which shake against the cold…”
Instead, let me recommend Keats’ To Autumn. At just 24 years old, he nailed it right from the opener: “Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness…”
Huzzah!

HHG,
How do you know when you’re getting old?
Fondly,
Humbolt-er Every Day

HED,
Do you make strange noises when you sit down?
Do you ever wish your board were 2” thicker?
Have you ever opted out from a surf session to work in your vegetable garden?
Wait, that might just be me...

Dear HHG,
I’m thinking about relocating—does Sonoma County have good surf?
Sincerely,
California Dreamin’

Dear CD,
No, SoCo does not have good surf. Especially last week.
San Diego does, though!
What we do have is excellent wine. Let me recommend Trentadue’s Old Patch Red (2005). A 2008 Sonoma County Harvest Fair winner in Best of Class, and a steal at Bottle Barn right now for $9.99. The convenient screw top makes it even more appealing as a daily drinker.

And with that, I seal the HHG inbox for another month.
Don’t forget this Thursday’s Surf Movie Night at Santa Rosa’s Toad ‘n The Hole Pub in historic Railroad Square. This month’s feature is going to be solid. Festivities begin around darkish.

The Spitfire

2009-11-08T15:11:00.000-08:00

On a warm summer’s day in 1940, Adolf Hitler commanded his air force, the Luftwaffe, to bomb the hell out of England.
The United Kingdom, with its trademark gusto, dispatched the Royal Air Force. The Battle of Britain, the first campaign ever fought entirely by aircraft, was officially underway.
The Luftwaffe had firepower, but the British had heart. King George VI and Queen Elizabeth refused to leave Buckingham Palace, inspiring the nation with their pluck. The Germans seemed indomitable with their Messerschmitt Bf 110s (nicknamed the Zerstorer or ‘Destroyer’), a fast twin-engine, long-range aircraft.
But the RAF had a feisty retort: the Spitfire.
Designed with clean lines for speed and elliptical wings for agility, the single-seater Spitfire immediately began kicking ass. It could accelerate faster than the Zerstorer, bank in tighter arcs, and fire more rounds.
The result: the RAF, powered by vigor and the Spitfire, handed the Nazis their first defeat and turned the war around. Not too shabby.
San Francisco shred enthusiast Giles is lucky enough to have a real-live war hero in his family. His stepfather served in the RAF during the Battle of Britain. Wanna know what he flew?
The Spitfire.
He was 19 years old.
Each of the color marking on a Spitfire conveys meaning--the yellow rail bands and black-and-white stripes communicated their allied association, while the British flag was represented by the red and blue circle (interesting fact: RAF and American fighter planes during WWII ditched the red part of the circle, as they could be mistaken for Japanese aircraft). The pilots put red tape over their guns to keep them from freezing, as seen in the pigment 'patches' in the nose of Giles' board.
Every color on this board is pigmented resin.
A mistress of understatement, when Leslie saw a drawing of the task before her, said only, "I'll need to order more tape."

Twins

2009-10-26T11:24:00.001-07:00

Ever since the first zygote divided into two separate embryos, humans have reserved special places in their rites and mythologies for twins.
The Igbo peoples of Nigeria saw twins as a curse, and would sacrifice them to the forest (as detailed in Chinua Achebe’s excellent novel Things Fall Apart).
The Navajo honor twins as descendants of the twin gods of sun and moon, believing that they will help restore order to the chaos of the world.
Americans like to stick a fake goatee on one of them and call them Evil.
Dr. Spock’s evil twin showed up in 1967, sporting the trademark Evil-Twin Beard.
Cartman's evil twin broke social boundaries, becoming the first elementary school kid with an Evil-Twin Beard to go prime time.
Surfers have our own preoccupacy with twins--twin fins, twin pins, Twinzers, the Hobgoods. Even our own Leslie Anderson isn't immune to their thrall, as evidenced by a pair of longboards that recently left her shop.
Jason's diamond tail log with 3/4" red cedar stringer seems to have shared some embryonic developing time with its twin below, blogged about here:
Both were shaped by hand in Sonoma county with smaller Northcoast waves in mind . Both feature single fin goodness, volan glasswork, and resin art by Leslie.
But what is perhaps most intriguing about twins is how they differ--which one is more popular with the ladies, which one is more fearless in the hockey rink, which one dances with their tongue out.
The differences in the above boards are equally intriguing—the bigass cedar stringer vs. the high density foam one, the diamond tail vs. the rounded pin, the clean shaven vs. the goateed one (one of these is not actually a design feature).
Although some may see one of the above boards as an evil incarnation of the other, I prefer the Navajo interpretation that twins are two parts of the same whole. That they, together, can separate the good from the evil, and order where before existed only chaos.
Or at least score us some waves when it’s head high or under.

The Green Machine

2009-10-20T18:00:00.000-07:00

Back in college, the dorm affectionately referred to as KW (Keyes-Wasserman) was comprised of single occupancy rooms only. In college, single occupancy rooms exist for two reasons:
1. Occupant is seeking a tranquil venue for contemplation and study.
2. Occupant is seeking a tranquil venue for getting it on.
Both make sense to me.
So much so that when identically-initialed SF shred enthusiast KW expressed interest in a board, I waved all aspects of my formal vetting process (hazily-framed inquiries regarding beer and pornography preferences) and got to it.
The product, a double-wing quad fish, speaks to Kevin's interest in a more sustainable surfboard (100% recycled EPS foam, epoxy resin, bamboo fins) and my Atlantic Coast nostalgia. Either way, this floating venue will provide a platform for both contemplation and getting it on, surf-wise.
On a side note of appreciation, I'd like to point out that there are very few glassers out there highly skilled in EPS/epoxy applications. There are fewer still (in fact, I can't think of any offhand) who are masterful enough to tint--that's right, not opaque, but tint--over EPS foam. There are perhaps a handful of people in the world who would tint a shaped EPS blank, sand it, double pinline it with resin, create a custom matching resin logo, then gloss and polish it.
Did I mention Leslie also gardens, breeds reptiles, and plays a mean guitar?
101 bambo quads keep boards snappy and happy.

Long Board and a Short Sentence

2009-10-12T20:06:00.001-07:00

Like most of us, Ted’s aquatic aesthetic mirrors his terrestrial one. In the water, his lines are clean, sparse. His movements always seek the economical. I once saw him track so high on a wave that it seemed reckless, but his fin trail was a thing of beauty—a lazer-straight scratch etched into an impossibly steep wall.
On land, Ted has brought the voicemail board order to a similar artform. His messages are so spare that they, too, flirt with recklessness. How else could you interpret his first voicemail order?
“Ripstick.”
Or this single-syllabic beauty from a few years ago:
“Fish.”
This gem came in last year, wide-open in its interpretational range:
“Quad.”
Sometimes Ted’s voice seems disguised, as if trying to limit the actual breath he's expending.
Thankfully Ted opened up a bit with last week’s message. Compared to the others, it seemed more Tom Robbins than Ernest Hemingway.
“Hi Pro-Log. Styro.”
Still, I had to admire the effort. Beside the abbreviations for 'performance' and 'longboard,' he substituted ‘EPS’ for ‘styro,’ saving himself a syllable.
Nice.

Blue Wednesday

2009-09-28T11:29:00.000-07:00

I'm not a demanding husband. I know how this sounds--defensive, unscrupulous, smarmy. But it's true. I love my wife and want to see her wave-shredding skills showcased on the best board possible.
This is why certain measures were taken a few weeks ago. Measures that would usher her into a new realm of wave-riding delights. Measures that she might resist at first but, ultimately, be welcomed as liberating.
Measures that would ensure the retirement of her beloved 8'0.
Not her beloved 8'0
You see, my lovely wife is a God-awful surfboard customer. She has ordered an average of one board every 3.33 years in the ten years we have known each other. Not bad for the recreational surfer, but pitiable for someone married to a dude who spends 20+ hours a week up to his nipples in foam dust.
And none of her orders stick. Here's the rundown.
Board: 80's style swallowtail thruster.
Purpose: commissioned for trip to mainland Mexico.
Report: two sessions at El Rancho. Loved it. Sold it the day after we got back.
Source of Dissatisfaction: color was 'too green.'

Board: 8'0 mini longboard.
Purpose: to replace older 8'0 mini longboard (at shaper's insistence).
Report: who knows? Someone picking up another board from the house loved hers, so she sold it on the spot.
Source of Dissatisfaction: none. "He was nice," she said of the gentleman who bought it.

Board: Contemporary quad shortboard.
Purpose: to replace her long-sold 80's swallowtail thruster (see above).
Report: fun .
Source of Dissatisfaction: pregnancy.

This is why, several weeks ago, measures were taken. A board was shaped, then glassed. It was presented (gently!) to my loving wife after a Bud Light and a glass of local zinfandel (her favorite combo). It was received with a sigh and a certain flattening of the lips. These were interpreted as signs of success.
So far, so good.
It currently rests, unmolested, in the upstairs bedroom (we have limited surfboard storage space). Curing. Waiting. Avoiding inspection by two-year-old hands. Keeping a low profile.
We'll keep you posted.

Glasser's Choice

2009-09-22T09:32:00.000-07:00

The exhilaration in making a shortboard lies in the imagination—wondering what lines the board will be asked to draw, what spaces on the wave-map it will be asked to fill.
The shortboard, the thing of it, is a tool. A vessel. It gains us access to something else.
Shaping longboards, for me, is a different experience. The joy in making them comes from the thing itself. Witnessing its taking-of-form—its process is its own end. Not that the lines of a shortboard aren’t beautiful, or that shaping a longboard doesn’t stimlate the imagination. The bend of a nose rocker or the curve of a rounded pintail can absolutely shorten the breath, and walking down the length of a longboard rail is as close to shaking hands with Velzy as I’ll ever get.
But when people are in my shop and there’s a longboard on the racks, they can’t keep their hands off of it.

And sometimes I can’t get my hands off of them when they come back from Leslie’s shop.

This one's got some bells and whistles--blue high density foam stringer, red cedar sticks, opaque pigment volan deck patch, glass leash loop, and some sweet resin deck lines from the hands of La Meistra.
Poplar and bloodwood fin, and some resin tip-nips to keep things real at the nose and rear.
Andale!

Surf Movie Tonight!

2009-09-17T09:27:00.000-07:00

Just a reminder to head on down to the Toad 'N the Hole Pub in Santa Rosa's Railroad Square tonight sometime in the seven o'clock hour. Live music, surf movie, special guest Longboard Vineyards, and a trivia contest with prizes--you may even score a brand new wetsuit.
Toad 'N The Hole welcomes surf enthusiasts of any age, has some stellar brews on tap, and is located at 116 5th street. Try the veal, it's great!

The Egg Man Cometh Back

2009-09-14T15:20:00.000-07:00

Food is the ultimate indicator of seasonal change. Forget the sizeable NW swell showing on the buoys, the cool inland temperatures, or rain over the weekend, the true proof that summer has faded into memory lies in a forensic comparison between friday night's meal (tri-tip, grilled on the deck while wearing flip-flops) and saturday night's meal (jambalaya, slow-cooked in the crock pot while wearing socks for the first time since April).
The first, a celebration of warmth. The second, an attempt to regain it through cajun sausage.
Speaking of food, local shorter-board shred enthusiast Paul is on the fast track to a free sandwich*. His new 7'0 egg is designed to get the job done when the 6'4 is approaching maxed-out status.
Red cedar is good for stringers, fiberglass Rainbow foils are good for fins, and glassjobs by Leslie are good for shaped foam blanks.
If the pics look dark, that's because it was--summer's over, people.
*The HHGSC (HeadHighGlassySandwichClub) offers a free sandwich** from Traverso's, a Santa Rosa tradition for four generations, for customers who reach a certain number of board orders. In order to stave off a run on new orders, I won't give the exact number, though it's between five and seven.
**Sandwich includes one (non-alcoholic) drink, but no chips, as chips are ridiculous.
Speaking of Santa Rosa traditions, come on out to Toad 'N The Hole Pub this Thursday for Surf Movie Night. This week features live music from Chris Lods and the Friends, an insanely good surf movie, and a trivia contest with a wetsuit giveaway. Nuts!
Festivities begin at 7:30, but I recommend showing up a bit early to soak up some of the atmosphere/plant it at a table for maximum enjoyment.
All ages welcome, so bring the kids.
If you don't have kids, bring a friend who knows a lot of surf trivia. We're talking free wetsuit, here.

Summer Curves

2009-09-02T15:50:00.000-07:00

Double wing quad fish in recycled EPS for SF waveriding enthusiast Kevin.
Shaping EPS allows me to bust out specialty hi-tec tools, like a paint stick with sandpaper glued to it.
Who was it that said that you had to lock your car doors in Vermont in early September for fear of finding your passenger seat filled with squash?
Calvin Coolidge? Robert Frost? Bernie Sanders?
I'm currently having a similar vegetable situation inches from the shaping shop. The pepper plants have reached epic production levels, and I can't ask my family to eat any more. Thinking about handing over a pepper or two with each board order (for a limited time).
Bell curves are nice to look at.
Eat local food, drink local beer, support your local shapers and glassers.

The Undecider

2009-08-19T17:14:00.000-07:00

Numbers scare the hell out of me. Want an example? 300. Terrifying number.
This is why I have a deep respect for Northcoast shredder and beard-growing enthusiast Chris, who chooses to remove numbers from his life entirely.
Chris wanted a board, but didn’t concern himself with the details. Our conversation went like this:
Me: What are you looking for?
Chris: Shaper’s choice.
Me: Glassing?
Chris: Have at it.
Me: (scrunching eyes with what-you-talkin’-‘bout-Willis-like suspicion) When do you need it?
Chris: Whenever.
With respect to Chris, I went for a shortish, wideish, thinnish little number that would like nothing more than a wave about yay-high--preferably with water temps hovering around just right.

Leslie's glassing is good.

The Darkness Knight

2009-08-10T11:31:00.000-07:00

Local craftsman, father, and five-fin enthusiast Bobert probably surfed this morning. He most likely drove out to our local in the dark, paddled out in the dark, and and caught an excess of waves before the usual dawn crew squinted out at the ocean, cups of coffee cradled in their hands.
Surfing the predawn hours in our pinniped-rich waters requires equal parts stoke, denial, and chutzpah. Bob’s got an abundance of all three.
It also requires a big, white board—can you imagine losing your dark-colored stick in dark-colored water in the dark-colored morning in white shark territory?
Bobert’s 8’7 is designed for his immoderate morning rituals. Pulled in nose, thickness under the chest for hefty paddles in thick rubber, thinned tail for snap.
Five fingers of fun under the hood from master craftsman and all-around nice guy Marlin Bacon of 101Fin Co.
Normally, I'd say something like, "Watch out for Bobert and his new board blah, blah, blah," but it's pointless. This guy is out of the water, showered, and hard at work while we're still tucked under the covers, sleeping off our last Tecate, dreaming about the miracle of daybreak.

The Egg Man Cometh

2009-08-01T15:23:00.001-07:00

All of my potential clients are subject to a grueling set of questions of the highest personal nature. They may, but are not certain to, include the following:
Name
Weight
Height
Why, according to Chinese Zen master Sozan, is the head of a dead cat the most valuable thing in the world?
What are your favorite twin cities, and why?
Which member of the House Oversight and Government Reform Committee—current or past—do you most resemble?
Local aquatic shred enthusiast and fellow educator Paul nailed the early queries, citing Victor/Driggs Idaho as his preferred twin cities, as “the airport hot dogs are better than in Pocatello.”
His last question, however, gave me pause. Paul named California’s 30th district Representative Henry Waxman as his House Oversight Committee likeness.
To be honest, I don’t see it, believing Paul to carry a closer resemblance to Massachusetts’ 6th District Representative John Tierney.
You, sir, are no Henry Waxman

Regardless, Paul’s board was shaped—a snappy 6’4 egg with a 4+1 fin setup and foil, rocker, and bottom contour to excel in the steeper stuff. Red cedar stringer adds some flex and a bit of class.
Plastic from Lokbox, Fiberglass from Rainbow and True Ames, and rubber by Crocs--throw in a long period south swell and a country-cured ham and you've got yourself a little heaven on earth.

Otto Pilot

2009-07-28T13:18:00.000-07:00

Otto relocated from Dusseldorf to Northern California ten years ago in pursuit of a different lifestyle. He found it, and now he cruises our coastline with the passion of a convert, his feet snug in a tube sock/Birkenstock combo.
He orders boards with a timeliness and regularity that would make a Swiss watchmaker clench his tiny fists in envy.
Our latest conversation went like this:
Me: “Hello?”
Otto: “I’m looking for zomesing to fill in z'oles.”
Me: “Z'oles?”
“Za holes!” he screeched (Otto will not be remembered for his patience). “Za holes in ze quiver!”
Once Otto quieted down, we set to the issue of the holes in his quiver, finally deciding upon z'yprofiche (the Hi-Pro Fish).
Z'yprofiche features a similar planshape to the contemporary keel, but the foil and rocker have more in common with the modern shortboard (dusty camera lens does not come with board).
A little extra curve in the tail, continuous outline, double concaves, and a quad setup should fill in z'oles nicely.
If Otto's rocking his his red jeans when he picks up the board, I'll snap some pics and post them on the blog. Wie erotisch!

The FrankenFiver Volant

2009-07-18T07:37:00.000-07:00

Our Declaration of Independence holds certain truths to be immutable. It doesn't say much about surfboard design, which is a good thing, as mutability is a key facet to the board building process.
This seven-foot-something mutant is for NorthCoast shredhead, board mashup enthusiast, and former ponytail-sporter Brent, who wanted to combine the paddle and glide of the FrankenFish with the pocket-riding capabilities of the Cigare Volant.
The result is the FrankenFiver Volant, a Campbell Bros. inspired single-wing five finner with a few tweaks for our potent beachbreak surf.
Full board Hastings blue tint, pigment cigar band with Japanese-flag style logo inlay, gloss and polish from the talented hands of Leslie Anderson of Fatty Fiberglass.
There is nothing this lady can't do--you should try her ceviche next time you cruise by the Fattyshack!

Planes, Burros, and Automobiles

2009-07-06T11:05:00.000-07:00

Shakespeare-enthused educator, adopter of pound animals, mountain-man-turned-Monterey-Bay-shredder, and San Francisco Giants diehard Kevin had a proposition for me when he picked up his board last month. After the requisite rail fondling and rocker sighting, he put the board gently down, cracked a fresh Tecate, and sat at my kitchen table. I knew what was coming.
“Instead of something impersonal, like cash, what do you say we work out a trade for my new sled?” he asked, smiling.
I didn’t flinch. “Nope.”
This happens quite often up here NOTB, where currency can take many shapes. So far this summer, I’ve been offered a ginormous bag of weed (declined), a live pig (declined), a to-scale hand-tooled Russian miniature train (declined), and two authentic WWI British Army helmets with a ginormous bag of weed on the side (declined).
Kevin’s smile widened. “So I guess a trip to Cabo would be out of the question?”
“Um.”
“Flight, car rental, hotel stay, and all food and drinks included?”
“Um...”
Kevin knew I was close to breaking. “First wave on my new longboard?”
(Lamination, sanding, Giants-inspired resin panels, and polish by Leslie Anderson)
So I did what any other wife-fearing, child-providing father would do in this situation: put the family on a direct flight to the grandparents and headed south with a diverse quiver, a backpack stuffed with fins, and a revitalizing lack of neoprene.
The mission was short but successful. Many waves were ridden, boards were put through their paces, smiles were in abundance, and the swell was unfailing. The only tension during our five day stay came from this over-curious mini-local:
Whether this burrito was a longboarder, a photo slut, or a Giants fan is anyone's guess, but after checking out the fresh foam, he wandered into the shade under a palapa and began eating someone's flip-flop. Way to regulate!

Blue ???day

2009-06-24T07:20:00.000-07:00

One of the joys of being a teacher in the summertime is not knowing what the hell day it is. Bite me, nine-to-fivers!
This week's Blue ???day board comes via Ocean Beach surf enthusiast Hardy Danger, fresh from his Mexican honeymoon.
Faithful HHG readers may recall Hardy's inappropriate wedding night antics from a previous Blue Monday post. Seems he's gotten himself out of the doghouse and back into our chilly waters.
Is Hardy Danger an employee of the state? Nope.
Is he at all affiliated with coastal rescue, OB beach patrol, or lifesaving in general? Nope.
How he stealthed these photos is best left to the imagination.
This we do know, though: those 101FinCo bamboo quads indicate superior taste. Looks like they save lives, too!

Fo Sale

2009-06-21T09:53:00.000-07:00

Customer wasn't able to follow through with the order, so this 5'9x21 cedar stringer double-wing quad fish is up for grabs.
Board comes with the Fatty Fiberglass glass job of your choice, your choice of fiberglass fins, the name of your choice on the stringer.

Serious summertime fun!
If interested, drop me an email at headhighglassy@gmail.com
Might make a nice Father's Day treat...

Leashless

2009-06-15T21:16:00.000-07:00

She prefers the 2+1 over the quad.
Also, rice cakes.

Local Legend

2009-06-09T10:20:00.001-07:00

In 1918 a six year old boy went missing in a dense fog along the Mendocino coast. Young Johan de Lotharsen’s disappearance made national news, as he was the first-born son of an original Mendocino settlement family with significant holdings in the area. His inheritance would have been substantial.
The Lotharsen's before Johan's (seated) disappearance.

Ten years later, a dapper young man in a grey suit and mink-brown bowler hat appeared in town, claiming the missing boy’s identity as his own. He carried a rifle. Police, family, and lawyers were informed. The young man was scrutinized, then proclaimed a de Lotharsen—heir to the family’s considerable wealth.
Because young Johan never publicly spoke of his ten-year disappearance, stories began to circulate: Johan was kidnapped by pirates; Johan ran away with the circus; Johan was raised by elephant seals.
None of these reports accounted for the suit, the hat, or the rifle.
The de Lotharsen’s had always been a reclusive bunch, and circled the wagons even tighter after Johan’s reinstatement. They retreated to a mountain property where they purportedly built homes from mud and moss, buried large sums of money from their Mendocino dried-goods business in the roots of giant trees, and practiced animism.

And Johan de Lotharsen surfed. His slight figure could be seen riding atop a self-hewn redwood alaia, parallel stance like the ancient Hawaiians, along the coves and points of the Mendocino coast. He would often disappear into the fog, not to be seen again for months.

Throughout the last century the stories persisted: Johan de Lotharsen, clad in the gray suit and brown bowler, toting an impossibly-heavy shotgun would chase down a train, board it, then terrorize passengers with a rucksack stuffed with salted cod.
Johan de Lotharsen would stay up into the wee hours in his treehouse abode writing patents by candlelight: a a centrifugal birthing apparatus for uncomfortable mothers, a sewn kelp vest for attracting sea lice (they eat terrestrial lice), a treatment for asthma made from seal fat and bituminous coal dust.
And still he surfed. Bigger waves now, more remote locations, colder, deeper water.
The last thirty years has seen the passage of his family, yet Johan de Lotharsen sightings are consistent in mentioning his agelessness. Clad always in the gray suit, the bowler hat, sporting the shotgun, he emerges for a board by a local shaper, then returns to his mountain retreat and his lonely, foggy reefs. Often, he carries a stout cat.
Sometimes local surfers look around nervously and ask, “Have you ever gotten an order from…you know…?” I admit that I haven’t, though if the phone rings late at night, or if there’s a phantom knock at the door, my mind goes to the dandily-dressed hermit from the Mendocino hills.
Then, last month, there was a knock at the door.
The smell of dried cod filled the entranceway as I took in the image: the gray suit, the brown bowler hat. Tucked under the crook of one arm was the ancient shotgun, under the other, a large cat.
“Need a board,” he said, then pressed a wad of cash into my hand—eighteen wrinkled dollar bills and a five. He looked thirty-four, tops.
“Where are you going to surf it?” I asked.
“None of your goddam business!” he shrieked, face reddening. “Do you know who I am? I’ve discovered more pointbreaks in a weekend on the Sonoma Coast than Naughton and Peterson did in a lifetime of globetrotting! I’ve Pioneered more coldwater slabs than Brad Gerlach could possibly imagine—even if he was coaching a combined team of Irishmen, Western Aussies, and the bastard love-child of John Long and Jeff Clark!”
He went on like this for some time, then got to specifics. I have to say, Johan de Lotharson knew his shit:
6’0”rounded pintail egg, red cedar stringer for flex, ice-blue tint with logo-encrusted cigar band and tapered rails, Lokbox rail finboxes, center box for 2+1 rippage.
What could I do? I shaped the board, dropped it at Fatty’s, spent the $23 on a fresh case of pullup diapers for my second-to-littlest lady.
He had Leslie deliver the completed board to an undisclosed location NOTB. She managed to snap these two shots before he disappeared into the woods, grinning, the rifle and cat tucked under his arms, the smell of salted cod trailing behind him like the cars of a ghost train disappearing into the fog.

Blue Monday: A Case Study

2009-06-01T15:57:00.000-07:00

Because we here at HHG are firmly committed to the fundamentals of science, I decided to launch an experiment to satisfy an age-old question.
Question: Why do a majority of my 'clients' order blue surfboards?
Hypothesis: No friggin idea.
Methods: The Google.
Results: an author I'd never heard of insists her book covers be blue, as blue books outsell other-colored books by a considerable margin.
A 2003 wavelength study found that beetles, mosquitoes, and flies are attracted to blue light.
Crystals, such as Blue Topaz, are noted for individuality, creativity, and hotness in the sack.
None of this sound like my clientele. Nowhere could I find research connecting blue to drunkenness, juvenile commentary, prurient behaviors, or generally repellent social practices.
Which brings me to...
Case Study #1: Hardy Danger.
Hardy Danger, fan of HHG and cold water surf enthusiast, recently married a wonderful woman. How wonderful? So wonderful that she ordered a double-wing four fin fish (blue) for Hardy as a wedding present. As if that's not wonderful enough, she ordered in to be ready, taking into account curing time, for their mainland Mexico wedding. This was, of course, to be a surprise for Mr. Danger.
Two days after their wedding, the above cell phone image made its way to the States. The text read: Wedding Night.
Conclusions: my clientele can be summed up with the following descriptors: unwilling to prioritize their loved ones over their loved possessions even during the most cherished of occasions, sexually deviant, almost certainly inebriated, alarmingly hirsute, swarthy.
Discussion: In the interest of ongoing scientific query, I ask you how many blue waveriding vehicles do you own? And if you chose the color, why?
Be honest. I promise not to tell anyone other than publishing it on this blog.
Also, if you have a caption for the above photo, I'm all ears.