I have done a few drawings lately. I need to get them to a print shop to reduce the size to work with my printer/scanner. At least one drawing is for a potential Original Erwin coloring book. Several are for a potential collection of poems and essays, “Love Songs or Cynics.” To that end, I contacted Port Townsend’s new Poet Laureate, and got her permission to send her some samples of my writing. The goal, for me, is to get some traction within the communty of serious writers.
Traction? Serious writing? What the fuck do I know about any of this? “Swamis” is done. This version. I haven’t looked at in a while; and I keep thinking about little changes I should make to make it better. Sellable. Marketable.
I am, meanwhile, trying to process not making the top three finalists among 17 submissions for a mural project at the Seamus Skate Park in Port Townsend. I wanted the opportunity. There is a ridiculous amount of money involved. For artists, almost all of whom paint and draw for little or no money, little or no recognition, so much of what is produced getting a quick glance, maybe a nod, this is a rare offer.
There’s a story of what was required in the submission process. To this point, the emphasis was not on ideas and visuals for the murals but on experience in doing this type of work. I believed, or wanted to believe, that 57 years (as of yesterday) as a professional sign painter, regular painter, might help. But, not having initially read the entire requirement page, I went full on into thinking about possibilities, doing sketches. Then, with so much help from my daughter, Dru, I worked on my resume’.
Again, processing; I got the email late last night. So, whining. Apologies. Submissions. Submitting, by definition, means you are being judged, that you have no control. No, it comes down to what is being judged. Part of the deal. Not good enough. Not what the deciders are looking for.
So?
So… I have to go. There’s a house to paint. I submitted a proposal, as I do, and, yeah, I got another job.
I’ll get some new stuff on here. Soon. Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net
I will probably add yet another page to my site. It would focus on my habit of talking to people I don’t actually know. Strangers. I get material from these interactions. We all have stories. If you don’t talk to people, there are other people between you and the story. If it’s not first person, second story is better and truer than third, fourth, whatever person.
Erwin talks to Strangers- Real conversations with real people
EPISODE ONE- Not chronological at all.
The Checkout Guy at the Poulsbo Central Market…
…Told me he doesn’t usually chat when doing his job, but there was no one behind me when I slid my purchases forward, emptied my front right pocket, and asked him if he saw a hearing aid in the little pile. That’s how it started. Then, paraphrasing:
“Oh. Okay. Found it… Wrong glasses.”
“Uh huh.”
“It’s, uh, I had to take it out. I hear fine. When I’m on the phone, but, hearing aids, they’re really good at hearing fans, motors… conversations from, you know, like, two aisles away.” As the Cashier is shuffling purchases- “If I could wear earmuffs that worked with my narrowed ear canals… From surfing… I’d totally…”
“I got some for my mom.” Questioning look from me. “Costco.”
“Really. I checked it out. Three brands; all starting at around $1,500. These cost, like, $150. Amazon. My last ones*…Anyway, I can buy… more… Like, more. Ten sets, maybe.”
“Did you say ‘surf’”? (I nod as Cashier finishes my order) “Are you familiar with ‘Endless Summer?’ (I nod, pull out my debit card) “Bruce Brown. He also made ‘On Any Sunday,’ a motorcycle movie.”
“Yeah. I saw it… before it went national… like, 1966, ’67; underground theater in San Diego.(talking faster as someone comes up behind me). I was so disappointed it was a regular theater. Above ground. But… but the really cool people, like my friend Phillip’s older sister; she was, like, ‘Yeah, well, I saw it at State, and Bruce Brown narrated it… in person.”
“No. Tap it… here. (Tap). I saw this customer’s card… this was years ago. Bruce Brown. (I’m pulling my grocery bag close, quickly checking the line forming behind me) I asked him, ‘Are you THE BRUCE BROWN, the movie maker?’ He threw up both hands… you know, like when someone scores a goal… (I nod rather than raising my hands) and says, ‘You just made my day.’”
“Well; you just made mine.”
*Peripheral story. **Flushing hearing aid moment-
These hearing aids, pushed into my surfer’s ears, with the narrowed canals, and, seemingly, always kind of dampish conditions, quickly become uncomfortable. This, plus the squealing caused by the imperfect fit, caused this incident:
I’m standing at the toilet, just finishing up; I flush with my left hand, and, for one of the conditions described above, I reach for my right ear. The hearing aid pops out at just the right moment had my intention been to lose the device.
I told this story, on the cellular phone device, to Adam ‘Wipeout’ James when I thought I had lost my brand-new hearing aids. “So, I was looking at this project, and they. Had a sani-can, and I figured, ‘why not?’ I discovered, and not for the first time… but never before I got into my seventies… that my boxers were on backwards.
“Whoa.”
“So, I thought, ‘I’m wearing short pants; I’ll just drop them and straighten this situation out.’
Laughter from Adam. “Sure.”
“So, I think that’s where I must have lost the hearing aids.” “Makes sense.” “But I’ll check inside the car again.”
Ten minutes later- “I’m kind of sorry I told you that story.”“Found them, huh?”
Since I’ve been hearing about other people’s surf experiences more than enjoying the planning and anticipation, the search, the wait, the finding and enjoying a session way better or less better than imagined; the chance to be the one bragging, gloating about, or merely and factually reporting on the score; all o which means. I’m dreaming more than realizing, I think I should add a page for dreams; a dream journal if you will. I you won’t, I still will.
I’ve had so many dreams in which I am frustrated in getting to the beach. Normal, I guess. I have had numerous dreams in which I’m driving through woods and swamps on crappy, one lane roads, only to get to a section that is. impassible or requires driving over a log bridge. Imagine 112 anywhere west of Joyce. I had two of these category dreams last night, sort of connected. In the first, there’s a giant cement structure to my left, with, some unseen shotgun rider explaining the surf, also unseen, is on the other side. “Keep driving.” Ine second. dream, I’m trying to pull into a muddy, dark road, and there are headlights coming down and around a corner. Lots of speeding vehicles. I gun it, the copilot screaming, go up and around a corner, and… and, and, there’s a school bus, red lights on. Stopped.
Wake up.
I do self analyze the dreams before they vanish like morning mist. Yeah. Fucked up. I’ll keep my assessments semi confidential. YOU’RE WELCOME.
BUT, here’s my inaugural piece: II can explain, sort of, the line throughs: I was using a different computer, tried to save it to a thumb drive, and then, out of nowhere…
IN DREAMS
In dreams, it seems, we are attacked by the monsters we blink away when we are awake. Dream demons come from the shadows, from the hidden spaces, the windowless rooms, the caverns and the taverns, the back offices; they emerge from the deep woods, the grown over pools, the long and lonesome highways, places we know they inhabit; but the dream dwellers also appear at the laundromat, at the market; grinning ghouls, leering carnies, hawkers and grifters, preachers and politicians, and… most frightening, we are joined, greeted, casually, in some public place, by people we no longer know, people long deceased.
These specters are not frightened; we should be. We are the strangers in this realm, dropping in and shaking ourselves out.
Alternate world, or overlapping orbit, or separate track in our overwhelmed brains, we are told that dreams give us the opportunity to work out problems our conscious minds cannot. Work out, possibly; solve, probably not.
In dreams, we sometimes believe we have solved… something; only to realize, as the gauze and the glisten vanish, that the shadows are still occupied, our problems are still real. And, in the open, in the light, one terror remains; some thought that something so disturbing, so contrary to our daytime logic, is real.
I do, in real life, have a barn. We once, years ago, had pigs. It is not true that we have pigs in the barn, hungry, squealing; it just, sometimes, in a certain half-light, half awake, not fighting other ghosts, seems as if they are real and squealing for me. And I had better hurry.
My novel, “SWAMIS” is done and I have done nothing toward selling it, but I will. I mean, it’s been years getting to this point. PUBLISHERS, AGENTS, and, really, anyone who wants to reach out on surf or any related issues, it’s erwin@realsurfers.net Not editors for hire, however. No offense.
I do, occasionally, put out stuff on YouTube. realsurfersdotnet I DO SPEND/WASTE too much. time on the site, meaning, yes, I like and comment, and then. look if I get a response. Because I do, my commentary obviously. clever, I. spend/waste more time. Or maybe. it’s spend/waste/invest time.
TRISH UPDATE: 21 days in the hospital, she’s back at our daughter’s (DRU) house, slowly, slowly, eveer so slowly getting better. There’s a formula for how much time it takes to recover from hospital stays. It’s more than one to one. AND I’ve been told to be patient. Numerous times by numerous folks, Trish foremost among them. Trish is determined. I’m optimistic, I’m ust not all that… patient.
I ALSO need to do a page of my art stuff. Yeah, yeah, I will. Soon. Really. Patience.
Thanks for checking out realsurfers; hope you overcome the obstacles and get some tube time.
I DO HAVE surfing related content to post, but I’ve other things going on that push this stuff back a ways. As do we all. Other stuff, like real life. Trish has had a terrible time recovering from chemo and radiation, and has been in the hospital for almost a week. Weight loss, low blood pressure, some sort of infection, it’s all been quite overwhelming.
THE THING ABOUT much of life is that there are, yes, those moments in which something happens suddenly; car accidents for example; but most things happen in much slower motion. Sometimes painfully slow motion. Hair loss is one example (not the best if you consider chemo), but all the indignities dealt us in the aging process. AND THERE are the many problems and issues we cannot fix. ourselves, even with YouTube video help: Car repair. Cancer. AND THERE is the (almost) guilt we feel when we can do so little to help others, this hopelessness (if I haven’t mentioned this emotion yet), the ‘almost’ hopelessness and guilt when we’re talking about people we don’t know, or don’t know well, the feelings multiplied when it’s someone we love.
I I’M COMPLAINING, and I am, I am also aware it’s not about me. It’s about TRISH, someone I’ve known and loved for almost 58 years; someone who doesn’t want me making a deal out of all this. Stubborn enough (and people do ask me… and Trish) to stick with me all this time. IF TRISH is stubborn, she is also strong.
THE ANNOYING reality is that life goes on around us. Bills come due, obds have to be completed, and there’s not much I can do hanging around in a hospital room. AND I AM SOO annoying. II do, however, have some abilities in raising Trisha’s blood pressure. I must shout out now, to our daughter, DRU. She was vital in persuading her mother, with a lot of push from ADAM LARM, childhood friend to two of our three children, and now a nurse (two side stories I’m not telling now) to get paramedics to check her out. No, of course she had to go. And. now…
NOW I’m home, Dru did. a second overnight (they kicked me out at 8:30), and I’m charging up the phone, hanging on, waiting to hear what the doctor (4th or 5th since the two in the emergency room) has to say.
I CAN go work, or I could go to SAINT MICHAEL, or I could work on this blog, or I could finish the ending for my novel. The last two pages have been ready for a while, waiting for my cluttered, disjointed mind to focus enough to come up with… something… perfect, something that ties up some of the storylines while hinting, not subtly, that the next book, “BEACONS” (like Swamies, a convenient surf spot name that reflects the characters) will continue the fictional story of love, marijuana, surf, and MAGIC in the real world, 1969, San Diego’s North County.
LIVE ACTION- It’s almost 11am on Saturday, and I got the latest. UPBEAT, waiting for this test result. Or that one. Antibiotics. Waiting. I need to make a decision. But first… finish this.
My plan was to write something on how. so many things in REAL LIFE take precedence over surfing: Family, work, emergencies of all kinds; bbut when I went to Microsoft Word and checked my file for my novel, it had the little arrow allowing me to. go to page 229 (of 229) rather than scrolling down (which I wouldn’t have done today), SOOOOO, here we are.
-HERE’S THE PITCH! “Swamis” is for sale. I NEED AN AGENT! I NEED A PUBLISHER! I DO NOT WANT an EDITOR-FOR-HIRE. If you are a LEGIT agent, or someone interested in publishing, or, perhaps, investing in some sort of self-publishing scheme, contact me, erwin@realsurfers.net
I SHOULD MENTION THAT “SWAMIS” is dialogue heavy and could be visually… compelling.
OR, I’VE long considered printing some very limited copies, offering the signed work (probably 8&1/2 by 11, with illustrations, signed, dated, numbered) for some decent price, to the most discerning investors and/or surf novel fans. I’m trying to ome up with a price. I will.
TRISHA, checking me out in 1969, with what might be perceived as an adoring look. More likely, it’s curiosity rather than amazement. I’ve been thinking about some sort of poem about what she means to me. Everything. She is my buoy and my anchor; keeps me afloat when I’m sinking, keeps me closer to reality when my imagination overrules my judgment. The anchor simile is tougher. I don’t always want a real life perspective. Nothing replaces honesty. It’s a key ingrediant in love.
Working. on it. Check out some other realsurfersnet pages when you get a chance. Oh, and I sometimes post on INSTAGRAM, realsurfersdotnet
I think Fast Eddie Rothman is saying, “FUCK CANCER!”
Surf spots can get crowded, surfers can be rude, kooks can spoil a ride, sometimes paddling out. is just. like, almost impossible, AND surfing (well) is kind of hard to do; I mean, like, even Kelly sometimes wipes out in an awkward way. BUT, now, going up to the clean crisp air in the mountains, shredding the pow-pow (hip lingo or powder, aka fresh, non-iced or mowed-over snow), that’s JUST SOOOO MUCH BETTER.
THE DREAM, REALIZED. YEAAAAA!!!!
MEANWHILE, out on the increasingly polluted oceans…
Yeah, it’s MAYHAM!!!
BUT, up on the slopes… the lineup is for the lift. Once at the top, it’s your mountain. No priority hassles, no better wave in a set; you just… pick your line and GOOO!
SO, GO; GO NOW!
AND, if I didn’t mention it, snow-related activities also have the advantage over sitting on a beach somewhere trying to figure out how to make the perfect s’more without getting all sticky, wondering if that sideshore wind is ever going to stop, hoping the predicted swell might actually show up, all while mean-mugging and side-eyeing the newbies and adult learners with their tricked-out rigs and their pristine, custom popout boards and their colorful beachwear, each of them claiming some overriding right to the next set wave; a lot of SKI RESORTS have SKI LODGES. Yes, you can show off your latest ski wear, posture and pose in warmth and comfort.
NOW I’ve thought about this too much. YES, there are increasingly large numbers of surf resorts around the world. Same opportunities for preening and posing. Select one and, since snow is kind of seasonal, and the season in these parts started late and is all but over, GO! GO NOW!!!
NO, I’m not all that bitter. It’s EASTER, the celebration of the resurrection of JESUS, and kind of the end of SPRING BREAK, so… bummer, but a sincere shout out to JESUS. Sorry so much hate and destruction is done while using your name to attempt to sanctify it. I have to imagine the haters and destroyers are imagining a different Jesus than the one in the Bible, and, since I’m imagining, I have to wonder how Jesus would behave in the lineup. “Your wave? Sure, sinner, hypocrite; go for it; there’s a better one coming.”
TRISH is undergoing radiation as part of the treatment for breast cancer. It is not fun. 21 trips to SAINT MICHAEL in Silverdale. Four have been completed. We are so very fortunate for the help of our daughter, DRU. She is, well, essential to this process. Since I am not needed or wanted in the rooms where Trish is being tortured, I have some time to… yeah, draw.
Not as much as I might want if I’m really into something, but enough to do some sketches. SKETCHES. I once took some (too much) offense when a surfer introduced me to his girlfriend as, “You know, he does t-shirts, and has that blog. I showed you.” “OH,” she said, “I really like some of your sketches.”
SO, yeah; thanks; these are sketches;
Port Townsend surfer/librarian Keith Darrock and I have not gotten it totally together in organizing the next OCCASIONAL SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA EVENT. However, it will be centered on the connection between surf and music, with, of course, surf artists and storytellers, as well as PETE RAAB, expert in all the background, history, and wonder of surf music. The event will be part of the summer library lineup, and… and we better get to work jockeying for position. This sketch probably won’t be part of the poster. SKETCH. We’ll see.
THIS SKETCH probably should be on PAGE II, NON-POLITICAL ERWIN. But here it is. Having been raised to be anti-war, and having studied enough of pasts wars, there seems to be a pattern in that some are sold with near-truths and some with outright lies. There are aggressors and defenders. There have been some shenanigans, such as one side claiming to be in the midst of negotiations and then… attacking. Infamy. And, of course, no war is complete without WAR CRIMES.
SHIT, now I’m going. If we don’t focus on the body count per acre of a war for land, or try to divine the math behind the cost in money and, yes, lives, of a blood for oil campaign; if we discount the suffering of the dispossessed and the seekers of refuge; turn away from scant news of scorched earth tactics; pretend ignorance of or an inability to imagine humans being capable of reported and, yes unimaginably inhuman, brutality; perhaps we know someone who served, survived, and is living with the consequences of ventures into man’s most telling feature; war.
I claim no one else’s valor. I got lucky, had a high draft number, missed out on my generation’s conflict. In a twist of fate, I was hired on to work for the U.S. Navy as a journeyman painter in 1971. Twenty years-old. Almost all the oldtimers were veterans of World War II. They had stories they weren’t keen on sharing with a punk ass, non-vet surfer, but, maybe on a payday afternoon, stories would be shared. I would listen. If painters are characterized as drunks, add a veteran who was under twenty years old at D Day, or Guadalcanal (my father and my father-in-law both served in the Marines, WWII and Korea), or an Irishman (“Don’t call me British”) who served with the British in North Africa, or a soldier who was there for the liberation of Nazi (still a dirty word to me) death camps; yes, I heard stories. I saw men damaged by what they saw and what they did.
Then there were the incoming Apprentice Painters. Vietnam vets. Some, no doubt gung ho at one time, were disenchanted. I would say most. Some were, whether they admitted it or not, broken. Spirit gone. For several in my time with the Navy including working on ships at Puget Sound Naval Shipyard, their mental brokenness, while they were otherwise healthy, seems to have led to their deaths.
And now, forgive me, I’m thinking about two other stories. One guy thought he was fooling the government because they believed he had PTSD. He totally did. Though he seemed to trust me, I knew enough to not even come close to walking behind him. The second guy had been an officer, planned on getting enough knowledge of painting to go out on his own as a contractor. One day at lunch he announced to the crew that he had no trouble killing. “I could blow any of you away and go on eating.” “Well,” I said, “Would you mind eating somewhere else?”
My father, when presented with stories in the news (or movies that didn’t agree with his stance that he and those he served with served America, justly), told me that a lot of bad stuff happens. “You just have to live with it.”
I’m working on a song on this theme. Originally I was thinking of something to fit with the tune to “Makin’ Whoopee,” more recently (and not like recently recently- 1961) known as a theme for Pepsi commercials. “Now it’s Pepsi, for those who think young.” I DID, of course, get carried away. Doesn’t fit the tune.
Another lie, another war, One can’t help but wonder what we’re killing people for;
Another war, another lie, an eye for an eye for an eye for an eye; One has to wonder, has to wonder, has to wonder… why.
AS FAR AS NON-POLITICAL ERWIN, I’m thinking of this: REAL MEN DON’T HEGSETH!
I DO claim all rights to original sketches, and writing on realsurfers.net.
Contact me at erwin@realsurfers.net
The time I spent on this could have gone to my novel, “Swamis.” I did put in an hour or so, and I am on page 210 of 227. BIG FINISH! To be continued. Thanks for checking out realsurfers. If you like snow, better get on it! As far as surf… hmmm
IT isn’t some brilliant or sudden or unique thought that driving in traffic is very much like surfing in a crowded lineup. Still, I have some thoughts.
Photo from San Diego Surf School.
FUCKERS cut you off; DICKWADS on oversized boards drop in way outside of you; over stimulated shortboard PUNKS backpaddle and drop in, at the last moment, with you obviously desiring a certain wave; oblivious ADULT LEARNERS blindly paddle for the shoulder on a wave you might, just possibly, thrash; BACKOFF BOBS and BETTYS add a chandelier to a section you would have made; a PACK OF possibly local, definitely friends act as a TEAM/GANG to dominate a peak, blocking your attempts to crack the lineup… EVEN WHEN you are SO, SO patient, respectful, almost ready to forget your hard earned sense of dignity and beg for just ONE chance, ONE non-set, not-a-bomb wave. Looking around the playing field at the greedy movers and shakers, the ‘just-happy-to-be-out-here’ enthusiasts; checking out and the seemingly omnipresent surf-adjacent crew of onlookers, color commentators, judges, cheerleaders, coaches, filmers; are they pleased that you’re frustrated? Fuck, yeah, and fuck you; maybe next time you’ll bring your own crew. OR…
from MUMMY TALES, a wordpress site/blog.
THE GREAT EQUALIZER- Not talking Colt 45 here, or any violent road rage insanity, and it’s not an avocado-to-mango comparison, but ANY MOTORIZED VEHICLE (even hybrid or electric) is capable of doing the same maneuvers as your ride of choice, attain the same speeds as your work rig or your Camry; and, additionally, a motorcycle (or Vespa or overpowered electric bike) can weave through lane changes and backups way better than a jacked-up, offroad diesel burning MAN truck, the modern incarnation of a Corvette, regardless of how many lights and wenches and flags and scary decals the man-mobile is sporting. ANYONE’S GRANDMA in a coupe, even without a spoiler and noisy muffler, any WHIMP, regardless of party or sexual affiliation, can cut you off in the collector/distributer lane, whip into the parking spot at Costco that, though not close to the entrance, is (was) close to a cart return. OH, IF ONLY you had a handicapped sticker.
SIGNALS- Yes, it is still rude to be yelling, “MY WAVE, MINE, MINE, MINE!!!” However, it is sometimes helpful to signal your intensions. Subtly. Softly. “Excuse me, but I am going on the second wave of the incoming set. Feel free to discuss the first wave among yourselves. And… Did you not hear me? My wave… mine, mine, MINE!!!!!”
5/10/2011 – Jay Janner/AMERICAN-STATESMAN – Emily McLean is stuck in a traffic jam on Colorado Street after President Barack Obama gave a speech at ACL Live at the Moody Theater on Tuesday May 10, 2011. She got stuck waiting to turn onto Cesar Chavez Street. The street was closed for about half an hour for the president’s motorcade. NOTE- I liked the photo.
THE FULL HAND FLIPOFF- Here’s how this civilized screed (I’m not checking if it can be both a screed and civilized) came to be: I have this bad habit of not using my car’s turn signals. This is how my daughter Dru and I decided it was her driving Trisha’s Highlander when a traffic camera in Poulsbo caught it running a light. Signals. Still, I, as the registered owner, got the ticket. In the mail. I thought it was a scam. No. They want real money. SO,
I’m in a hurry, going from here to there in Port Townsend. Not that I’m ever not in a hurry (when I’m behind the wheel. MAYBE, slight interjection, when I’m on my way home from surfing. SO, I make a left onto a busy street over by the school with the pool and the food bank on Wednesdays. It may or may not have been a Wednesday, but, as I’m making a right hander onto San Juan, I notice a woman, evidently waiting to turn left from San Juan, in a dark car. She is raising her left hand up, fingers spread. The back her hand is up near or against the window. As I ease around the corner, I can’t help but focus on the woman and the gesture. Was she waving? Do I know her? No. She may or may not have smacking the back of her hand against the window, but her frustration was obvious. Or should have been.
WHILE I’M THINKING ABOUT all this; you know when there’s some reason, known or unknown, for a backup, and the right lane is moving faster, relying on the kindness of strangers to let them in at the last moment? Well, I have been known to position my vehicle in such a position that these late mergers can’t, cannot merge. Similarly, I have either yelled out, “GO… whoever” when another surfer is about to be dropped in on (again) AND/OR I have blocked a shoulder hopper. Not that this is any way noble. I have had surfers cut across my bow (sailor lingo) to keep me off a wave.
Be patient, be safe. It’s only surfing, or traffic, or any situation in which a horde is keeping you from that which you desire. Now I’m thinking about checkout lines and Disneyland and imagining an empty lineup with wonderful waves and… no, I’m back to remembering the full hand flip off. Deserved. Sorry, Ma’am.
I HAVE BEEN offering an incorrect email address. erwin@realsurfers.net will work. Don’t be afraid.
SURFWISE- There may or may not have been waves in this off most charts zone. As always. It is March, coming in, as the poets say, ‘like a lion.’ Wind, surprise snow, generally crappy weather. The snow is happening. While several of the local Olympic Peninsula surfers are elsewhere, including Chimacum Tim in some exotic spot close to Epstein’s Island. Surfer/snowboarders are hitting the slopes. I will have more on how snowboarding and skiing are better than surfing NEXT TIME.
MEANWHILE, try really hard to relax. Yes, it’s a lot of work staying calm, not freaking the fuck out. Try a mantra, repeated until your mind if free from panic-inflaming reality. This might not be proper, but you can use mine: NOTHING, NOThing, NOthing, nothing, nothing… nothing… …nothing… AH!
All work and no play make Jack a dull boy… All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy All work and no play make… You can’t handle the truth! No. Wait. All work and no play make… Chinatown… No, no, it’s… you see, it’s like this: I… No, no. All work and no play… no play… no… nothing, nothing, nothing. Not a damn thing. You got that? No? Okay. Nothing, nothing, nothingnothingnothing.
Here is another example of why I should be ready to take photos with my camera: I was in my last surviving vehicle at a parking lot that faces the Strait. There were no waves, but there was cell phone coverage. I may have been feeling particularly down, not to panic-depression levels; but, having lived a large chunk of my life on the edge (my choice to be a self-employed painter in the Northwest), and sharing with some unknown but large portion of the citizenry the pain of war and suddenly crazy gas prices, and, perhaps some lack of real confidence in our leaders…
Anyway, I see this old person (I’m guessing a man) being led by a younger, taller, person down the easiest incline from the parking lot to the narrow stretch of beach. My thought is he wanted to see the ocean, that perhaps he hadn’t seen it in a while, perhaps, even, he had some fear he might not have another opportunity. I don’t know; I make up stories.
He shuffles out. There’s a slight but cold west wind. There are rocks and driftwood and kelp to navigate. He did not last long. I imagined him saying to his companion, coming back up the berm, “Yeah; just like I remembered it.”
Close as I could get, image-wise. Borrowed from ruveyda
A screen tracks trading on the floor at the New York Stock Exchange (NYSE) after the closing bell in New York City, U.S., April 4, 2025. REUTERS/Brendan McDermid
I should apologize for not putting this on NON-POLITICAL ERWIN. No. On a more personal note:
There is, of course a story. SO, top to bottom: After several issues with the VOLVO, alternately known as the “Super Fun Car,” I managed to get it to 200,000 miles (note the crustiness of the steering column and the harmonicas). NEXT, Dru’s house in Port Gamble is a stopping off point for Canadian Geese (note the shadows of the Volvo, with surfboard, and me). NEXT, Full moon, or fullish, last Monday night (note Dru’s new car, replacement for Honda attacked by mutant deer). NEXT, Dru’s cat, Nicholas, and the very rich cake Dru made for her lifetime friend, Mollie Orbea (who lives down the street).
BEFORE I get to the bottom shot, my work van being towed (for the many-ith time) from the parking area at Highway 104 and Center Road, I will enlighten you on the latest wound to the Volvo. YES, as in every movie that shows the moon, it was full. And it was Mollie’s birthday. And, because TRISH is recovering from Chemotherapy very very slowly, I was sent to represent. Also, I did not have my hearing aids with me. Awkward in any social situation, forcing kids and grownups to yell and/or repeat is… rude. At least. BUT, while leaving, I mentioned to Mollie’s husband, Pete, the person who pretty much runs the activities in Port Gamble, AND the person who conducts the ghost tours, that the Volvo reached this milestone. And then, looking for some wood to knock on, I selected a wheel from a ship that was mounted on the wall.
“You should know,” Pete said, “that wheel came from a Japanese vessel sunk in World War II. Now, the ghosts might follow you home.” Maybe they did. It’s about 20 miles, and when I turned into my driveway, the car stalled. And wouldn’t start. Blown head gasket. AVID readers of realsurfers.net might recall that Adam James helped me with using some Blue Devil when the Volvo overheated about twenty or thirty thousand miles ago. Now, according to my mechanical guru, George Takamoto, I will have to replace the headgasket. Not happening immediately, but I do plan on getting it done. AND I thought I was very lucky that the car stopped in my driveway.
Not the same luck two nights later when the gauges stopped working on van.
LIFE is, of course, a combination of good luck, bad luck, and shit we cannot control. I try very hard not to just freak the fuck out. I do have almost enough faith to believe, with the setbacks and traumas and dramas, the cruel, profane wars of choice, the inhumane treatment of those we share this fragile existence with, that there is a reckoning coming, that my complaints are not really significant.
I guess I’m lucky, because I never get the blues; Oh yes, I’m quite lucky, because I never get the blues; Now I might get suspicious, and sometimes I’m anxious, too; I might even get desperate and tear up a thing or two, but I count myself lucky because I Never get the blues.
Please don’t tell me your problems and think that I can relate; I don’t harbor jealousy and I won’t subsidize hate; If you want to complain, you can just go to Helen Waite; Don’t be telling me gossip and acting as if it’s news, ‘Cause I can’t share your problem and I want no part of your blues.
Dream of tomorrow, we sacrifice all our todays; We’re so busy working, we don’t take the time to just play; Though I’m selling my blood just to pay up my union dues; I still count myself lucky because I never get the blues.
My old truck’s still running, My dog didn’t die, Not in love with a woman who told me ‘goodbye,’ And my mama still talks of her baby with pride, And I can’t remember the last time I cried.
But then… I’m lucky, because I never get the blues; Oh yes, I’m quite lucky, because I never get the blues; Yes, sometimes I get angry, and sometimes I’m hurtin’, too; I might even get lonely, but not like most people do; Then again, I’m just lucky; Yes, I count myself lucky; Hell yes, I’m quite lucky because I… never get… the… blues.
Contact- erwin@realsurfersdotnet
All rights reserved for “I Guess I’m Lucky,” Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
THANKS, as always, for checking out my site. Good luck, get some waves.
UPDATE- Monday, March 2- I have a new fiction piece on PAGE III dealing with pedophiles and murder; kind of light reading AND I have an update on THE TRUMP-EPSTEIN-NETANYAHU WAR; maybe I was harsh in my judging. Check that out on PAGE II.
It’s not all that surprising to wake up and discover, not that it was a headline, that we and Israel are bombing Iran. No, even after our president was, and this is his signature, possibly overstated, skill, in the very midst of negotiating a replacement for the peace deal he tore up out of, hard to say, envy. Oh, and Iran is firing back. YEAH, this kind of non-political talk doesn’t belong on this page. I HAVE a page for this; I haven’t written anything specifically referencing how the FIFA peace prize recipient justifies this action… regime change, nuclear stuff; but I will. Don’t let a little war and destruction disturb your brunch, or whatever plans you have for today. As self centered as I am, I’m going to go fill up my van’s gas tank. Check the NON-POLITICAL ERWIN page later for non-hysterical updates.
HERE is a photo I have spent an amazing amount of time trying to send to one of my clients. It was sent to me by surfer/snowboarder/real estate sales star JOEL CARBEN. It is his office/man cave at his home and features a sort of psychedelic moose head (I’m thinking not actually formerly live animal- could be wrong), a brilliantly painted (by me) cedar surfboard (different story, somewhere in the archives), and one of four screens (formerly bi-fold doors) that I painted a couple of years ago. Both sides, so eight images.
The screens and an assortment of other original Erwin Dence drawings and paintings have been on exhibit at the COLAB in downtown PORT TOWNSEND, a collaborative work space owned and operated by Joel and his super smart wife, RACHEL.
JOEL sent a message to a phone I no longer have, having given up the two phones I mostly used to find the unlost phone. Yes, scary; but my super secret stealth surf phone’s numbers were mostly on my work phone anyway, and anyway… blah, blah, blump; I never got the message that Joel was interested in maybe, down the line, after ski season, after he makes his next killer commission, purchasing the screen.
THE PROBLEM with anything in the art world, and anything, really, is setting a price. Joel made an offer. I considered it. I’m not a negotiator, and the proof is that, after years and years of painting for a living, I am still painting. Exercise? Sure. Use of my time that might otherwise be spent and/or wasted in contemplation or surfing or writing or just not fucking worrying about money? Not really.
HOWEVER, and possibly because I’ve never made any real money in my pursuit of ART, with the added argument that I never painted them to keep at my house, I decided to allow Joel to have the screen on a sort of longterm loan basis. I have done this sort of dealing with surfboards, including a longterm loan from ARCHIE ENDO to me, which I have since longtermed to ADAM ‘WIPEOUT’ JAMES.
Joel and surfer/artist STEPHEN R. DAVIS at the COLAB in Port Townsend.
IF YOU want to make an offer on any original Erwin pieces, OR if you want to complain, tell stories, write erwin@realsurfersdotnet I will definitely read your stuff, quite possibly add it to my blog, good or bad. OH, AND THANKS FOR CHECKING OUT MY SITE.
ONE MORE NOTE on the war: I have been working on a short story involving a pedophile and some revenge/justice. AND I am continuing to try to finish my novel, “SWAMIS.”
My cat, TONY, destroying a corner of my drawing table, and NAM SIU and I (no, not my sprinter van, but, yes, a sprinter van) taken recently. Nam has been recovering from a horrific illness in which he lost a significant percentage of his body fat. When I saw him a while back, I, of course, asked him (in my usual friendly way) if he HAD TO gain it all back and more at one time. I sort forced him to get a photo taken with before he loses the weight, which I have no doubt he will. I have no illness-related explanation of or excuse for my weight-to-head size, BUT, hey, I have to say… yeah, I look pretty good.
Nam’s once and current diet.
UNNECESSARILY DEEP PSYCHOLOGICAL STUFF
Wait! No! The Superbowl was, like, two weeks ago, the next season is… a ways away. The swells from the atmospheric rivers are pumping waves somewhere, but not into the oddly tilted Strait of Juan de Fuca, and the forecast is kind of bleak. What now?
I choose this design by JUNAARTFOUND because the tagline said something about ‘Sublimation.’ This is a word I can never think of when I’m thinking of how we substitute (re-channel is probably more accurate) our own desires (some of which are of a… pardon me… sexual nature) into something else. Like, maybe, sports. There are other outlets for the tensions that, some evidence shows, humans seem to be cursed, or blessed with. Prayer and denial are popular. Repression. Sure. Violence, real or imagined, is, obviously, one way to control or burn our lust, bloodlust or whatever-lust. Video games and John Wick movies; there are choices other than signing up to join ICE
Psychology 101 taught me, if little else, that all lusts seek to eliminate themselves. Hunger-eat, for example. The philosophical followup is that being full, satiated, only lasts so long. There is something that tastes better than a perfect strawberry dipped in dark chocolate. Maybe. There is a wave riding experience beyond the most perfect ride we can remember.
So we continue the search.
AS I WRITE THIS, I’m feeling a bit apologetic for getting too deeply into all this. Too late. We all have tensions and stressors. We all need outlets. I have been accused, at least once, of being repressed. A bit surprising to me since my emotions seem easily read, and I’m also accused of being filterless, of saying what I’m thinking before I think about what I’m saying. YEAH, okay, I’ll say I am. There’s more I don’t say. I have fears that go beyond my family and my friends. Fear leads directly and quickly to anger. I have anger issues stemming from tragedies and horrors I cannot stop, or even lessen. I have also been described as having an inadequate amount of empathy. I have enough to feel for those who do.
I DEVOTE A LOT of my energy to not panicking to not freaking the fuck out.
Writing is one of my de-stressors, a place where I can push my fear of speaking out, the boundaries of my repression, peacefully, knowing that even if I write what I consider the perfect turn of phrase, the perfect rebuttal to those who push the hateful lies and seek protection (or actively protect) from accountability for the most heinous acts, it won’t be enough. I won’t be satisfied for long.
TO BRING THIS BACK to surfing; one of the oft-spoken values is that one can forget everything else and move in the cosmic wonderfulness. FACT CHECK- Yes, this happens. If the goal is to move through the changing crowds and conditions without panicking or freaking the fuck out, and surf until you’re exhausted enough that you don’t care who gets that wave you might have surfed better, congratulations. If you got a ride to put into your near-perfect file… that’s probably as good as it gets.
CONTACT- erwin@realsurfers.net
INSTAGRAM (mostly original songs with harmonica)- realsurfersdotnet
THE video, “ERWIN” is now on my ABOUT page. If you haven’t seen it… check it out.
‘SWAMIS’ UPDATE- I’m up to, like, page 200, of 226, on what I hope to be my final edit before someone has the good sense to publish the novel.
PAGE II- NON-POLITICAL ERWIN. There is an update concerning why anyone would feel compelled to give a shit about kid rock.
THANKS for checking out my blog. See out on SURF ROUTE 101.
