…Now.
It cost me a little more to get the first two Original Erwin designs on quality shirts (rather than the flimsy wet-t-shirt variety). I have some promised out, saved one each of the XXLs for myself, and have some for purchase among TYLER MEEK’S ever-growing inventory at DISCO BAY OUTDOOR EXCHANGE.
Here’s Tyler in the ‘offshore’.
And here’s some old guy in the ‘golden light, XXL. 
JULY 20TH–
This was the day a man first walked on the moon. I had surfed. Somewhere; maybe Stone Steps; trying to find a little peak in the peak of Summer; summer and all that meant in a Southern California beach town recently isolated by the completion of I-5.
NOTE- There was talk, at that time, of the North County beach towns (Leucadia, Encinitas, Cardiff-by-the-Sea, Del Mar) suffering when 101 was no longer the main coastal north-south route. Whether they did or didn’t depends on your interpretation of ‘suffering.’
A Woman entered, looked at the handful of people scattered around the classroom, each with a stack of papers on individual desks that were exactly like the ones at Fallbrook High, and probably Vista, San Marcos, Escondido, Orange Glen, San Dieguito (those same beach towns); the districts that fed into the Palomar Junior College District. She looked at one of the papers in her left hand, erased “Biology 101” from the chalk board.
“Now,” she said, “now;” speaking louder when no one looked up after the first ‘now.’ “You people are right at the line; the cut off. Your choices… (louder) are limited. You may not get all the classes you want.”
Creative Writing; yes. And I wanted English 101. Yes, I had tested high enough to skip the remedial, non-credit English; I wanted… Art; yes, definitely. Basic Drawing. Two classes still open. Being under eighteen (it might have been twenty-one at that time), I was required to take a Physical Education class. Fall Sports was closed. Badmitton. Really? Closed. Shit. Weight Training. Still open. No. Fuck. Okay.
I was still writing, erasing, writing when Jumper Hayes entered the room, gave the Admissions Woman a big smile, which she seemed to appreciate, pointed at me with his stack of papers, and sat next to me. He scooted (noisily) his desk unit closer; like he wanted to cheat off me.
The Admissions Woman looked around at the noise, but, again, only returned what I had to believe was another reassuring smile from Jumper. I feel compelled to mention that the Admissions Woman was probably about twenty-something, something under 25, and was trying to seem a bit more professional, even stern, than she was able to. She was rather like a substitute teacher in a room of recent high school graduates, professional students, draft dodgers, returning veterans.
“Bagboy,” Jumper said; “I thought you were going to some big time University. Word is you’re a brain.”
“No.”
“Okay. Maybe not.”
“I was, but… Brain? Who would…?”
“One of those Avocado-lovin’, guacamole dip…dipshits; Bucky Davis, maybe; John Amsterdam; why would I remember? I’m not a brain… like you.”
The woman, taking a handful of papers from an older man; probably forty; scratched Philosophy II and Photography 101 from the chalkboard.
“Oh, and, incidentally, Amsterdam still hates you. Brand new Dewey Weber performer.” He shook his head, moved his hands to illustrate a board crashing on another board. “Got to hang on to your board, Bagger.” He paused. “You prefer Bagboy… or Bagger? Bagger sounds a little more…” He nodded, nearly winked. “Or Jody?”
“That was my dad’s joke.”
“Yeah; and Tony, at the market; he’s in on it.”
“They were both in the Corps. Not that they knew each other then, but…”
“As was I. As I was?” Jumper saluted; quickly, crisply; properly. He looked over at my papers. “You takin’ any English classes, um, neighbor?” When I looked back, he went back to nodding. “Wrong side of 101. You probably have to go five blocks to get across, but… well…”
When I determined nothing was following; I said, “Well… beats living in Frog-butt; huh?”
Jumper laughed, looked at the woman from admissions, gave her another, bigger smile, kept it when he looked back at me. “So, guess you don’t have the horse any more. Any longer? No longer have the horse?”
He didn’t drop the smile. I’d love to think I didn’t seem surprised. Or rattled. “No, we…” I restacked my papers, whispered, “Fuck you, Jumper;” scooted my desk away, a bit more noisily than I might have preferred. Jumper was still smiling.
Jumper stood up, his desk unit like a skirt, walked closer to me. He slid his preliminary class schedule in front of me, pointed to Criminal Justice; pointed to the same title on my schedule. “I am going on Uncle Sam, though; G.I. Bill. Semper Fi, (whispered) motherfucker. Full ride, man.”
“It’s California… Man; free education. And, besides; I’m not interested in…”
“Easy A, Jody; and… (back to a whisper) it’s a family tradition. Isn’t it?”
I crumpled up my first and second versions of my schedule in my right hand, stuck my middle finger out and a little too close to Jumper’s face. Surprised at how instant my anger had been, how it was staying at that level, and that Jumper’s reaction continued to be a smile (“Insolence,” my father would have said); I pulled my hand back almost immediately, flattened-out what had been a fist, and slapped my hand on the papers to the desktop.
“If my father… I’m… everyone knows who my father was. If I…” I looked at my form. “I’m done, June, Juni, Junipero… Mr. Hayes. Fifteen units. Full load. Done.” I stood up, picked up and straightened the other pages. “I’m not interested in being a…” I lowered my voice, looked around the room. No one was looking up from their papers. “…Fucking cop.”
The Woman erased Psychology 101 from the board just before I got to her. I looked at my form, I looked at Jumper Hayes. He still had the same smile, mouthing, “Easy A;” stepped in front of me, very close to the Admissions Woman. “We’re both taking Criminal Justice, Miss… (looking at her name tag) Julianna Esposito (stretching out each syllable). I want to find out who killed Chulo Lopez; Joseph Discenzo… Junior, here…” Jumper handed Julianna my paper work. She looked at the name, looked at me. I looked at her. Confused smile. No, she probably hadn’t heard of my father. “…he wants to find out who killed his father.”
It was almost dark, and I was doing the “Rambo,” painting a house with a six foot ladder and me jammed between fist-pruned bushes when I got a call. Weird; I hadn’t been able to call out from this house, hadn’t been able to check the buoys to see if Stephen Davis, off to the coast to celebrate his 50th birthday, was getting any waves.
It was my brother-in-law, Jerome Lynch, calling, ostensibly, to report that my nephew, Fergus, was heading back from the Midwest to Seattle, with stops at some national parks on the way.
I’ve been, pretty much, afraid to call Jerome since my sister, Melissa, died a little more than a year ago at age 56. The drawing I’m using as the header was done by Melissa. I haven’t gotten past or over her death, and I really haven’t known what to say.
Fortunately, Jerome did more of the talking. Surprising, yes. Partially, he said, he wanted to let me know Melissa’s last oil painting is being featured in a gallery.
It’s the one closest to the door; described by Jerome as “kind of a self-portrait, looking away, with another, older woman, looking in the other direction.
What’s noteworthy is that Melissa always had lots of hair, up to the time the treatments for the aggressive cancer took a toll. This makes me wonder, well; several things: When did Melissa do the painting? Is the other woman a representation of someone she didn’t get the opportunity to become?
I did tell Jerome that if Fergus’s car breaks down in Big Sur (or anywhere on the coast, no place in the desert), I’ll go help him out.
MEANWHILE; it seems to be birthday week; with Stephen Davis turning 50, Adam “Wipeout” James turning 40 (and heading to Legoland, possibly some North County breaks), and my son, James, over in Idaho (yeah, I know) turning 42.
AND, the clear weather seems to be continuing, SO, got to get back to doing the Rambo.
OH, and I dropped off the two drawings (scroll down) at a great shop in Port Townsend; with t shirts coming back in the next two weeks. Some will be available at Tyler Meeks’ DISCO BAY OUTDOOR EXCHANGE.
..negative images.
IT ISN’T that I can’t think negatively; it’s my pre-set and my fall-back position. Maybe it’s defensive; questioning everything, sometimes regretting the times I didn’t; responding to almost any statement with, “What do you mean by that?”
HEY, that sounds kind of confessional. ACTUALLY, I’m just trying to provide a little introduction to some (potential) t-shirt designs I’ve been working on.
THE IDEA is to do white on colored t-shirts, but, in order to do that, I had to do the illustrations as negatives, all the black to be white. AND, sure, vice-versa. SO:
SO, Wait. Here are the negative images. NOW, imagine white ink on a colored t-shirt.
I have to admit I was pretty jazzed (saying jazzed rather than stoked, just to vary my vocabulary) when the guy at Office Depot in Sequim was able to do a negative image. I called up TYLER MEEKS at the DISCO BAY OUTDOOR EXCHANGE. I did some variations on logo designs for Tyler, and had stopped by to show the originals. AND to see what progress was being made on the t-shirts. AND, yeah, just about ready to go.
SO, now I’m thinking; if I can actually get a negative image at the printers, MAYBE I can do the original drawing as a positive image and just get… WAIT, that’s too much thinking, too much imagining. I can’t even imagine the logo (above) as a negative image without risking serious damage to my… um… brain.
BUT, I will let you know when you can get an ORIGINAL ERWIN t-shirt. WHAT I CAN’T TELL YOU is when and where some surf might appear; not that I’m not thinking about it. Constantly. Right now.
I got five copies of the original drawing, just so I could, maybe, take a few risks on the colors. This is the first attempt. MEANWHILE, I keep working on the story.
Real Surfers 