shenanigans with the Edfactor

Sushi-GONE-Wild...29-years of EDFACTOR

2012-01-27T20:25:00.000-08:00

January 16th, 2012 8:32 in the morning, 29 years officially have gone by...A bathrobe and a ciggerrette...feeding my Pet Pink Flamingos. What is wrong with me? Pet Pink Flamingos, really? This is when I really started questioning myself....My 29th Birthday and I still have pet pink flamingos?

I then realized I might have a ciggerrette addiction. It goes well with coffee...the ultimate AA breakfast. Shoot, I think I am going to go smoke one now. I just did. The ash tray was made courtesy of Little Mike, aka "The Knife Fight." It used to be one of my favorite records, Oingo Boingo's "Just a Lad."
During one of the opening nights at "The Space Age Bachelor Pad," (my residence) I decided to throw it at Little Mike just missing him by 2 inches. The vinyl splattered on the linoleum of my kitchen floor. Little Mike took what was left of Elfman's full-length debut and decided to reshape it into a ashtray utilizing a pair of scissors and my stove. (Editor's note, yes I have an Editor now, the ashtray has since been tossed in the trash with the goal of the Edfactor to extinguish his habit).

The record player. Shit's broken. I have two more that I think I will be deconstructing to make one ultimate sound system, or not. (editor's note: The Edfactor has been threatening this action for about a month now. The record player broke during Dylan's "The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll) I scored the record player stand at the Alpine Village flea market for $10 many years ago. That's the Jazz, Herb Albert, and that kind of lounge/Space Age Bachelor Pad) selection of collection.(Editor's note: For some reason the Edfactor thinks he'll get laid by playing this niche of music to whatever lady with the accompaniment of a stiff cocktail and maybe candlelight. I told him to invest in Spanish Fly. Knowing the Edfactor, he'd most likely roofie himself to get all chucked and scambled up.)

So this is where the creative process starts...My typewriter lacks spelling and grammar check, in hence the many grammatical errors and typos that infest the shenanigans. This led me to finally hire an Editor. I pay him in small bills. The left photo is a shot of Trawzilla, Wendl, myself, and the late-great Raw Dawg. I blame Raw-Dawg on getting me into writing, God bless him.

My closet. As I pondered, "What to wear on my Birfday," it was obvious what garment was necessary. Again, what's wrong me? I have more clothes than a sixteen-year-old girl given infinite money to shop at the Wet Seal.

One of my favorite records, "Cocktails for Two." The only problem is...it's seems to be only cocktails for one.

I was debating on taking out Burt for my Birfday celebration. Burt's been around for five or six years now. I bought him at the old poster-button shop in Hermosa Beach near Pier Avenue. Pretty sure that place is now a forgettable Gelato shop or maybe a gym. Burt used to hang from the wall of my 69' VW bus.

(Editor's note: When Burt comes out, or is placed from the front window, it gives Edfactor the excuse to be a complete drunk asshole and totally get caught in his farce of a theme, "Creature of Impulse." He exhibits these habits when he puts on certain outerwear like his pretty gay pink sports coat, his leather, or the worst, "the jacket.")

The self-portrait. I think I had another realization. I drive a 45-year-old car everyday that doesn't clean itself. What is wrong with me?

The Lawyer in prep for a day on the town.

The brewing process.

My only request was for my Lawyer to wear a pony-tail on my birfday. The 49'ers starter jacket is his own choice.

Sushi-Gone-Wild. Fourth year in a row. The Team 2012.

Jimmy, the Lawyer's brother, had the delight of sitting next to me. I kept rubbing his inner thigh underneath the table. He kept saying, "Stop it," in a quick fast verbal discharge. But...it was my birfday.

(Photos on by the lovely Stephanie Hass aka "fade-gurl)

You all know this Assclown.

Edfactor going in for the kill.

The Lawyer after we both consumed mackerel caught of the Redondo Beach Pier. The flavor of the fish is best described as the aroma of the century's old water amusement dwelling. The Lawyer would go on to make a paste of soy sauce with a heavy concentration of wasabi.

Edfactor and Mr. Kim.

More to come once I get the approval.....

eDFACTOR 2012

a SUSHI-GONE-WILD shenanigan from a previous time...

http://shenaniganswiththeedfactor.blogspot.com/2010/08/sushi-gone-wildlast-days-of-uncle_30.html

Yeah, I wrote this. scary.

2012-01-25T23:34:00.001-08:00

http://dirtyhippieradio.com/2012/01/26/salsa-chips-tommorrows-tulips-the-cosmonauts-and-the-tyde-alexs-bar-for-burger-records-night/

Los Tigres DEL WAREHOUSE

2012-01-20T09:56:00.000-08:00

It's 8:00 on a Friday Night...Where is your Edfactor? Santa Ana, California. December 8th. I mustered the Fairlane down McFadden to meet mis Amigos from a former occupation of mine....Los Tigres De Warehouse. For the duration of my stint at this profession, a profession I'd ultimately deny in on-going weeks, (but that is another story,) I promise Mi Amigos I'd come check out their scene. Being a big fan of Los Tigres De Norte and Tucanes De Tijuana, I couldn't resist.

I got into this culture during my first year in college. At the same time I was really being sucked into my roots of old country, and so the mending of my favoritism of these two genres of musica just fit perfect. My roommate Daniel Bedoy, introduced me to the whole Los Tigres Del Norte thing, explaining what's really going on when you hear gun shots, distressed phones ring, speeding cars, and whatever in whatever song Del Norte crooned. These gato's song contents contained drug deals gone wrong, smuggling, abduction, and various gnarly stories that most of the white demographic hears spewed from generic news tv with a heavily bias from a right-wing starch conservative or a left-wing flower totting hip-a-matic.

So I went through a period in my early 20s while living in up in Ventura Country, were I'd only shop, buy entertainment, and clothing from a little Carnceria on the corner of Ventura Blvd. and Lewis. I even had my first flat-top spawn from the residue of this inspiration. My then girlfriend was not too feliz about my new acquired style. I remember walking into her house with a fresh flossy done high-and-tight dew, cowboy shirt, wranglers, and a pair of shiny white Mariachi ankle length boots. She was napping in the other room and could hear the "clip-clop" of my new kicks and immediately yelled. She sent mi culo right out the door. No sexo bueno para mi.

During my professional occupation, Evaristo (picture above) would sing on the top of his lungs various Del Norte songs all through out the warehouse. When I first met this gato, he barely could speak English much like I can barely write it. In the first weeks of working, I traded him a 6-pack of Corona for a hits list mixtape of his favorite Del Norte songs. By the ending of my position at this certain occupation, this Gato was calling a few shots in De Warehouse.

Working with him, naturally we developed a great friendship and so with the other Amigos in De Warehouse our team nicknames would evolved into "Los Gatos Locos," "Los Gatos Sexy," Los Tigres de Mota," "Los Gatos Cocaina," and other variations. When another fellow Amigo quit the packing area, the gato, Octavio, (see below)....Evaristo's partner in crime arrived on the scene and trabajo got so much better. Club de El Festival was ready for these tres amigos.

The hat that Evaristo is wearing...I gave that to him. I bought it in Tecoman, Mexico just after my 19th birthday. I thought it would be the perfect gift for Evaristo. The only thing wrong with it (it's an El Roche, so I had that going for me), as he explained, that the sides of that hat weren't right. Much like a baseball glove, it needed to be broken in by having it's sides mended and fully flipped up. I am pretty sure Evaristo's got that shit dialed in as I write.

         The Day of El Festival. I showed up to work wearing a little of the night before, a little hung and a little spun. It was a Friday, so things were a bit casual. It was a typical breach into the weekend. I did the routine, got buy, and kept telling myself, "It's a fucking fantastic DAY!" At lunch time, Evaristo gave me the skinny. I already knew it was his birfday, so at the same time I didn't know what to expect. He told me to meet up in the corner of de warehouse away from supervising eyes. Although, I'm sure they had an idea and knew the happening. Being cool, management kept the shoulder turned away.
       I strolled into the hidden vantage-point left side pocket and was greeted but the rest of the Warehouse team with Cervazas, and Sminorff ices abound. I sat and drank with my new tribe as I now felt truly accepted. I sipped with my amigos and amigas. The head amiga, with her tattoo of a scratching panther on her upper arm talked and reminisced about El Festival and the muy bueno times she has had at the nightclub. I think she actually wanted to come. After celebrating Evaristo's birfday, I had to return to work. I felt honored as I was the only cat allowed to partake. No front end, no returns, no sales, no management, but this Edfactor.
     It was the best lunch break of my life. The warehouse came prepared and fed me peanuts and gum to hide whatever traces I had on my breath. The irony....we were short that day. When, the assistant manager went to lunch, I was called to answer phones and deal with front-end customers.
      I had no problem doing it....did it plenty of times before when I started even when I didn't quite understand what I was selling. Now, in my position after many months, I knew what was going on....but then I realized I had to take on a buzz to deal with something I could be promoted back into....something that would influence a few drastic decisions in the next couple of weeks......

      I went home after my shift and felt a later drained. Maybe if I continued the party after the most incredible lunch, I'd be totally casual. Evaristo phoned me around 6..."You coming amigo," I said, "Of course." I googled the directions and was on my way. When I was in the process of stopping for coffee, dinosaur juice, and a pack of reds, I received another call from Evaristo. "Where u at amigo," I responded, "Picking up some cervaza!" Evaristo replied, "We don't need some, come." This blew my mind being a student of the whole getting a little lubricated before infiltrating whatever scene. "I'll be there in 30 minutes," I answered back.
      I took Mcfadden and elected to skip freeways. Once I past the river, I knew I was out of "Little Saigon," in uncharted territory for the Fairlane. Time, I needed to kill as I was a bit a head of schedule. On one of the busy corners, I saw El Mercado supermarket, so I had to stop....plus I needed cash. Cards, plastic, and what-nots weren't going to work where I was going.
         Now, I've been to plenty of Mexican supermarkets in the last 15 years: El Varrata in downtown Oxnard, El Ranchito in Westminster, El Especial Bakery in Port Huemene (more of a small bakery with the best breakfast burrito), of course El Establos in Old Town Camarillo, and numerous countless places. El Mercardo was mind blowing. It had the standard...in-house carnceria, bakery with Pan, cervaza with the premium of Budweiser, calling cards, jugo de frutas, but what set this place a part.....Mezcal Tequila. I've not seen Mezcal since my days lurking in Mainland Mexico. That shit comes in a plastic bottle with a little plastic handle and apparently you see the devil after devouring an entire bottle. I smuggled a bottle home, again at 19, but my Mother, being responsible, took it away from me once I landed in the homestead of Torrance.

El Festival Night Club De Santa Ana. I swooped up Evaristo on the way to the club, but we needed to pick-up Octavio. As you can see in the photos above, Octavio, was already jonzing to go. He also volunteered to drive. I parked the Fairlane on a miscellaneous road somewhere in Santa Ana, locked the doors, and spilled my glass bottle Mexican Coca-Cola sitting on my decrypt red dash while I pushed in my surfboards through the back gate. Now, Octavio, maybe knows about three words of English. Our communication is limited to a few hoots and hollers and whatever broken Espanol I know... "Cervaza," "El Bano," and maybe "Mucho Grande Chi Chi's,"...But now, I felt full communication as I understood while riding in his car the translation of what "Boom, Boom," met in his lexicon regarding the stereo language of his 2001 Nissan Maxima, fully done-up with 20" rims.

Octavio didn't have the right belt as it did not match the flash of his shirt. Evaristo had the proper matching belt and so it was back to where I picked up the Gato a few blocks south. The entire ride, Octavio, kept saying, "Boom, Boom," as I sat in the passengers seat. He had a button underneather the led light engulfed dash that triggered the "boom boom." As we past another T-shirt warehouse I thought to myself, I've never really heard Los Tigres Del Norte at the level Ocatvio was blasting. The bass was shaking the limo tint windows as my seat vibrated so hard making me feel like a mid-century housewife getting off on a washing machine. The aroma of the Maxima was a battlefield of coconut air fresheners dog fighting the cologne of mis gatos. When we got the belt from Evaristo's casa, it was back on the road as I had not idea where this trip was going.

We did a casual drive-by, just to really see how the scene was happening. The dos Gatos were ecstatic. Pulling in front of a dougnut shop around the corner, Evaristo informed me that "we park here always." In my mind, I was like, "what did I get myself into?". The two giggled as both doors opened in unison. Two homeless rave scene rejects with natty dreaded hair-dos in hole drenched jynco pants in front of the doughnut shop asked to bum some change. I turned my head and walked right past.
      After a frisk pat-done by the Security, who greeted Evaristo and Ocatvio by first name, we were in El Festival. My two amigos were glowing. Two chicas working as cocktail waitresses immediately came up to the gatos and fully embraced them. I couldn't quite decipher the Espanol being thrown around, but I was casually introduced.
     "Little Slow, you see," Evaristo replied as we searched for the perfect seat in front. But my mind was blown, a little shaken as I had to mind my P's and Q's or whatever that saying is. I mean here I am, Edfactor, fully locked into a new scene, a new culture, where for once I had to behave. I was the outsider, retain my gringo-hood, yet blend in at the same time. No crazy shenanigan notions or creature of impulse characteristics for me. I had to be accepted, yet stand my ground in this new realm of radness.

     Observant, the animal I became. The patrons of El Festival started filling in as the band, yes, a live band kept the ommp paa paa to a vigorous pace. Once we found the ultimate seat with a correct vantage point to the dance floor, Evaristo bought a bucket of cervaza and told me to put away my cash. His amiga, the cocktail waitress, hustled the Mexican hops to us. A few dancers poured on to the floor within minutes when an upbeat rhythm hit the airways. Behind us three heavy-set chicas, maintained a table. Evaristo and Octavio's eyes lit up. The whole week at work, I joked how, "mi gusta gorda chicas." Here they were. Evaristo and Octavio, with their freshly razorbladed hair-styles had the thoughts of "chica," oozing from their pores more than the rather pungent cologne both were doused in. The Gato's were primered, just in the age of drinking, and ready to pounce. By second song, the duo hit the floor swinging the chicas around. I sat and sipped my Corona. Just, Observant.
     The major difference in a scene like this as opposed to whatever yupster, beat bop, un-inspirational place for un-inspirational people, "insert name," techno pop-mart, club, (you know, the kind of place were a DJ really thinks he's that bitchin for the fact of an apple computer and some trendy flav-wardrobe) is you just don't go and gyrate your pelvic area on some chicks leg, you've gotta ask, "Tienes bailar? Any actions of normality popular culture club dance rape tactics don't fly in this part of town. As for finding a chica to dance with...My dilemma, no hindsight on whatever chica I assumed to ask. The chica could be another hombre's chica, a sister, a niece, a mother, or just a chica another hombre is jonzing from.
         I went outside to smoke a cig. "Is it a sixth grade dance all over again," I thought to myself as I puffed away. "Atleast in 6th grade, the 8th grade chicks abducted me and taught me the art of the slow dance," my mind pondered with the flick of an ash. All of the sudden, two chicas came up to me. I can't really remember what one of them looked like as she was overshadowed by her amiga dressed in a mini skirt with red heels and matching red lipstick. The chica with the red heels began to stare at me. I looked back at her and was like, "hola," trying to keep my cool cat casualness. She pointed at my Marlboro Reds, so I offered one in a friendly exchange followed by a light from my maroon lighter. "Gracias," in a slightly seductive manner she spoke with her red lips pronouncing each espanol syllable. "Denada." I returned back. The two chicas walked away
.
    I went back into the club and parked it in reaching distance to the bucket. Evaristo and Octavio came and joined drenched in a little Latino dance Spirit. The bucket was gone and Evaristo made the runs denying me another chance to pick up the bill. It was a bit of an intermission, as the first band ended their set and the second was beginning to set-up.
     The place was starting to fill up as hombres lined the wall eyeing down potential chicas to "Tienes Bailar." A family skirted in to the right of me, yes, a family. A husband and wife: the wife was in pumps and a seductive black dress while the husband sported the typical "Los Tigres Del Norte," cabrello drape that seemed to be the theme of the night for the older gentlemen, handlebar and all. Behind them trailled like ducklings, two daughters equally gorgeous in dresses a little more youthfully inspired...skimpy, the correct description word here. Good thing they sat in the far right corner. Can you imagine getting caught by padre while you accidentally glanced over at his two hijas for a spit second because you just got tapped on the shoulder by the cocktail waitress to order a cervaza and accidently looked up the wrong direction?
   The second band began to play in a more reggatone fashion. Octacivo and Evaristo sat restless. These two Gatos just needed to dance, especially, when the whole club was on th floor When there was no Chicas to bailar with....the two appeared extremely bummed. Tigres were on a mission. In the idle moments of Chica-less-ness, Evaristo ordered another bucket.

         The distraught duo and this Edfactor were eventually greeted by another amigo. There's how I met the third cog to Evaristo and Octavio's dancing machine. I pulled up a chair and the new addition to the team sat down. He was the edgy amigo, with bleached hair and a piecing spiked right an inch under his lower lip. His attire was best described as Tucanes de Tijuana meets Hot topic. We chatted as best as we could beneath the broken beats of the uptempo music sputtering espanol and the act of deciphering our broken dialects. Evaristo filled in the blanks while Octavio kept his eyes open for the next bailar.
       She then appeared....the most bonita chica in the building. Our three heads immediately looked up in awe as she was swung around by a well dressed hombre about my age. To the beat and grooving, her hips memorized our eyes in a unison sway. In my scale of beauty,with the Inspiration being number one, she was divinely in the top ten. Maybe it was the environment, her moves, the music, the cervaza, but she knew all eyes were on her. After the song, as quickly as she appeared....she disappeared.
      Evaristo orded another bucket. This time though, I step up my arsenal and ordered a whiskey and coke...most likely the only one ordered that night or ever at El Festival Night Club in Santa Ana. The cocktail waitress gave my a blank stare during the ordering process. Nine dollars later, I got my request. I sipped on it while the trio of amigos corralled a few chicas on the left side of the building.
     Finally I contemplated, I had to go dance. I turned around to the gorda chicas sitting in the table behind me and spoke, "Tienes Bailar?" Chica in the middle was like, "huh?" So, I asked again trying to hide my accent that muffled the Espanol like a sophomore Valley girl in a Spanish 101 high school class. Again, same response. The Chica looked to the left at her amiga and replied, "Ohh, you want to dance." Chica spoke English, thank God. I nodded. "No," I was quickly answered back. I was like, "Okay," as I was a little distraught as I turned back around to my drink. I looked to the dance floor while the trio of amigos were bobbing back and fourth with a string of chicas. In mid-swig, of the melting ice, flat coke, and plastic bottle alcoholic concoction, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around. "My friend would like to dance with you during the next song," the English speaking gorda chica said.

    During the next song, I finally had a chica to bailar with. She spoke not-a-lick of English. I walked to the floor realizing, I had no idea what I was doing. The steps, I would have to improvise. We got to the floor. The song begin, so I just started shaking my hips and trying to mimic Evaristo who appeared right next to me with another Chica from that table. It was more of a slow-dance interlude between the madness of the boom boom sounds. In my replication of the other dancers, my steps got lost in translation to the chica. I kept trying, throwing in a few surf style surfer stomp maneuvers for good measure while I held her arms distance. In my theory of dancing, to counteract bad dancing all you need is a smile. I smiled trying to pull it off. When I looked up at her, it was just an uncomfortable blank stare. I let go of the reins and just tuned into a whole Pulp Fiction like groove. It wasn't happening...now, she would look away with up-and-down forceful movements that screamed, "me de una puta vez de aquí." When the song was over, she retreated back to the table behind us and never would quite acknowledge me again.
     Evaristo came back to the table. "you, you got what you say, good dancer," he insured me. "But you need  know Mexican steps." After a few more Cervazas, we bartered Dance lesson for Surf lessons. From there I wiggled around the tables and the patrons into the El Bano trying not to spill drinks or step on any toes. In El Bano, I took a stall and just sat down and reflected...soaking in what the fuck was going on. "Bllaahhhhhhhhhhhhh," I heard from the next stall. I looked down at my cowboy boots. A blob of upchuck slowly crept underneath the dividing walls in striking distance of my cherished cowboy footware. I did the necessary deed, pulled up the wranglers, and tighten the belt and was out of there in a furry. But, I still took the time to tip the Bathroom Assistant for a towel paper. The poor dude had to clean that shit up.
     When I returned back to the home base of the our ideal table, the tres amigos were of course on the floor. By this time, another band had started that was more in the vein of Los Tigres De Norte. I looked behind to see what's the story with the gorda chicas, but they weren't there. Insterad, the chica with the red high heels and red lipsticks was there. But, with a dude.

The couple was pretty much attached at the crotch. He had her so close, you couldn't slide a razor blade between the two. When she move to his lap, I know I needed a cigg break. I took a pace to the outside. This is where I befriended the bouncer. I explained to him that I wasn't here to start any trouble and just to have a good time professing to be extra careful for being different. The bouncer insured me security is on every corner and the only trouble I'd find are the too borracho'd cabrellos sitting at the bar gettin' grumpy cause they can't score any chicas.
     I retreated back to mis amigos spot. Octavio and Evaristo were both taking an inning out between their next burst of dance. The three gorda chicas were back. I used them as the buffer between the chica with the red high heels and her hombre. The couple started making out like 15-years-old pumped up full of energy drinks and viagra. I was introduced to the couple by the gorda chica who spoke English. The hombre peeled of the chica with the red high heels for approximately 10 seconds to shake my hand. It was a brisk hand embrace as I made sure to look him straight in the eyes not in some intimidating matter, more as a precaution....a precaution in the fact I had security behind me. I was not going to buck horns in a masculine cock fight for his chica in the red high heels....plus I noticed that her teeth were more mangled than a railroad track descending the Sierra Nevada mountain line. He went right back to suffocating her. I should of handed him a pillow.
    I bought the last bucket. The cocktail waitress came back around and I made the gesture for the metal bucket chock full of corona and ice. Evaristo finally let me pay. I don't know if I got the "Gringo," discount or not...$36 for 6 coronas. It didn't bother me. Here, Evaristo, making way less than I was, picked up the bill the entire night. I felt honored. Plus, chaperoning me to this entire new world and accepting me as a part of the tribe...
    The third band and the last of the night picked up the pace. The hombre and the chica with the red heels got up and trekked to the dance floor. Ocatvio and Evaristo also sprung up and pounced. I sat. Observant. Mis amigos of course found chicas, but I just couldn't keep my eyes off the hombre and the chica with the red high heels. Their dancing...how would I explain it...hmmm. I am trying to stay away from cliches here, but it had to be some kind of mating dance. (I know I am better than that). The duo danced with every part connected to another part of each other. On top of that, hombre had his mouth super glued to the chica in an exaggerated CPR position pausing to slip tongue in on the down beats. It was the most particular thing I'd ever saw. This dance, act, continued and did not stop even between the bridge to another song. I believe he even got closer if that's even possible.
    So, I sat there startled as fuck. My mind was bouncing in the hollow shell of my skull. Evaristo came and sat next to me. "No tienes," he asked. I explained to him, I can dance....but I was just observant and sucking it in. Next time, I'd have the steps and would be dancing with Chicas much like him and Octavio. I explained to him, I also had a Chica west of the 405 I'd been really stoked on and would love to bring her here. "She got friends," Evaristo asked. I just smiled and couldn't help but giggle. "I'll see what I can do," I answered back.
    "You wanna dance," the gorda Chica who spoke English asked from behind me. "Sure," I replied. So, back on the dance floor I was. It was one of the last songs for the night as the crowded club was slowing down. Again, my ineptness of Mexican dance floors caused me to fall back into the few swing dance moves I knew from lessons I took years ago. "triple step, triple step, back-step....swing around and look at the watch." The hombre and the chica with the red high heels still in their healthy embrace almost knocked us off the dance floor. He still managed navigating the floor even during lip on lip action. So I made small talk with the gorda chica. Through her broken English and my non-existent Spanish, we made due and carried a conversation. We talked about Evaristo and Octavio and how those gatos are at the club almost every weekend. We talked about my lack of formal Mexican Dancing training. We talked about how much I love Los Tigres De Norte. We talked about how I'd like to come again but with a certain Chica. At the end of the song, I thanked her and poured back into the table with two Corona's waiting for me. She moved on to another hombre and continued to Bailar.
    SO I sat, and kept observing. The Amigos,"Los Tigres De Warehouse," continued out and about trying to get their last dancing kicks before the night would conclude. Evaristo ended up with one of the Gorda Chicas from behind us, just glowing. I realized, it wasn't just for the Chicas, this Gato wanted to just dance. I finished the Corona and wondered where was Octavio? The band announced in espanol, I believe to mean, last song. When the ommp pa pa, broke the silence, Octavio came swinging in with a chica I haven't seen him dance with all night. I kept focusing, trying to figure out who he was dancing with...It was her, the most beautiful chica in the building. Octavio bagged it. The Gato kept his pace, casually in the critical section, but with the correct right of jive when the song called for it. At the end of the song, he kissed her hand and walked away.
     I sat in awe. When both of my amigos came back to the table, I just bowed down to Octavio. At the occupation, Octavio just boxed stuff as most people ignored him because of the communication barrier. Not myself, as I feel ignorant not being able to speak in Octavio's language. Now, I had a story that would change the perception of Octavio in the work place.
    We finished the night out, said goodbye, and it was back to Octavio's coche. In all, I danced twice during a four hour period. I felt very humbled and a bit intoxicated as I jumped in the front seat (thank you, Evaristo). Mi dos amigos were glowing, stoked as stoked can be....We played Los Tigres Del Norte on a lower volume....

We pulled back to the front of Octavio's casa. He rented a room at his brother's house. My plan was to just sleep the night off in my Fairlane. It wouldn't be the first time, as I did it over 21 states on the first trip across country. I had the necessary sleeping accessories as well as a gallon water. Octavio and Evaristo wouldn't allow it, forcing me to crash with them.

It was a 30s style craftsmen house, the kind of style casa that once were the main dwellings along PCH decades prior. Areas, like Santa Ana, nook and crannies all over Long Beach, San Pedro, Wilmington, and the Olmstead District in Torrance, still have the beat of the motif of the earliest developers of California. Places in LA, impoverished, and saved from Gentrification that started sometime in the 50s with the beginnings of Suburbia, keep the architecture alive. Here I was. Edfactor. 2:30 in the morning. Still in Santa Ana.
Octavio slowly and quietly unlocked the lock and opened the door. "Muy Silencio," was the objective as we did not want to wake anybody up. I am not sure of the response I'd receive from the famalia. I made sure to follow suit, but again we were still buzzing from the whole El Festival Experience. I kept whispering, "Muy Silencio," every 10 seconds as we navigated the pinch-dark corridors of the depression-era house. Mis amigos, then giggled, and repeated, "Muy Silencio," as I'd join them in the silent laughter. We finally made it to Octavio's room. I, first, was directed to El Bano. I couldn't resist taking a few shots of the pink-drenched interior.

Mis Dos Amigos, Octavio and Evaristo.

The artillery for preparing for a night at El Festival. The Trophies are all Octavio, who, is an exceptional futbol player.

Los zapatos.

After a night of hard dancing, Zapatos need to come off.

To top it off, mis amigos let me siesta on the bed. I offered to just hit the floor, but they weren't having it.

I slept amazing. The room was as dark as a Las Vegas hotel room minus the falsehood of air-conditioning. I woke up a bit earlier than mis Amigos, checked my cellphone, and rolled over back to bed. About an hour later, I could hear the sounds of amusement, the sounds of laughter, seeping underneath the crack of the bottom part of the door. I shifted sides, but the joyous noise continued. Finally, mis amigos woke up. After thanking Octavio for the millionth time, I told the two I had a date with the Ocean and needed to get back to my reality. With Zapatos back on, Octavio and Evaristo, begin following suit and gearing up for an afternoon of futbol.
When Octavio opened the door, the bright light scoured in. The casa smelled of tamales from the cocina. With daylight, the house opened up with life. I envisioned a family during the 40s, much like "The Christmas Story," living in the same way. Instead of tamales, maybe a turkey or pork with the same enviroment of happiness. In the living room, ninos y ninas, were watching Saturday morning cartoons, oblivious to me and situated in their own little worlds. Octavio and Evaristo continued to walk me out. Again, I thanked the duo and asked Octavio to thank his brother for letting me crash for the night. We giggled one last time and I was off on my way.

I was a little bit hungry and so set out to find something of substance to eat. I stumbled onto this place somewhere off Bristol in Santa Ana.

Again being not able to communicate fully en Espanol, I got lucky as the dude taking orders spoke English. I asked him, "What is this place known for?" Carnintas was the call.

Edfactor 2012.

A Structured Piece

2012-01-06T16:46:00.000-08:00

Soo like five years ago in the halls of a certain mental institute turned college, I was forced to dabble in structure in regards to poetic expressions. As you can see below, I actually rhyme....no way can I do that shit anymore. This piece was inspired after a certain trip to a certain city....can you guess which one? I promise new stuff very soon!

Sloppy Sonnet 89109

“Bright Star” shimmering—grasped by the black dark abyss!
Implicit Cling, Cling echoes off explicit mountains in unison with neon rays,
Stardust residues on a flamingo, a cowboy and a clown jest.
Mecca…. Pilgrims sit to ritualized relics! Twist, Twist of the wrist they pray!
Worship discards to battle—armed w/ plastic! Hell-bent, Jihad, to foray!
The Millions Intoxicated—benighted tenebrously thriven,
Illuminating Debauchery—guaranteed in the Mandalay!
“Good deals, cheap eats, free drinks,” Is this Dante’s Inferno or Heaven?
Young/old juxtaposition/on the Strip/interwoven,
Trampling over the pieces of seduction,
Dark lights mindlessly hypnotize—SHOW STARTS @ ELEVEN!
What’s the pay out for this cost of admission?

As I walk past New York…… into Paris….
Vegas….Shall I fall prey to your caress!

Eddie W. Solt Jr. 2005 or 2006 but not 2007

Hermosa circa 2005

2012-01-03T12:30:00.000-08:00

So in the search for Inspiration, as I am lacking it literally, figuratively, metaphorically, symbolically, and whatever, I decided to start up my desktop from college....I haven't turned on the dusty computer and monitor in about 2.5 years. So amongst sloppy college party pictures, ex-girlfriends candid, literary essays, the one-off research paper, a really bad screenplay, I found this. Here's a piece I wrote about Hermosa Beach in a poetry class at some certain time in the mid-2000's. I am guessing 2005. The language is a little overt and easy to digest. In my mind, this piece is super cheesy....but here it is unedited to my embarrassment. BTW, I used to read this at the Coffee Cartel right out of college and thought I was super bitchin'.

Hermosa Beach!

Westwood-by-the-Beach…
Built
On
Ruins
Of small community.

From Local Surf Ghetto—
To fraternity party!!!

Where is Dewey Weber or Greg “Da Bull” Noll?
Replaced by
Institutionalized Bar-Scene,
F-i-l-l-ed with fashionable alcoholics!

Where is no-pants-Lance posing nude on the hood of a 40’ Ford?
Where is Purpus, star Jacob’s team rider, running for mayor?
Surf Lore Gone and Lost forever,
Only to be religiously recited at the Mermaid by the local drunk,
His withered hands clenching a beer,
And a salty tear evaporating
Into the sea air with the fables themselves.

No more sunny Beach Boy Days!
All engulfed by the eastern seaboard,
Traumatized into submission
By Abercrombie and Fitch!!

SUV’s and Mercedes flash flooding Hermosa Avenue,
As the trendy store fronts battle Greckos, Mickey’s and all of
The other
Lone
Survivors.

Pier Avenue,
a dashing

fashion run-way

for fashionable people

The Smell of Resin that once resonated replaced…
But the Stench!
The Stench of cement and fresh cut Wood,
Another Beach Bungalow desecrated!
Martyred…Crucified…
As the memory and image is nailed to Condos, Condos, Condos,

Juxtaposition is warfare,
Of what is and what was,
Old salty dogs and their spawning
Blended into this turmoil of contradiction,
The offspring of Hermosain’s veins pulse with the blood of punk rock underground,
As the majority of newcomers change and the minority stays the same.

Hermosa is lost to the outsider.

Profiting with Revenue on its own demise,

Urbanization tubes

over the city

As the sunset

triggers the decline,

The character is gone with the rising tide!

Dewey’s Dead

And so is Hellmosa

Immortalize him as a statute on 16th st,

Arms

Flailing

cutback,

To the new population…

Only a Seagull perching place

Routinely kissed…

By

By

By

Bird shit!!

By: Eddie Solt Jr. 2005, 2006, but not 2007.

Untold Smiling Alligator with the Golden Tooth tattoo story plus rehash of the early trips.....

2011-12-17T21:16:00.000-08:00

For all those new cats just jumping into the Shenanigans, the Shenanigans started out as an expression of my perspective of being on the road, a travelogue I guess you'd call it. In a nutshell: in the fall of '09, my job situation at a certain international school went sour after the director of the school called it quits. After running my successful Torrance Surf Camp during the summer (like I have the previous six years), the new director made the decision that I was a temp and my years at this certain school building the Activities Department and creating new class courses for academia amounted to shit. I was expandable and so she, of a certain Eastern Ethnicity, decided to cut half my hours, basically half my paycheck. I was living in the Riviera Village, an adjacent disputed land in between Torrance Beach and Redondo Beach, and my apartment was pretty beat. Multiple roommates, parties, wildness, turkeys, a 12x6 mural found in a dumpster from a closed Chinese Restaurant, a stained carpet, and termites had been the cause. On the top of that, a certain Ex-whatever, seemed to be around every corner, finding me where ever, even though we broke up 6 months prior. Things were getting hot for this Edfactor in Torrance and it was time to hit the highway.

SO I left, for 6 months and documented the fuck out of it. I dig a lot of the early stuff, even though sometimes it is painful to read. I've always had this problem starting back to my first creative writing classes in High School. When you progress as a writer, or during my growth, I just feel the early shit is just super "cheesy." Though most people would disagree and say I am really self critical. But then again, once I finish a piece, I am ready to move on to the next thing.
The early shit has a level of innocence to it, me just trying to develop my voice...which I sort of dig. But, tons of motherfucking typos.

Here is one of the stories I never posted: The Smiling Alligator with the Golden Tooth Tattoo story. I'll put links to the Charleston pieces at the bottom of the page. The Charleston pieces were some of my favorite to write as at the time I wrote them, I was on the fly and frantic on the road.

      I was supposed to be in Charleston for only a weekend. If I recall, I left on Cinco De Mayo of all things. Between barbeques, the Piggly Wiggly, the Recovery Room, Lesbian Bike Riding Chicks (awesome), strange substances, buildings no taller than the local church, the motherfucking Waffle house, Folley Beach, The Kicking Chicking, and of course Ryan and his golf cart Mazda driving through a maze of divebars, pre-Civil War southern architecture, and hipsters on fixies, I had to bail one of my favorite cities in the world.
           The day before I left Charleston, I felt I needed something to really commerate this whole experience. I mean, I drove to Florida barely making it monetarily and physically as my '65 Ford was put through all tests in the process of the drive: snow, heat, wind, and overheating. Simply I was broke and the Fairlane was fucked.

          In Florida while living at my Grandpop's house, I just made it happen. I find a temp job were I was making $20 a hour just to drive up and down the urethra of Florida scanning hospital charts for the insurance companies. To think about it, it was pretty gnarly seeing what people were suffering from. I tried to keep a blind eye, but it was tough. The worst was when you'd get a file and realize it was a deceased person. I prayed to God, I wouldn't have to scan my Grandpop's chart. That would of been devastating. But, I didn't. I was the talk of the retirement community as they proclaimed I could "live like a king," in Ocala with my income.
      It also didn't help that my karaoke prowess at the local VFW and Moose (I could sing country sort of all right, "Turning Japanese" was too much, but they loved my rendition of Ray Parker's "Ghostbusters") gave me some street cred especially with the "Doo Wop Mama," originally from Queens, New York.

       I put my paycheck into the fairlane and with the guidance of my Grandpop, made her a road-worthy highway lurking hell raiser. He guaranteed I'd never have a major problem with the fairlane ever again. I currently drive her everyday.

      There were times I'd be working on the flux capacitor or whatever, when Bob, who lived in the seafoam doublewide from 1966 on my Grandpop's land with his lovely wife Lynn, would come check on my progress. He'd have a lit cigg in his lips, a busch in his hand, and speak slowly in a double bass grizzly voice, "Hey boy, do-ya wannna smoke a joint."

So with the fairlane ready for some action, a couple of grand in my pocket, I left Ocala knowing that I'd never could replicate my experience. But really, why would I? I will revisit soon enough and it will be entirely different...in a good way.
       So one day, I woke up on Ryan's couch still drunk from the night before with the hankering for some ink. I told Ryan, "I want a Smiling Alligator with a Golden Tooth."

      Ryan gave me the number to his friend, a local tattoo artist, at some local tattoo parlor, who also happened to love tattoos of sharks. I have a tattoo of a shark on my left arm. I called this nice young lady and mentioned to her I was Ryan's friend from California, I wanted a tattoo of a Smiling Alligator with a Golden Tooth tattoo, and I also have a shark tattoo. She said, "Be here at 11," and cancelled her afternoon appointment of tattooing a butterfly or fairy on some chicks back or something.
      During the process of ink slinging, Ryan ran home and made me a delicious Bloody Mary. He handed it to me while I had the Alligator's snout filled in. His Mazda dodged a parade of cut-off jeans hipster on the way (although I think one of them took out a side view mirror).

With the ink set forth, I left Charleston. I took this back road route through North Carolina as I tried to avoid the 95 as much as possible. Plus I was on the way to Hatteras. (During one of the earlier trips, it took me 4 hours to get from DC to Baltimore. I was in a snow storm with no exit in sight to piss or eat. Where was a fucking Wawas?) By the way, I hate the entire state of Virginia. On this two way highway, It was hard to focus at the scenery..."Highway 61 revisited" playing for the millionth fucking time on the disgruntled CD player...of decrypt houses from God knows when falling on top of each other. I just couldn't stop staring at the Smiling Alligator with the Golden Tooth on my forearm while I turned the cracked red steering wheel guiding my Fairlane down the road into shenanigans.

The reason I held on to this story, I just couldn't post it without informing my parents first. (Even though, I already had a few tattoos...but then again it was a Smiling Alligator with a Golden Tooth on my forearm). I remember in Bristol, Pa, the town of my birth, I was at breakfast at the Golden Eagle Dinner with my Uncle and two Aunts. We decided to call my mother. During conversation, my Uncle kept making references to the Smiling Alligator with the Golden tooth on my forearm. "That was a crock," "How about them gators,"See you later alligator," and what not was said.
        At dinner in my Grandmom's doublewide in Morrisville, My Dad's sister (my Aunt), who has a few tattoos of her own, thought it was killer and didn't understand why he'd be super bummed.
       On the highway to Chicago after a heavy trip in Cleveland (I mean, heavy), I finally broke down to my dad somewhere in Indiana. I had to, I mean...I was meeting him at a sales convention in Chicago (which is another good story). When I told him, I can't repeat what he said...let's just say he hung up on me.

Check out the earlier stuff:
From the beginning:
http://shenaniganswiththeedfactor.blogspot.com/2009/12/mannequin-on-runnawedfactor-on-runor.html

The Creed of the Roaddawg:
http://shenaniganswiththeedfactor.blogspot.com/2010/01/can-you-take-me-higher-creed-of.html

The second trip (Fairlane Chronicles) Yeah, pretty cheesy name.
http://shenaniganswiththeedfactor.blogspot.com/2010/02/day-1-fairlane-chronicles.html

The trip back to California
http://shenaniganswiththeedfactor.blogspot.com/2010/05/miami.html

Charleston
http://shenaniganswiththeedfactor.blogspot.com/2010/05/charleston-and-big-phishy-suprise.html
http://shenaniganswiththeedfactor.blogspot.com/2010/05/day-in-ryan-garrisons-life-as.html

XOXOXO Edfactor 2011

Untitled part 3

2011-12-15T20:02:00.000-08:00

Lately in da' midst of myself, my madness, of being a "creature of impulse," I did the last thing I wanted to do, I spooked "the Inspiration." Pretty sure, she is over my shit and I don't blame her. To really deconstruct what's going on with this Edfactor just be as simple as a point of an index finger, one with a pearl ring on it? Was it my lack of satisfaction in my occupation? Was being couped in a dingy office in some far region east of the 405 'causing me to literally explode at the seams when it became weekend time? The taste of Friday night indulged my senses as I made a mockery of myself in pursuit of this character, "Edfactor." Was it me feeling new feelings I've never felt before in 29 years of existence for another person causing me to make rash decisions that are easily deemed "so dramatic," my downfall? Am I really that too much for being honest about how I feel or too much for my own good? These scenarios would be just too easy. It's a big total clusterfuck with no right or wrong answers...it is...what it is. From now, all I can do is just be me, go about my day, stay focused, stay out of trouble, and continue cruising with my next path, "Postdogger Expressions." But...what I also want is "the Inspiration," just to know me as Eddie. That would be totally bitchin'.

The Girl with the Electric Smile

The GIRL
        with the
                    E-L-E-C-T-R-I-C
                                             SMILE.

            ARO
      C        U of.....feeling.
         LES
                ARA
              P        S of....emotion.
                  LO
dark eye glasses
       Definition of Beauty
               First thing comes to
Mind.

        million flowers
                  million dead birds of Paradise
                                    Floriculture holocaust
                                                             I commit.
       The GIRL with the E-L-E-C-T-R-I-C smile.

        By: Eddie Solt Jr.

Los Tigres DE Warehouse! Story coming soon!

2011-12-03T12:19:00.001-08:00

Gato Heroi and Skitch. Part 12 and 2/3rds..POSTDOGGERISM...defined...and a few SURF STORIES...Or, are they? YES!

2011-11-29T21:25:00.001-08:00

So after the Halloween debacle of not preforming journalistic duties, (see last Gato post) and waking up on Chiz's lovely impromptu bed courtesy of the lovely Sammi with a "poisonous headache that feels alright"(Dylan), it was time to capture one last moment of the Gato Liar in this state...It seems to be always evolving...I rolled in slow to catch Skitch holding fort with a tall boy. Robcat was still in his heavy preparation mode, working all night before on the newest concepts for the next trip....

Soo, I shot the necessary shots...but this trip was more of an ending to this experience...much like every time I've been around Robbie and Chiz, aka Precious. Something comes out of it...and the trip is over...rejuvenated later..... and starts right over.

Let's see, I slapped Chiz once with a Pescado from a local San Juan Capistrano Mexican restaurant in front of Toshi, Ken, and the Japanese. The Japanese were feeding us Tequila and mass Cerveza... We were gunning for the same chick, who I think dated that dude CJ from the Seedling once (I peed on his couch, once also....I haven't seen him since...he might want to kill me). I lost in the pursuit, (Chris is so Precious!) and I normally don't act out like that, but under heavy intoxication, I thought it'd be funny... In the middle of Chiz's bite of Carne Asada.....to think about it, it was not necessarily a slap....that would be way too malicious for the Edfactor. It was more of a placing by my hand the deep fried Pescado with the poked out eyes and gawking mouth on Chiz's left cheek. The oily residue caused the slimy dead fish to momentarily stick to his face, then slowly slide to his corner chin before falling fast on to the wooden table of the upper scale Mexican restaurant into a loud, "SMACK!". The Miarachi band played in the background keeping with the pseudo traditional authentic theme. Toshi, Ken, and the rest of the Seakong crew were startled, but then again they already had experienced Edfactor in Japan on "Creme's" first Japan excursion. The story goes on with Chiz riding up with us and waking up in a Manhattan Beach living room...a result of the pursuit of the girl. Little Mike, a resident of this household, in the morning found Chiz sleeping on the couch after not seeing him since the Dewey Weber team days years prior.

Then there's Robcat infiltrating Hermosa Beach back in the early millennium....Back in those days, Shawn O'Brien, DX Wells, and I would frequent a club in Irvine called "Kokomos." If you lived in a 40 mile radius of "Kokomos," near the John Wayne airport in the early 2000s and were under 21, pretty sure you've been there as well as "the Boogie" near Disneyland. Shawn, DX, and I would frequent these places and would wear the most fucked up Polyester ensemble imagined. Combine that with white pants, we weren't messing around...done and done...I would sport white womens' pants with the zipper in the back, a pair of slacks I scored at the Torrance Salvation Army which was a gold mine ten years ago for fucked up gear....Since I don't have a vagina, I'd wear the zipper in the front. The trio of us, destroyed the dance floor in our own amusement, inventing dance moves, and making out with girls from Fountain Valley. More could be written, but I don't want to digress....
       I'd retell all the Kokomos shenanigans to Robbie every time we'd run into each other, in the water, the contest scene, or where ever. He wanted in. I always pondered what it would be like to unleash the Robcat on to the Kokomos Dance Floor. I mean, the first time we'd all met was at that contest in Ventura. We snuck into a hotel bar, the foursome of us, DX, a bare-footed Robbie, Shawn, and I, preceded to get very nasty with a couple middle-aged women. The lore of Micheal Jackson being spun from outside the bar was too tempting.
      A couple of years after the whole Kokomos dancing trip, Shawn, DX, and I decided to make one last run. We all were of the drinking age, so the scene just didn't give us kicks anymore. A 20-year-old Robbie lived in Irvine with Flo just down the road. It was necessary to pull a sneak attack and abduct the Robcat. So I called him...funny to think he had a cell phone then, before all of  us. Recently, I believe he hasn't had a cellphone in over 5 years. We picked him up in Shawn's seafoam green '55 Chevy station wagon.
        In our uniform of fucked up polyester inspired from a pic of Purpus in the mid-70s by Divine..."Puka" Purpus with his sloppy long mopcut haircut, pukka shells strung around his neck (he told me he usually rocked like five and gave them to out all his girlfriends in an effort to "kooch"), and his underage predator of a moustache, was (and still is) our role model.
                                                             (photo by Jeff Divine)
So, Shawn's '55 with the 283, putted down the 405, took us to destroy the dance floor. The problem was....When we pulled into the parking lot, Kokomos was destruction, literally. The building was completely in rubble behind a chain length fence. Dancing DREAMS bulldozed!
      Instead of Robbie being brought back to his residence, we stole Robcat and took him to the South Bay. It was going to be July 4th weekend.....The following day, Robcat and I pulled into the parking lot of the Wayne Miyata Surf factory. Years later after Mr. Miyata's passing and the closing day of the factory, Big Mike, Little Mike's father, would share with me, a 20-year-old port sitting covered in dust and shaping foam sugar amongst the surf memorabilia. Big Mike also gave me a painting hanging on the shops walls of Waikiki from the 20s. I have it currently situated in my Garden Grove office above my desk for piece of mine. So back to the story.....We parked my 59' galaxie, fins protruding out, between Shoreline and the Miyata shop in an industrial complex that was once the Greg Noll factory back in the 60s, when Hermosa Beach was and is the true surf city....Bing, Rick, Noll, Jacobs, Weber...really Huntington..or even Santa Cruz for trying to claim that title?
     Or first stop, was the Mermaid, to see Tommy of course...10 am with Jager Meister...being that young, some how we thought that shit was sooooo bitchin', shit makes me hork now-a-days.....and that's all I am going to write about that. There's more to it, but I have plenty more time to write. Ummm, the trip included my then girlfriend, a Physcist from UCLA, almost getting arrested and...I lost Robbie. Robcat ended up staying at the Curtis' house in Torrance for the night and the following day..... I combed Hermosa Beach in search for that Robcat until I believe I received a page from the Curtis on my pager. Curtis' mother, who once dated Chuck Norris, complimented Robbie on how polite he was....More detail to follow as I plan to interweave the old surf lore with the current surf jargon on many more pieces to follow. Ohh yea, I once had to testify in court from an outcome of a Capo Beach Creme party.

But, here is a new thought, an Edfactor lexicon ADDITION, and where I plan on taking the trip into a whole new direction:

"Postdoggerism....A postdogger takes the spontaneity of the original hotdogging era and applies it to whatever equipment in any given surf situation in the full effect of having fun." (Edfactor)

Edfactor XOXOXOX 2011

"Don't BLAME the waitress....BLAME the SIZZZZ!" UNDER the INFLUEnce of SIZZ 2011!

2011-11-22T12:04:00.001-08:00

Under the INFLUEnce of SIZZZ. The great SIZZLER dinner of 2011. The conception of the SIZZ started as three quick words formed into a sentence, "WE GOIN' SIZZLER," uttered from the LIPS of Tom, aka UNCLE TRAW. This was sometime ago in the first decade of the 2000s. Uncle TRAW, the EDFACTOR, and little Mike, aka "The Knife Fight" had a very pleasant-living situation with our location in Torrance Beach near the old Frankie Avalon Place. I lived on one side of the Apartment complex and Uncle Traw and Little Mike lived on the other side across the courtyard, the natural habitat for Cigarette butts and empty beer cans (although, all the beer cans were nocturnal and never appeared during daylight hours.)

To go off on a bit of a tangent, our former residence is located in a heavily disputed area of Torrance near Paseo De La Playa, Gotham Point, in the shadows of the Rivvy. Although it does have a Redondo Beach mailing address, all true Torrancians universally agree it's an annexation of Torrance. Shit, they almost changed the name "Torrance" to "Torrance Beach" back in the 70s. Disbeliever's only rely on the facade of the address. In actuality, this area is provided water, gas, and electricity from TORRANCE. The political arena is provided by TORRANCE. The movie, "the Lifeguard," as well as, "The Stone Age," two Torrance historical documents, are filmed on location at TORRANCE BEACH, further my argument. Torrance Beach just happens to be located closer to a Redondo Beach post office.

Soo back to the original story line....Traw uttered, "We goin SIZZZZLLER," in the SIZZ was born. We announced our plans for this great fest all over all social networks, cell communications, and word of mouth. For weeks, we planned...We were possessed in the SIZZ. All communication included the idea, concept, of SIZZZZ expressed. As Little Mike would go on and say, "The sun's not YELLOW it's......SIZZZZZLLLERRRR"
On SIZZ 2010, the team was tight knit. Just a bunch of dudes from Torrance, who....we......carried the dinner into the parking lots. Cops call, guns drawn, but we were all just sent on our way. The preparty started at Torrance Beach and lasted into the early morning somewhere in the Rivy.

Fast forward to 2011 and the Sizz experience was entirely a different trip....the 2010 trip was a product of spontaneity. We came up with it and ran with it. To be perfectly honest, we got caught up in the mix of the SIZZ.

In 2011 the SIZZZ experience aligned perfect with my current state of mind or lack of it, depending how you perceive it. I've been on this whole weird realm of testing limits, building stamina, and gaining experience. During the work week, I function in Garden Grove at this job. I am an employee. During the weekend, I become a Creature, a Creature of impulse. I seek gratification, instant gratification, and my goal is to get gratified. I don't recommend becoming a Creature of Impulse. For one thing, it can get very expensive, your community reputation goes to the shitter, and it can be bad for your health.

Awww Steak at SIZZLER...SO when we arrived to Sizzler, the manager set us a side in our own private VIP room...with a great view of the Salad Bar and Dessert Bar. It was like he was expecting us as he remembered us from the year prior. Below is Mr. DJ Dreiling of Dreiling Surfboards. Together we designed a board in the mid-2000s, THE HAPPY HOUR.

Dreiling set up shop in the heart of "Ghosttown," a section of town in beautiful Wilmington, CA, in the area between the two bridges on PCH. I spent a whole summer with Mr. Dreiling inhaling resin, sanding rails, and doing horrible ding repair (I have no business doing that shit).

The proximity around Dreiling's surf shop was very particular. Best described as "Skid Row," DJ, once on his walk to the local convenience store around the block now long since gone, had seen a lady of the night performing a service to a client on bare sidewalk....mid-day on a Tuesday. Dreiling also had a Dreiling Surfboard's team mascot that lurked in the front of the shop, all though he had no idea he was a representative of Dreiling. I mean, the shop was completely hidden from view. (If the factory would of been in a more prominent area, EPA would of close that shit in less than 2 minutes and 32 seconds). 12 foot walls surrounded the Quonset hut build in the 40s. The only identification of the function of the surf factory, the entrance to surf magic, was a few Dreiling Surfboard stickers on the 4'x4' "hobit door." For the longest time, DJ had this super fucking tiny door. It was an extreme pain in the ass to navigate and transport foam and glass through.

The mascot was a homeless wheel chaired bound African American man who DJ gifted a few Dreiling Surfboard t's and hoodies to. One day on DJ's daily commute, DJ in his big oversized '97 bright blue Dodge truck with his trademark Dreiling Sticker on the back shell proclaiming Dreiling Surfboards, "Surf like a Man," caught the mascot on the corner of Coil and PCH in a predicament. The mascot, apparently being the king of his domain, needed restroom facilities. Non can be had at 6:30am in "Ghosttown." Dreiling pulled up to the mascot casually deciding to "Spray mud," all over the wall of the recycling plant.

The Happy Hour...The Happy Hour Model..... My first model was designed with love in this Wilmington Surf Shop, a shop with loaded guns hidden in every nook and crannie. The plight of the area made a loaded 45 necessary in reaching distance especially working into the late night/ early morning under the influence of intoxicating oats and mid 90s alternative. A quick snapshot in my mind....White Zombie blasting from the speakers, DJ shredding foam on the second incarnation of the "Happy Hour Model," a black and mild cemented to his lips, and me in the corner of the bay scwapping rumple mints and a yellow belly.

Super nice not to always be behind a lens....I love Uncle Traw in the background.

Desperate attempt to start a food fight with Wendl.

SPOILS OF WAR for "the Inspiration."
Next to the dessert bar, I morphed into...."Creature of Impulse." After the conquest of the SIZZZ, I needed something to bring back from the SIZZ...a SPOIL of WAR. The SIZZ was conquered. The damage was done as I had to seek and scheme while circling the salad bar, a family of four Asian persons to the left. The Mother was to the right of the Father and the children obediantely stood in the front as the foursome dug through what remained of the Salad bar. The kids sported matching bowl cuts and overalls. The salad scene was bunk signaling that the Sizz would be closing anytime soon. I had to act fast as the scene was thinning out. It did not help that my crew of friends in the VIP section were glowing with bellies full of salty steak, mash potatoes, ice cream, and beam. Maybe the loudness of their glee would alert management? Shit had to get done...

Stealthily, I hid behind a fictitious plant bed out of view of the salad and dessert bar and just waited for the right time...waited...and waited...A loud response in our VIP room made it apparent my friends were a shit show...and so was I.

Of course me being under the intoxication of the "Inspiration," and being heavily inspired it was time to act...
So here I am, kneeling and hiding behind the fictitious plant bed, the thought of being caught caused my heart to beat in unison with Herb Albert and the Tijuana Brass playing as the Sizzler atmosphere music meant to heighten the Sizzler dining experience. It wasn't background music to me. I raised my hand to the fictitious plant bed and start digging with my fingers through the fictitious wood chips. My finger's frantically kept sifting faster as I heard, as it appeared to me, upper management in the distance...But, I could of been wrong? The fictitious wood chips began to fall out of the fictitious plant bed onto my pomade drenched hair. The drum roll of "The Lonely Bull," added more to the intensity....BOOM, BOOM, BOOM of the cymbals.....finally......SNATCH! In my grips, I had a fictitious bundle of roses for the INSPIRATION. I stuffed the pillage into my blue sports coat inside pocket to not be easily detected. I quickly joined the madness in our VIP room, tripping over my two left feet....almost knocking our waitress who was holding a tray of soiled dishes....the greasy residue of the fest and the conquered stained the white plastic plates.
In effect, my thievery caused a changing of the fictitious bundle of roses. I gave the fictitious bundle of roses a meaning...a purpose. No more did the fictitious bundle serve as fodder for the the fictitious plant bed covered in fictitious wood chips next to the salad and dessert bar at Sizzler in Torrance near the San Fransician. The bundle of roses would eventually be given to "The Inspiration."

Somehow we made it back to the Rivy...the ending of last SIZZ experience.....In between of two of the most radical dudes alive....Edfactor in a Chief and Todd sandwhich.

Todd is super bitchin'! Although we are polar opposites, we always have a great time. After making the rounds, I had to get back to Hermosa. The Rivy has been good to me, but it's time to move on....

Little Mike awaited for me after the ending of his shift of pouring hops. It was now on, as he was destined to catch -up. My whole objective to end that night was to collaspe into a White Russian at the Mermaid. It was an Ullysess-like trip to reach our destination full of yupsters in v-necks, the occasionally bro, east coasters, vals, smutties, bar-hags, "surfers," PVer's, and street people. But, that is another story. We ended the night with Domino's bliss in Little Mike's pad screaming like wild men to David Peel. We woke up to a 6 pack. Mike fetched it in his green raincoat after stopping into work for two seconds to do some keg work. In pouring rain, he pondered how to confuse/convince the Edfactor to start it all over it again? Would the Edfactor just be too Sizzed out? Little Mike came in, flip on a Dylan recond, cracked open a bottle with a pink lighter......

And of course, another fucking parking tickets....three things that will be the end of me: parking tickets, phone chargers, and Pauly Shore...MY car just loves to get parking tickets. I seemed to lose or break phone chargers. Currently, on number 6....and I don't know why I said, "Pauly Shore." It just sounded cool..
EDFACTOR....ALL PICS from ROTACHDE...rights reserved and shit. 2011

UNtitled part DOS.

2011-11-15T22:07:00.001-08:00

Back to the INSPIRATION: When you have this INSPIRATION in front of you, there's soooooo much to say...yet, at the same time there's not a lot to say....just go with it and let things just fall in place. I guess this an inner battle with myself. I'm tooooooo much and I know....Right now, there's sooooo much I could say...straight pour with no sifter into the keyboard.....just hit the gas pedal with no brakes to slow down...

PLEDGE my time
DUSToff
A fear

ABSTRACTION
                                  BRIGHT SHADOW
PERSPECTIVE cowardly creatively   F
                                                           A
                                                            L
                                                            L
                                  BEHIND!
CRAWLING into cocktail
ENGULFED
three fingers full firechief
FLAMING hot....you

Pure
I     T    X   C   T   O    !
   N    O    I    A   I    N
B
   E
      N
         D
           E
             R
I-N-E-B-R-I-A-T-I-O-N

of feelings.

Swaying
              OF
      tides

should I/Shouldn't I

TOO MUCH?
                       too little?

The "Knifefight" strikes again!?

2011-11-10T18:45:00.001-08:00

This above pic is not a statement made by a piece in the side corner of an installation in a XYZ Postmodern "edgy" gallery. This is a consequence, a result, a reality of a few indiscretions of Mr. Knifefight aka (I will keep his identity secret)....gotta read past blogs to figure it out.....hmmmm.....The Knifefight was recently 86'd from Dirk's Guns and Ammo near Dirty Doug's on the edge of Torrance's Olmstead District, the edge of town, after an altercation with the owner. The Owner (just some Somalian dude) had enough of Knifefight getting weary and lurking around the establishment of weaponry. It was getting routine...more and more frequent lately in a indirect/direct cause of his occupation.
On any given night after slanging suds at Cold's Pantry, the knifefight was making the trek across town in a perpetual stumble with beading eyes to touch, feel, grope all the latest blades in some kind of madness...knife madness.... a madness.....a madness chartering into deep waters of insanity. He was over drunk amateurs, bar-room politics, the east coast, the crap of LA, scholars, derelicts, deadbeats, parent's, yuppies, yupsters (yupppie+hipster), v-necks, and all of the above DAILY CLIENTELE (the drag of his industry), and needed to escape into steel solitude.
After his incident at the Natty Dread Jah all White Reggae band near the Orange Julius at the Del Amo Mall (once the world's biggest and fuck the Minnesotians who claim it now with "the Mall of America," even though they have a fucking indoor amusement park.....retail space is what should only account ), his reputation was running wild on the streets of the South Bay.

Highlights of that story from a previous post:. He sort of dropped the nomenclature [knifefight] recently after an incident at the Rodium with a bunch of Mexicans over a Los Tigres Del Norte Album. BUT, from time to time it comes back. Little Mike, as the knifefight, was last fully seen in full effect at the Orange Julius in the Del Amo Mall after the Natty Seed Dread Reggae Band concert in front of the Pacific Sun near the International Food Court. Little Mike was hitting up the "buy one get one free sale" at the footlocker. After buying some sweet kicks and not really caring or knowing the concert was going on, the knife fight, had a hankering for some sweet Orange nectar from the Julius and some motherfucking nachos. Well, following his purchase of these Del Amo Delicacies, some dude in designer-all-so-perfect dreads (a concert goer of course), all hopped on hippy lettuce, decked in a Marley shirt, hemp necklaces and other paraphernalia, accidentally bumped into the Knifefight and he spilled his shit . Let's just say things got hella-knifey after that. (Beerfest Part Uno post 6/8/11)

The official security footage inside the drag of a Knife-a-torium was lost by the Torrance PD. Sounds about right, the gnaryiest Johnny-Law ever was held in it's ranks, Marc Furhman. No one truly knows what took place. Scholar's maintain the Samoan Dude had a vendetta against the Knifefight....
Apparently at a recent Knife convention sponsored by the Samoan Dude's business held at AJAN's Restaurant at the Redondo Beach Pier, a place that was once the setting of a Patti Smith song that Morrissey covered about a Lesbian lover's suicide, Knifefight had one-too-many Rum Cannonballs. As a result of bottled up emotion, he ended up heckling one of the biggest knife manufactures west of Chattanooga, Tennessee. This manufacturer, who I will keep nameless out of slander, is stationed out of inland San Diego and "allegedly," sold Knifefight a bunch of bunk blades. No knife's were drawn, thank God...lot of shankings would of followed if first blood occurred. Dude, it was a motherfucking Knife Convention. It took 6.5 bouncers to keep the Knifefight in his holster. A majority of the advocates of the Knifing lifestyle side with the Knifefight due to the fact that it is industry knowledge the owner of that certain big knife manufacturer is a complete and total dick.
The Samoan dude, on the other hand, sides with the mainstream Knifery marketed as a Micro Knifery. Back to the incident in Dirk's: I believe in that dimly lit dive...a poor excuse for a so-called refuge of the Knifing community, Knifefight was set-up. One shakey night, something caught Knifefight off guard...maybe it was the allure of a few free blade (knifers can't resist, man) and then SHANK-SHANK-SHANK on the edge of town.

When the knife metal flake shavings settled, both KnifeFight and the Samoan dude ended up in the hospital. The court record's won't allowed me to discuss the Samoan dude's health. We'll just say he'll have to knife with his other hand. KnifeFight ended up with 42 stitches, a sprained thumb (a result of his grasping hand from thrusting), and a purple lollipop.
When Knifefight came home, he immediately grabbed his most cherished knife, a 14" blade straight from the skirmish in the jungles of Vietnam, circa 1968, and sliced off all his stitches in a Rambo-esque style. He cracked a yellowbelly and beautifully collapsed on the couch. In the middle of his favorite comedy program, "All in the Family," a commercial flashed on his plasma screen. It was a joint advertisement with Dirk's Knife and Ammo and Dirty Doug's....See above, what do YOU think happened?
XOXOXOXO EDFACTOR.
********EDITOR'S NOTE: WHAT IS REALITY...A NUISANCE OF PERCEPTION? CERTAIN ASPECT'S ARE REAL.....YET NOT.....IN THIS LAST PIECE?
More Gato HEROI NEXT....but sooner than that...more on the inspiration.....

PART TROIS....GATO Heroi, Edfactor, a Frenchmen, a Frenchwomen, Chiz, and a Flute....Oh yeah, More Mike Purpus (never can get enough)

2011-11-09T12:54:00.000-08:00

Photo by Pandora Decoster

The following morning, Robcat, team France, and the Edfactor made it to the beach. "Hunging out" was the prevalent theme of the morning, the results of a few shenanigans from the night before. Gato was given the full South Bay shitty dive bar experience and so on. Things were a bit rough-n-tough-n-the Afro Puff for the team. On the goat trail, we ran into a few models soaking in the natural beauty of the area as well as the exceptional lighting.

Footage taken by Robin Kegel

The Morning after and I wasn't on Birth Control. We woke up in Casa De KnifeFight with a missing Frenchmen. The Frenchmen disappeared. Where was the Frenchmen? Robcat, the lovely Pandora, and I combed the streets, back alleyways, and beaches of Hermosa seeking the Frenchmen. Maybe he woke up with a hunger for espresso? a quick j-break? or found a wealthy middle-age Hermosian walking her dog? Who knew? Surf, perhaps? But not likely, his stick was locked miles away in the shortbus? What possessed him to leave in the first place?

Robcat has been a van advocate longer than any of these circus clowns from Costa Mesa. Everything he ever needs is located in his short bus.
The other day I went down to Capo for the weekend with the intent to actually write a piece about Robcat as a bribe to Glen, Liquid Salt Magazine editor. My plan was as followed: I'd give him Robbie for a bit of exposure in his online magazine. You know, to get the Shenanigans out there. That didn't happen. I don't know...maybe Liquid Salt Magazine is afraid of the shenanigans? Maybe a Robcat profile would be too raw. Liquid Salt Magazine is content with luke-warm PG family oriented blandness of people cloned from and mass-produced to be edible for a niche in mainstream surf society that self identifies with longboarding. The legends profiles are awesome, as well as surfers I find interesting like the Tyler's. But then again, just because you ride so-called alternative crafts....gives you authority to take off-focus pictures and make third grade art? There has been a void in longboard media since Guy Motil ran Longboard magazine to the ground. We need something...something with class....yet edgy at the same time.

On my attempted profile....Robbie was in complete crazy work focus, his fingers were sanded down red....bleeding...from sauteing foam: slicing slivers, chopping space pigs, and sharpening death daggers. Robbie's regiment was work and preparation...Prepping for his next surfar to Morocco. I, on the hand, was in full weekend wackiness...the results of working a 7-4 job in Garden Grove. Halloween was in the mix and I was dressed as a cat lady armed with a stuffed cat, ciggs, spandex, cat shirt, and full "Divine" inspired make-up courtesy of Sammi. My journalism merit was all in the shitter, productivity tossed, and the go-button was pushed for bad decisions. Maybe I'm just too raw for my own good. Different wave lengths Robbie and I were both on. Robbie was focused....Me, not so much.

Focus, Robbie felt.....He was a bit Skitched out and so parked his van 1 inch from his shop sliding door. When I arrived that Saturday, I helped him back out and he mangled his bumper a bit. He was that close and determined to not be interupted by any riff raff. He attempted to make his shop "Skitch-Proof." This didn't stop Skitch, as he slipped right under the short bus to surprise Robbie the young "Postdogger."

During night time, Chiz and Sammi paraded me around and propped me up on bar stools all over fine Dana Point establishments....Bar to Bar, Faded to Faded. Robcat eventually met us over at Coconuts. Tired from work, excited about the new upcoming trip and testing the new design prototypes, Robcat was a bit over the whole scene. The band in Coconut's sounded like a compilation/complication of all those pop punk/ punk bands of the 90s and early 2000s, retro old school stuff now-a-days. Once the music of all the Southern California Land, it's finally taken a back seat. Thank God.

Last Stop's was Turk's. Due to Chiz being camouflaged in his Halloween costume, the barkeep didn't identify the toe-head. Apparently in Chiz's youthful days after an afternoon of whiskey waters, barkeep got sick of a babbling faded Precious Chiz....A verbal altercation occurred. Chiz loves telling the story humorously. 86'd from then...

Sammi, Chiz, and I sat there ordering what would be our nightcap. Robcat strolled in and casually sat down as we negotiated a ride. Pound town, as we finished and slipped through the slight crisp Dana Point night time air. It was getting late, and Robbie wanted to stampede on the road before Johnny Law started baiting and catching intoxicated drivers (all though Robbie hadn't a thing to drink) His shortbus seems to catch the attention of the fuzz during Prime-Time patrolling hours.

We took the back road, to avoid PCH. I don't recall the name of this road, but in the forefront Robcat saw a ditch and a transformation took place. Robin become Robbie, his voice shifted back ten years, to when I first met him at that one contest at C-Street. He emerged as 17-year-old Robbie, after 28 year-old Robin explained responsibility of not wanting to be on the road at the wrong time. He hit the gas and warped into speeds a shortbus should not go at. We approached the ditch in the road, Chiz grasped Sammi, I held to the metal seat frame....Like a 35-year retired former bud light tour surfer trying to get one last stab of professional surfism on the NSSA or USSF or whatever, the obese shortbus launched a slight mediocre air with all four tires out.

On impact, Robcat's shit flew every way and everywhere. Above me happened to have a consul...about $65.78 in change came falling down as well as a flute. The flute hit my head. Once we pulled over, I was like, "really Robcat, a flute?" He just laughed. Apparently, one of Robin's next "Dynamic Endeavors" is learning to play Jazz flute. Yes, Jazz flute. I'm not making this up.

Okay back the story that pertains to the pictures and not me ranting in the tongue of surf lore. On the way to the beach, we had to return back to the scene of the assembly film to retrieve our vehicles. That morning, our french amigo disappeared? Our plan of action was to locate our transportation and seek the Frenchmen in a more efficient manner....mobilized. Once we arrived, Robbie discovered Guilhem, our lovely Frenchmen, in full slumber in the warmth of the Gato shortbus. In foreign lands, Guilhem felt Little Mike's stuffy couch was a bit full with Robcat and Pandora snoozing away. He was seeking the shortbus and so decided to hoof it back with no idea of distance. All he remembered...it was a School. The crafty Frenchmen headed east.....

PCH, the cultural divider, he stumbled into. Guilhem asked directions.....all signs pointed north? He followed shoeless and appreciative. After about a mile, he realized, "Lorsque la baise vais-je aller?" After asking directions the second time, he realized...totally the wrong way. The Frenchmen was headed toward Mira Costa High School.

For the next part of Guilham's trip, he took the Lazy American way....He called a motherfucking cab.

In the parking lot, we all were reunited. No more did we have to put the Frenchmen's face on the next batch of Milk Cartons. We noticed the pop tart noise of 102.7 or something like that. The kind of pop candy prepubescent American chew while young and (hopefully) spit out by the closing years of college. There was a volunteer carwash and so it was necessary to get the Gato shortbus a clense. It was for charity, right? Robbie, with the super 8 in hand, was stoked to finally see what the orginal yellow hue of the shortbus actually looked like. The last few pics....Robbie documenting the first time as owner getting the Gato Bus cleansed.

At the sanctuary of a very private break that few check in and get the opportunity to never check out.

Pandora in all her French splendor

Edfactor and the Robcat...Behind is the Von's were I held my first position as bag boy extraordinaire. The trip was over, for now. I gave Robcat a hug, kissed Guilhem, the lovely Frenchmen goodbye and hope that one day we'd stumble into each other on another far-out trip. Saying goodbye can be such a drag....Guilhem was heading back to France the following Wednesday.

After the Gato Shortbus finally left the South Bay through all these Misadventures, I had one more thing to accomplish with the French connection. Pandora had to meet Purpus, in Purpus' element....No pant's Nance board in the background, a million of decades-old trophies, killer surf photos on walls more worthy then the "Surfer's Journal," and the scrapbook. Purpus cannot resist showing any pretty lady in his lair the scrapbook...Not sure if Pandora was ready to see Purpus' full spread in Playgirl from circa 75'.

I bought Pandora a copy of Purpus' assembly film...but he already had a signed one for her...without me communicating that I was bringing the lovely french girl over. Hmmm, I still paid him $10 for it, which I still owe. Please don't tell him that I've been hanging around Hermosa lately in my pursuit of the "Inspiration."

Edfactor XOXOXO 2011.

MIKE PURPUS ASSEMBLY FILM+GATO+DAVENPORT+EDFACTOR=FADED

2011-11-05T16:16:00.000-07:00

Photo by: Kevin Holmes

The Mike Purpus Assembly FILM NIGHT....Held in Purpus tradition. Back in the mid 70s, Purpus would storm High School's coast to coast with his assembly film....a smorgasbord of thrown together 16mm featuring Purpus highlights of the 60's and 70's plus coming attractions of the avant guard films of the day. Russell, Lopez, Hawk, Hakmen, and others would be in small tidbit clips of all the 70s cutting edge flicks spliced into the Mike Purpus Highlight film.

My favorite longboard wave of all time is in this footage. To establish the scene, the film shows the fiasco of Mid-60s Malibu at a MSA sponsored club event. Pie-eating contests, red mountain wine, and shots of Miki Dora looking "cool as a cat" in dark sunglasses and a sports coat capture the feel. The flick then pans to a young Purpus. Him in his Jacob's team shirt with glowing parted to the side hair chatting with the iconoclast of cool, Dora. Next shot....Purpus on a five foot wave....with ice skates on, skates casually to the nose and perches the gnarlest jiving ten....full pelvic thrust to the wind. From there, he retreats back and wraps a slicing cutback...no drop knee....a precursor to the 68' so-called "shortboard revolution" of transitional surfing. Remember, this is 1965 and his equipment consists of a 30 pound Jacobs 422 model (just like the Tyler Riddler model without the square nose). On the inside, he skips to the nose....hangs heels....and walks back. I remember seeing this film at Roy's house, Purpus' best friend. Big Mike and Little Mike, "the knife fight," were guest at the time. It changed my life. From that day forward, my surfing would never be the same. My 17-year-old surf existence made sense. This is how I wanted to surf.

In the years that would follow, Roy passed away. This sparked Purpus to shed the gut, shave the mullet, and get back into the water. I was a part of that. I became Purpus' best friend, judging surf contests with him, driving him to hospital visits, surgery, and to social security office visits. Purpus gave me the only other VHS copy of his Assembly film. I still have it. When Mary-Cam converted it to DVD, I was stoked. With the film being shown in a theater setting, I was exstatic. We were there.....but it was not fitting to not include a few friends.......and rock it hard in true surf film viewing tradition...(don't get me into the No-Pants Lance Story)

Robcat explaining his next big film project expected to be finished whenever..I got a few firsthand insights on the direction it's going....far-out, man, but I'll keep that shit under wraps. I just hope for a lot of Precious-Chris-Chiz and Skitchy to be captured in the rolling 8mm.

The jocking train seems to be very prevalent in the surf world today of the young Robcat....that or a complete disdain for the scene he's all about. This ambivalence of opinon is what fires Gato Heroi....either you get it or don't....love or hate it.

It's funny, the minute most finally stick their little pinky on the tail end of whatever trips he's on....he's off constructing a new Robin's Wonderland on a fresh trip to some far off realm of radness.

Robcat, the lovely Pandora Decoster of Biarritz, France....and The Purp-dawg. Anytime you bring a beautiful or beaute lady, Purp becomes a complete complimenting animal....Pepe le pew on uppers minus the whole skunk-stench....

In classic surf film theater viewing, the crew kept it real...blurriness expected, enjoyed, and the stoke not extinguished.

"So in 68'...v-botttoms......Fantastic Machine....et cetera," Robcat had a sharp ice pick trying to pick-away at the Purpus. About ten years to the day, or something like that, I took Robbie to meet the Purp-dawg. Before that, we went to go surf this mythical place around the bend. It was after the whole "dirty underwear" incident up on the hill. Surfrider was looking for blood. They wanted to make a statement by surfing the indicator.

Don't even get me started about the Surfrider foundation. I met one of the higher-ups at a beer fest down in San Diego awhile back in line at the port-a-potties. Edfactor and her were hittin' it off, so we cruised back to the central action of the shitty white-boy reggae bands where Little Mike, aka "the knife fight," Denudho, and his little Colombian Lady, Julia, where congregating over fresh hops. When she mentioned she worked for Surfrider, I asked her, "do you know who Lance Carson is?" She said, "No." But then I was like, "really, L-A-N-C-E C-A-R-S-O-N." Again, blank stare. This exchange went on for like 15 minutes until the Surfrider lady got bummed and was like, "Peace, Edfactor," retreating back into the herd.....The painful sound of the lead singer from inland San Diego professing, "Jah," played in the distance.

SO back to the original story, Robcat came to the South Bay...we did a few shitty parties. At one party, the biggest douche from my High School (we were all like 19) called Robcat out. Again, this was ten years ago and a 18-year-old Robcat in normal fitting jeans, no shoes, long blond hair, and a circa 69' collared button up was as far out there as someone wearing size 50 clown-baggy pants today. For the youngin's.....back when...then....beyond baggy was in....hurley t-shirts....and big puffy clown skate shoes were all the rage. Dude at the party called Robcat out for no particular reason. He felt threaten or something as he sat in his ankle length dress dickes.I got in his face and said something on the lines, "John Wendl will kick your ass." Long story short, I passed out and apparently later that night, Robin had the entire party cut his hair with a kitchen knife in a beautiful disaster of a mess. Robin's hair was like Greenough's on Orange Sunshine four tabs to the sun. The story is still locked away in Torrance lore. Oh yeah, Chiz was there too and being as Precious as ever.

Soooo, Surfrider decided that it will hold a "Surf Day" at indicator's to make a statement. Of course, Surfrider doofuses didn't take inconsideration of the high the tide that morning. So Robcat and I walked the quarter mile trail, the same trail where Doc Ball, Leroy Grannis, and others, true surf pioneers, ascended down in their Model T's. We watched the leashed, sweaty-wetsuit clad, soup jockeys jonzin' to curb localism by riding one foot crap breaking head first into complete rocked oblivion in an effort to make "that statement" parade down in a fucked-sense of self being. Once hitting the bottom of the trail, Robbie and I relaxed at the bench, the rightful place where the kings of this mythical place sit, Safardy, Warchola...true surf heroes resided.

The lemmings from Santa Monica, El Porto, Mid-land Los Angeles Lawyers, Valley cowboys and others kept marching to their own pretentious beat, paying no attention, just only "for the cause." Robin and I continued to sit......the names of fallen surfers with epitaphs religiously scribed on the bench's wood...waiting for the tide to cooperate. Finally, it did.

We paddled out....Indicators in the distance with the infection crashing to their demise.....The rally cry of Surfrider made the true locals, "over it." The proposed raping was too harsh when in reality Surfrider disregarded the only place where it was actually any good..too caught up in bullshit surf politics. The line-up....empty.....barren with 3-4 foot glassers ready to be hotdogged. Robin, was on his Tyler Wingnose, a board that Tyler still has lurking to this day in his garage among the car parts, grease, resin, and foam. I was on my Pat Ryan shaped Noserider, a continuously redefined walk-board that Shawn O'Brien and I rode for many years prior. It was our interpretation of the original Weber Performer, and not the hokey-dokey San Clemente crap that's out now. Dewey is a God in our books and deserves his surf recognition. We rode Hatchet finned, extremely wide, Walker foamed.....glassed heavier than a 59' Buick with gnarly protruding delta wings...planks...again this was 2001.

Robbie and I switched boards. Not accustomed to narrow-nosed equipment, I realized why cutbacks are appropriate. ( the only thing I can do half-ass now-a-days.) Robbie, on the other hand, took off on a wave. He swung left, then right right into perfect trim. He pranced to the nose, and snorted a hang ten. I watched while paddling out. He didn't back out. The one trick-pony aspect of the noserider kept him dialed in...hang ten, hang ten, hang ten....while his blond hair swooped into his eyes...a style Justin Bieber would bring to the masses much later. While watching in awe, paddling back out I said to myself, "WHAT the fuck....are you going to back off?" Nope, young Robin Kegel kept his ground....hanging ten......the entire wave.
To this day, I've never seen a longer hang ten at this mythical place. Shawn O'Brien has come close and I'm not much of a tip rider. Rumor has it, a Tom Wegener was pulling that shit back in the 80s before he left California because of IRS troubles.

PT in the background with a young stoked surf gremlin. Pandora Decoster and a Purpus in the forefront. Purpus...just dusting of all the "bag of tricks" from the 70's. Pandora is an exciting surfer, smooth and casual as they come. She's been in California for about a month now living outta a 80's Econoline. For her French perspective: http://thepolitepandora.blogspot.com/

Purpus didn't give me a complete autographed poster....It just said," Eddie, your crazy. Purpus."

At the assembly film, Purpus was given the mic....and he talked....and talked....and talked...giving live commentary through the 3 hours of big screen surf fornication. Robin, Gee-yooon, Pandora, Little Tyler, Adam, Mel, and the Edfactor sat in the left bleachers...offshot from the crowd. Shit was held together until intermission...in the dead still silence after the first flick....a "cling-clang" of a dropped bottle echoed in the High School Auditorium halls and was responded to by a barrage of a laughter.

Robcat and Hot's Kitchen. In the first 3 minutes of the Robcat entering Hermosa Beach, a little bit of skirmish erupted outside of Mike's bar. Robin was driven to ride this dude's bicycle.....backward.....The bicyclist was also heavily inebriated. The two's interaction went on for a few seconds until Robcat went for the back tire of the rusty old strand cruiser. The slurring bicyclist was not stoke. He quickly threw the bike on to the group and went into this whole fight gesture like the Note Dame mascot. Little Tyler and I quickly grabbed Robcat and tossed the Robcat into the bar.

The choo chooing of the destined steam locomotive wreckage spilled across the street...across Hermosa Avenue......the rolling river or asphalt that separates us from dreams and reality....We all don't want to go east of this Man-crafted division...Going east means, work, taxes, bills, congressmen, teachers, priests, children, mortgage, the fuzz, and all that shit -tonky rummage. ..Reality of a stupid situation we all are caught up in.....Robbie doesn't go east, and that makes me happy...Happy to think someone is living it out on a perpetual surfar and tickling surf in some far-out location.

Robcat and Mike in a loving embrace. The last surf contest Mike surfed he wore a Creme shirt on the podium before receiving his plastic-trash-easily-disregarded trophy. It was at the Dewey Weber Contest and Little had spent that afternoon after the final at Turks with Big Mike. A few rum cannon-balls, and Mike, after receiving his 3rd place trophy, was taking his Hatchet finned trophy, putting it down to his crouch, and pretending to have a Hatchet finned penis. He then tossed it 50 yards into a Doheny trashcan. Little Mike was never again invited back to the Dewey Weber Invitational.
That morning at the contest, Robcat and Chiz, the forever platonic surf love affair, decided they would set-up a canopy, hand out a few stickers, sell a few t-shirts, and promote the whole Creme organization. To assist the young duo, Robbie went down to Doheny Blvd by the doughnut shop and recruited a few workers of Mexican descent. He set up shop on the southern end of Doheny beach, clothed his workers in Creme shirts, and the crew starting passing out all Creme paraphernalia. The Dewey Weber fascist caught one glimpse of this fiasco and was on a path to bar the young Robin Kegel. The head of Dewey Weber fascism, came down and started ripping apart Robin's promotional scene. Stickers chucked into the sand, t'shirts ripped, and Robcat and Chiz chased by the fascist all the way to Capo Beach. Robcat's workers were startled. The ranger Gestapo had swooped in. "POOOOLLLIIIIIIIIIIICCAAAA!" the Mexican workers yelled with the fear of deportation in the back of their minds as they scattered back into the foothills of San Juan Capistrano.
I made it out later that day with Shawn O'Brien. He forgot shoes, so we went to the footlocker down the street and he bought the generic version of "Airforce One's". He was ready to stomp in "those Air Force Onessssss" in ode to the radio smash that was bleeding from the speakers out of every 2003 honda civic from coast to coast. That night the Creme crew, Shawn O'Brien, and Edfactor tried to make it to the Dewey Weber Classic afterparty and award ceremony. The rangers caught our scene in the Doheny Beach Parking lot, and exnayed the whole operation. Shawn then said something on the line's of, "I'm too old for this shit." A year later he was married after courting his lovely lady for two weeks. They have two beautiful children and live on a ranch in Orcutt, California.

The french connection....."Why are this American's so weird?"

Pandora and all her splendid..this moment captured makes me want to chain smoke, drink espresso, wear a beret, and grow a thin moustache.

Little Mike, aka "the knife fight," sharing a street dog.

I happened to step into a sweet make-out session on the way back to Casa de "Knife Fight."

From the prior engagements....very exhausting.....the team took the extended team nap.

Knife fight in full effect...."Fuck you Edfactor" But it was cool, I was a good houseguest.

Thank you, Hot's Kitchen for allowing me to scribe this in your fine dining establishment.

Part 3 or 8 or 9...coming soon...more Gato litter abound!

Edfactor XOXOXOXOXO!

Untitled.....

2011-11-03T22:28:00.000-07:00

Lately, I've been in a rhythm of creativity....the realm of inspiration sort of is in the air....but sometimes when you think you're at the pinnacle....another thing comes along. I guess this is the beauty of writing.

Untitled

Hide BEHIND abstraction
Clouded BY clarity of THOUGHT
Visions of you
Make a strange feeling start

Reality in the backseat
Rear view MIRROR on the Highway
Million MILES across endless desert
I'd walk with you

relevancy of irrelevancy
Jaded
Charades
Masked
Unmasked
of a Postmodern Mind

Record bouncing infinitely
chaotically
trembling over the tracks
gets suddenly stuck across the vinyl
you the infectious grove.

to be continued....

Don't worry....more surf jargon, car mishaps, and "clever stories," as Robbie calls them are in the future's mix......Gato meets Purpus on the way.....

Mooneyes Xmas Party 2011...who's going?

2011-11-01T12:57:00.000-07:00

The Mooneyes Xmas Party is one of my favorites of the year. Held at the Irwindale Speedway, you're actually allowed to put your short on the drag strip.The last time I was there, Shawn and his 59' wagon didn't pass specs due to the lack of a battery tie-down. My belt from the 'Nard became the impromptu strap. But this year, it's on.....Edfactor's Fairlane vs. Shawn's '59 Chevy

I've never beat Shawn in anything; surf heats, basketball, college math, arm wrestling, producing children, marriage, et cetera. Okay, in Bronze I got him...but that's still controversial as during the Great Bronze Off of 2001, Shawn opted for the Orbit, the standing bronzer that uses the combination of bronze and wind for full bronze effect. We also can't forget his performance enhancing lotion, hot action. This lotion literally opens up your skin's pores and causes a burning sensation while bronzin'. During this era Sheddy (Shawn+Eddie), were obsessed with pointing out different shades of dark brown with the goal in mind of bronzing to that hue. I wish I was making this up.

Have you ever seen a 1959 chevy on a dragstrip? Rumor has it, the Delta fins causes the tail end to rise up.

Don't worry Cormac is not driving....But then again.....the lack of weight? I'm just hoping that Shawn and the young lad attend the show wearing matching flame retardant race suits.
Photos by: RoTcaFed

2011 Long Beach Motorama

2011-10-28T20:13:00.000-07:00

2011 Long Beach Motorama. Downtown Long Beach, near the "biggest Queen in America...the Queen Mary." I attended last year's first annual Motorama on a whim. Broke, fun-employed, and living at my parent's after the Fairlane's first coast to coast tour, my circumstance made even buying a beer let alone a sandwich at the event a luxury. Paying the $18 entrance fee meant that Little Mike, aka "the Knife Fight" and I would have had to stay in the following Tuesday. Tuesday was our night to go out on the town and $18 between the two of us could be spread like the legs of a working girl in a North Nevada Brothel. Happy hours, friends that worked at bars, local drunks, coupons, 40s, Ox45 Talls, dollar meals, Pall Malls, and cheap sunglasses kept us in this $18 realm.
Above and Below:
The little Bastard 2, a recreation of the little Bastard. The OG Little Bastard was a brand-new 57' t-bird bought of the lot and shot Sam Barris Bronze Lacquer with gold scallops by legendary painter Dean Jeffries.

At the previous year's event, I parked the fairlane in the left corner of the proletariat parking lot and snickered to myself all through the great lawn of Rock-a-billy scenesters outside the convention hall. This year, DX, accompanied me as the Fairlane took the plunge and entered into the show. We purposely parked around a whole row of slammed Cadillacs.

DX is a talented ink slinger responsible for 95% of my illustrations. He specializes in fun tattoos. If I went to a majority of tattoo artists out there and asked for "The Gremmie"/"Murph the Surf," the idea would shoot over their heads like Peter North on Biker Crank. Me: "DX, I want 'Stamp out Hodads' on my inner Knee," DX: "Done and Done."

On top of the hill amongst the Cadillac's, chevys, mecs, lincoln's, chopped and slammed what-nots, candy-colored, chrome-spoked, frenched, channeled, sectioned, decked, coached, bagged, flaked, pancaked, peaked, pleated, tuck-an rolled, button-tucked, laced, souped, blown, primered, and/or kustomed, was a stock 1965 Ford Fairlane.

Form or function. It looks pretty sitting there, especially to you if your pomp is 6 foot high. Inline with a frame scraping the ground, serious? really gonna hot rod those quarter's huh? I think the Fairlane could take you on in reverse with a cargo bay full of shitty old boards and a half rotten stickin' wetsuit and with a back seat full of Jenny Craig rejects.

I can't remember the name of this '56, but I know it was in a few customs mags back in the day. I appreciate the tasteful use of scallops.

DX has owned one or two Cadillacs in his lifetime. In the early millennium, he purchased a four door hardtop '64 caddy for under $3,000. DX was only like 21, so it fit perfect in his budget. The caddy was a bitchin' ride, but the only issue was....it was coated in Primer. Two things (many more I can list) I've learned in 15 years of only owning pre '72 rides...First: Never buy anything in Primer. The Second: if someone loitering in the supermarket parking lot offers to do your body work for less than $500...it's too good to be true. The first thing pertains to David (DX). Once DX took a few pieces of trim off, the Cadillac's true colors started show. CANCER! There was no going back for DX, as the 64' skipped, tripped, and slipped back into Caddy Hell. With a Skilsaw, DX and Shawn took to the massive roof and scalped the Caddy. After the fact, DX found out that his under $3000 caddy was a rare 6 window top-of-the-line model. With his new "convertible," DX would cruise the streets of Torrance, but something just wasn't right. Again, he called over his BFF Shawn with the Skilsaw and chopped the windshield frame four inches. If I recall, the windshield shattered in the process. The only problem...a customized glass windshield cost $, which none of us had at the time. Shawn and DX ended up driving to the Mooneye's Xmas show that year minus any windows. Cruising on the 605, bugs splattering and road grime flopping into the two's faces, they realized how essential front glass is. Shawn described it as, "Miserable."

Stoked to see boats with blowers.

A 1958 edsel villager just done sooooo wrong. Really, if you wanted to promote whatever "House of Style" is...grey primer with a shitty mid-90s Devil ripped off from a "No Fear" shirt doesn't really capture the imagination. A 1958 edsel Villager with it's horse-collared grill, Cyclops's eye spinning dash, 361, and push button transmission in the steering column deserves more respect than being a billboard for a basking Bakersfied of amateur imitated mid-century kustom art. I'd opt for the original patina or even a fading Earl Schieb $399 special over that rattle spray can primered so-called rat rod look. It's a one-year body style, five years ahead of it's time (look at Pontiacs in the mid 60s). Because of how radical it was, Ford scaled back the design to the general Ford aesthetic by 59' before it's demise in '60. Although, I really dig the few Edsel's made in 1960.

The Starlite crew out of Torrance. About 8-10 years ago, I remember seeing a "Starlite Kustoms" sticker on a red primered 1953 chevy with whitewalls and caddy sombrero hubcaps in the El Camino College parking lot. Over the next decade, Shawn , DX, and I would see Starlite's rides at various car shows: Paso, Pomona, Ventura, Ruby's in Torrance, where ever. Each year, the Starlite's steel fodder become better and better. Back in like 2007, I was reading a Rod and Custom when in the pages a '56 ford kustom jumped out and blew my mind. It was silver, completely kustomed out with a '65 Buick Riviera roof grafted on the top. The craftsmenship was too good to be true, like the factory intended the mid-60s roof to be part of the original build. After fornicating over the photo spread, I finally read the article to discover that it was a Starlite kustom krafted in Torrance. Currently, major car magazines are totally jocking them. Look at the above and below photos. Starlite is actively blurring the lines between lowrider and kustom with their intricate early-60s sensibility in paintwork. Shawn, DX, and I never actually ever talked to any of the Starlite crew in the past decade...ok, maybe Shawn cracked a ten second conversation because of his '59. I dunno....The reason maybe...they're hodad greasers and we're surfers, man.

Greaser gangs from all over the state siphoned down the 710.

Rock-a-billy gone-doo-pomp hairdo instantly grafted to your head for $15. Be a part of the civil war reenactment/ renaissance fair! The cool thing about the Motorama, the element of 6 foot pompadours, primered rat rods, red rims and whites, was at a minimum. Just this barber stand with a few others representing this so-called "old school" lifestyle kept the front line.

Oh Edfactor, a pomp necessary? Is it a pomp circumstance?

DX and his lovely wife just celebrated their son, Oribson's, first birfday. Orbison is named after, who do you think? Roy. Naturally, the name Orbitron hits the spot in the nickname category. I just hope to never find Orbitron sitting in front of a porn shop in Juarez, Mexico like how the Orbitron pictured was found after decades being lost.

DX loves motorcycles. He traded in his caddys for like a panhandle or something. I'm not going to lie, I don't know shit nor care about bikes. DX needs another caddy. But, I understand owning a bitchin' home, being married to a beautiful wife, and have a killer one-year-old takes top priority.

1959 Chevy kustom and one my favorites in the show. Definitely, a double look car. It took two walk throughs to point out the kustom style points (I only viewed it from the front.) Double looks are one my favorite things to do at shows. It's almost like analyzing a work of art (I know, that is a tired cliche.). One must think: What did the kutomizer do? What are the subtleties? How do they blend, extend, round this line? Examining and really grasping this '59 took me back to an Art Appreciation Class I had in college. Subtleties are way cooler than a bunch of flaming scallops contrasting obnoxiously.

I hope the Rat Rod nomenclature and that whole poseur scene dies within the next year. I guess it's going pretty strong in isolated regions in the mid-west and back east. By the way, the scene wasn't cool to begin with. The "rat Rod Scene" brought in a whole level of cheesyness much like the oldtimers who'd attached car-hop food trays with plastic inedible food on their doors and crying stuffed babies on to their fenders back 15-20 years-ago in the quest to exhibit their 1955-57 chevy.

When I was stationed in Ocala, Florida during the first Fairlane's expedition across the US, I almost got a gig washing cars at a used car lot that specialized in classic and exotic cars. Shit, I would of almost worked for free but the owner already gave the job to a young marine back from Iraq. While walking amongst the porsches, muscle cars, and antique model t's in the lot, I've noticed a lot of 55-57 chevys. I asked the owner, "what's the deal with all the tri-five chevy's?The owner said something like, "the market dropped." Then it all made sense....

Growing up, the '57 chevy was the quintessential 50s car (even if Ford out sold them that year), the sterotype. The old timers, with their red stock bel airs and matching red lipsticked wives parading in poodle skirts were reliving the 50s. I imagine their generation most of been in their the mid-20s to late-30s in the 50s. At the shows, Doowop reigned supreme and not the greaser-gang hillybilly twang we hear today.

In the South Bay, we had the "Cruising 50s," a car club that epitomized this in full effect. The members sported matching red shiny baseball jackets with "Cruising 50s" embroidered on the breast. Of course, you had the one token guy with the t-bucket with the upright steering wheel. My neighbor down the street was a part of this club with his all original '59 skyliner. I remember pulling up to him on Sepulvda in my '59 galaxy as my glassplacks muffled his stock exhaust to say hello...I noticed I sat 5 inches lower.

While I continued to walk around the lonely chevy's dressed in Tropical Turquoise, Matador Red, Larkspur Blues, and/or surf green in that isolated Floridian parking lot, the humidity breaking a sweat, I pondered....and for second got really bummed out. I realized why cars shows have been losing the old timer element.....

T-buckets are bitchin, but I'm not sure what's going on with this graphic?

Although after the show I've seen enough scallops to me make swear off Red Lobster for life, I've never seen a Jeepster made into a kustom.

One of my favorite and the widest ford ever to be put into production, 1960 ford. I've could of done without the pin stripping.

What once was an imperial...Some of the style kustom cues are bitchin' and some simply suck. The rims belong in dub magazine.

I don't care what people say, 1964 1/2-1966 Mustangs are bitchin'. What's more authentic to the era: driving in a mid-60s falcon, valiant, or nova, with a metal flake roof, primered body, white walls, with tuck-n-roll, orrrr a 1965 mustang with mags...hmmmmm. Again as I've stated in previous blogs, one day I will own a 65' mustang, maybe even one with a straight 6, diamond tuck the entire interior, cut out the stock tail lights and replace them with a '65 t-bird's, American racing rims for shoes, oval headlights, shave the entire thing, place in a bar grill, and then get gnarly with the lace and metal flake.

Kustom, stock, primered, billeted, whatever....1949-1951 Mercs are bitchin.

I like Willy's trucks and coupes but they get me a bit weary. I guess I've seen too many kit cars. So when I look at this, I get a bit skeptical.

1955 Nomad with Cragar wire wheels....super bitchin'. I love wires, but from a far. I couldn't imagine cleaning that shit.

Rocking pomp man! I love when you hear old boys talk about back-when and point out they never actually dressed like that.

AHHH, the t-bucket, it' one of the few incidents where the more accessories, the better.

I believe this is a 1955 Oldsmobile? When a kustom is so kustomed out and put together with genes from various sources; a merc grill, 55' chevy headlight bezels, Cadillac taillights, Pontiac taillights, and so on...and you can't even tell what it original was....that's bitchin.

Really, what is it?

Original kustom untouched.

The gas crew was there....I saw the one dude, the host of "Pimp my ride," when it started to suck after MTV ditched Westcoast Customs...you know the dude with the botox. I was looking for his companion with the shitty porcupine haircut and the fingerless gloves.

The raddest tattoo at the event. WuTANG FOREVER!

Scallops really on a mid 60s caddy?

Here's a potential route for the fairlane. I'm not feeling it, man. s-e-r-i-o-u-s. If anything stock, maybe some cragars, a wooden steering wheel, but bellflower tips? The appletons gotta go.

One the most bitchin' bombs I've ever seen.

The a-typical rockabilly band. The chick was English.

Part of the "Wild Bunch," here in the LBC....Marlon Brando was on the shitter.

One of the last relics.....

And Edfactor.

*Scott Silverman, comedian, joke. I tastefully borrowed from him.*

XOXOXO MORE TO COME.....BLOG-a-ZILLA!

Last Years Event write-up: http://shenaniganswiththeedfactor.blogspot.com/2010/09/2010-motorama-in-long-beach.html

Capo Beach, the land of misfit surfers, skinks, skanks, and scallywags. Gato Heroi Compound cat lair: Cat tails. finale round-up

2011-10-21T18:48:00.000-07:00

Edfactor and the Robcat. San Clemente Sept. 2011 It had been a 2-day skirmish of slide and shenanigans, good times and great company. I set foot in Robin's world 2-3 times a year and it's always a trip to see where he has evolved.

To most of everyday surf society, Robcat's trip is quickly deemed, retro, vintage and whatever adjective you choose. It's a fabricated thrown-about scene of some modern take and nostalgic look back at a glorified, put-on-a-pedestal era...A Campbell-esque run-out full hokey-pokey pride in obsolete surfness thrown together for a call of attention. Toss in the salad a side of artsy, a tint of hipster, and a whole array of vans, and you've got the full picture, right? Shake it up and throw in the crouton's of dollar signs and bam! an ad in whatever generic surf (er) (ing) magazine? They've already taken down a few of Robcat's Peers...Easily digestible and pacified by some corporate surf label. Wouldn't be that simple.

Here's my take on this whole Gato scene. Robin's development as a surfer and shaper corresponds with the "so-called" evolution of surfing in the 60s. Most of it unintentional, he's the product of a few southern Orange County surf breaks rich in surf history and surf lore.The influence of surf legends, surf bums, surf derelicts, surf winos, surf entrepreneurs, surf burnouts, NSSA stock cars, Grumpy disenchanted surf shapers, surf parents, ex-beach blanket bunnies turned weathered sea-hags, surf has-beens and have-nots, spewed from Southern California surf culture onto the sands of Doheny, San Clemente, and San O is what was fed as kitty gribble to Robbie in a Greenough Spoon. Blond, tan, and on heavy noseriding orientated surfboards, it's easy to compare Robcat in the early 2000s to a burgeoning surf star of the early 60s. He was a teen sensation with the Weber team and Tyler Surfboards and their bells and whistles, much like Purpus was on the Jacobs team wearing all the Jacobs propaganda of jackets, t-shirts, and trunks. "Bushy blond hair doo" with long swooping bangs like Griffin's "Gremmie," and powered by hyperactivity, Robcat with his platonic surf life partner Chiz terrorized in Robcat's grey ford Econoline up and down the coast. Balled tires, a missing side window, and a broken sideview mirror fixed with a vanity hand held mirror were some of the aesthetics the Econoline would gain along the drive. He'd sneak into certain protected areas of surf, walk miles with his Tyler wingnose along the railroad tracks, avoid the fuzz, and knee paddle out into the startled line-up at sunrise. Orrrr, maybe explode down the urethra of Baja to Punta Pequena, ride a few rights looking like an Andy Davis illustration. On the side, Robcat would recycle a few beat-to-shit boards, strip the glass, and go at it.

When the Creme thing begun and took off in the mid 2000's, his boards were centered around the pinnacle of noseriding somewhere when surfboard design allowed the breaking of trim with coasters, snappy cutbacks, and up and down carving. Being exposed to the premier models of the mid-60s, knowing the feeling of a 50/50 rail and the correct un-loggy foil, helped tune Robcat's sauteing of foam. Creme's aesthetic was, although influenced by the board shapes and color work designs of the mid 60s, completely it's own. Robin looked outside of 60s surf culture and incorporated mod art, pop art, and the early beginnings of psychedelia into his whole theme and bag of tricks. Creme's abstract tint jobs are the perfect example. In my limited knowledge of surf history, I don't think his type of abstracts hit the scene until the late 60s. I remember seeing in Surfer from the transitional era a Petrillo Ad with the blobbed and blended colors on more of a shortboard shape. Although abstracts never fully went away, with Joel Tudor's influence on all surf culture in the mid 90s and the so-called retro revival and the mass surf conglomerate applying the look in the early 2000s, Robcat's were and are completely different. Look in case at Robcat's Paul Frank collab with that one dude from "the Seedling," CJ from Santa Cruz and you'll understand. Don't let me get into free-laps.

Gato Heroi in a whole is a bit more sophisticated then the Creme days. If Creme is cheap beer, plastic bottle vodka and orange juice, Gato is fine wine and top shelf liquor. The brand reflects Robcat maturing in aesthetic and design as well as a person. Initially, Gato picked up where Creme left off by carrying over models from the namesake. Then...the death dagger. The sling blade stick changed the whole direction of Robin's Wonderland. It was a design most likely made in the dieing heart beats of the golden age of 60s classic hotdog surfing, but the marketing of the Australian V-bottom swooped in. I remember one day Robcat let me ride his in dribble surf at Tin Can Beach. We checked the spots in my beat 58' wagon that morning with the only decent wave crashing near the newly constructed rivermouth. After I caught my first wave, Robcat said something on the lines that this new model, (my interpretation: an acid induced Phil Edwards speed shape with it's pulled in nose and miniature square tale, flat relaxed rocker, that procreated with a so-called hi-performance single fin), gets criticism and flack because it doesn't nose ride well. But the thing is, it does, it just takes a completely new idea of noseriding to accomplish it. No more noseriding as a silly circus, parlor trick...but function.

Robin's new incarnation of Gato is like being stuck in "Evolution," the record player skipping on a collage of elements from the surf period; roundhouse cutbacks minus the drop-knee, off-the-rack roller coasters, or backside to frontside switchstance tuberides. Yet by Robin keeping most models 9-feet and over, still maintains a level of hotdogging. If I recall, "Evolution," does have a slight level of hotdoggin; hotdoggin' defined as happy feet, jivey flow, exaggerated gestures, noseriding, whippy cutbacks, head dips, and all that 60s surf jargon of trick repertoire (the stuff I think is so bitchin'). To dig a little deeper, Robcat's taste for foreign waters builds on this motif. His transformation from So-Cal Log-nut, to world surfer, spending months at a time abroad influencing little pockets of "brother's in surf's" surf culture, keeps him fresh.

It's pretty obvious why Robcat, a postdogger, would eventually steer this direction. Robcat is a child of the modern day longboard Renaissance, when boards where actually again made to the specs of the original era. Heavy volan, glass on fins, resin color work are his upbringing. The only natural evolution...Gato Herio. And...it's constantly changing.

Skitchy making a new skateboard.

More to come. XOXOXOX Edfactor aka "Wilbur" deemed by Mr. Skitchy.

On the Rocks....cutback....break down of Davenport surf team night at the Purple Orchid, El Segundo, CA

2011-10-21T18:47:00.000-07:00

On the rocks model w/ Gato Heroi Playboy fin.
3 hours of sleep
4 shared Tahiti stings with flaming 151 (I discovered after the first sombrero shaped bowl to blow out the flame and pour with my straw the 151 into the drinks)
? beers after that
? money into the jukebox
1 pack of ciggs
1 boogie board friend met at the bar wearing a "no friends" shirt
1 faded John Wendl
4 strips of tape I used to tape close the Davenport Liquor cabinet at 3am before things escalated.
1-2 foot waves
2 minutes of tonsil hockey
1 On the rocks Models
1 sober Little "Big" Mike
1 jetty
1 Mel shooting shots
1 Happy Edfactor
http://adamdavenport.blogspot.com/2011/10/sometimes-you-gotta-make-somethin-out.html
http://adamdavenport.blogspot.com/

http://gatoheroi.blogspot.com/

Yes, Adam played in college and almost made it pro in football. I am holding him on my back.

TORRANCE TRADITIONAL WEDDIN' OF Dennis and Julia.

2011-10-12T17:59:00.000-07:00

Boss Weddin,' Guys.

In the hilltop, perched on the awning of Torrance within a fair enough distance from the safeguard of the bridal path, the rosey bud line divider of Torrance and PV, Julia and Dennis Denudho Martin exchanged vows at the Martin household. The Greater Los Angeles area lurked in the picturesque Backdrop...lending to the afternoon a state of serenity. Denuedho met Julia awhile back at the Redondo Beach Pier, a breeding ground for romance. I've always said, "the Redondo Beach Pier and the Del Amo Mall near the Sears section on any given Sunday are the two premier spots to find a lady--start a family." Below is snippet clip of Little Mike, aka "Knife Fight," and I from a year and a half ago observing the two after they met two months prior.

It's last Thursday. I had big plans involving the Space Age Bachelor Pad that included my friends "Los Tigres Del Warehouse" from work, a certain Robcat and Precious from down south, and a french girl or two. It was to be a mixture of people from completely different backgrounds. Being cordial, I went ahead and phoned up Denuedho, my lawyer, and invited him and his ladyfriend to join the dinner party. That's when Denuedho informed me that he was getting married. I was like, "when?" Usually weddings are planned months, even years in advance. Denuedho told me, "Saturday, Friday is the bachelor party." After my deep seated questioning of Mr. Martin, I made a phone call to little Mike to give him the skinny. Denudho was on his way to Hot's Kitchen to spread the good word, so little Mike was prepared to interrogate. When Denuedho arrived, Little Mike stole Denuedho's phone and called Denuedho's brother to figure out what was really going on. It was true. There was going to be a Torrance Weddin'. The unveiling of the space age bachelor pad would have to happen on another occasion.

The morning before Denuedho's D-Day: The Bachelor party and the Bachelorette party was fired up the previous night and apparently wrecked a good number of wedding attendees. With the two events being held across the street from one and another, Hot's Kitchen and Barnacles, it was only natural that they'd collide into a fury of celebration. Zoey, one of the best barkeeps in the world, did a wonderful job of dicating the oat soda pouring that night, and for Brewer Bob and I the following morning. If I close my eyes and someone asks me to describe the utmost pure definition of beauty, Zoey comes first to mind.

One of the refugees of the bachelor/bachelorette festivities, Nate. I stumbled into Nate, DL, and Brewer Bob all by chance. After waking up as Little Mike's Houseguest, a good houseguest by the way, the "Knife Fight" and I pondered our asses to Barnacles. From there, I skirted over back to casa de Siordia for a quick shower, a re-pomade action, and a fresh new outfit. The only issue...my cellphone was totally a corpse so the the communication factor to figure out my ride situation was pretty barred. I was leaving it all as a gamble. (or a cab). On the corner of 8th and desperation, Brewer Bob appeared in his silky black Toyota Camry. I was in.

Of course no trip is with out the original"fade-gurl," Steph-dawg. Swimmies were on, as we pooled over to my parent's house for the ultimate dive into the family caravan. "In there like swim wear," as Uncle Traw would say.

Nate in the Caravan. Nate was battling a dance injury to his right foot from last nights shenanigans, but like a good soldier...He kept marching on.

Note to self: After taking a picture of the post-it identifying the quarters of the bride's dressing room, immediately evacuate the scene. The maid-of-honor was a little spooked when I was just standing by the door when she swung it open. Even though, I was only trying to capture the best picture.

Stephdawg and the crew enjoying the tall cans of Busch, the official beverage of the wedding. There is Dennis Denuedho in the fore front.

The lovely Julia being walked down the aisle. The Colombian beauty looked majestic in her wedding gown.
Photo by Susan Solt

Yes, that's me losing it. I'm known to get a bit teary-eyed at weddings. Photo by Susan Solt.

The red shoes and the matching red lipstick wrapped up Julia into the perfect bride for Mr Martin.
Photo by Susan Solt

First kiss. Denuedho went for a respectable lip embrace, but you know, the sly-dog slipped in a tip of tongue.

After the ceremony, Nate "lost it"in tears of Joy.

My mother and the legendary DL. DL is a character that intrigues me. A barefoot advocate in a freestyle, free-loving 60s sense, but can turn a wrench with the best of them. The juxtaposition of these two different worlds as well as his presence in any local Hermosa Dive make DL legendary. One day, I'd like to spend a whole day with DL and document it.

Jimmy being a good best man and a great younger brother.

On the left is Chris, one of my favorite dudes in the world. Although I haven't hung out with him as much as I have liked to in the past, every time we've made acquaintances, it's like we've never missed a beat. We were on the same wavelength...actually all of us are. There are tribes of persons who exist in separate realms, in "realms of radness." It's not like one realm is a fully separate plane from each other. Each realm needs the binary relationship to exist. A simplified example: rad and not so rad. (Although there are different degrees of radness). Chris and I exist on in the same realm of radness, yet we live in entirely different worlds. Right when or right after this snapshot was taken, I came up with this theory. The draw and the tribe of people who attended Denuedho and Julia's wedding is what impregnated my mind with this new lens on life. My friends who couldn't attend also made me ponder..think. Whatever "trip" their own, whatever part of the world they wondered to, whatever plane of existence; living or deceased, it was comforting to know we're all still conjoined cosmically in the same "realm of radness."

Julia and Dennis Martin.

Big Ed and Julia.

The kissing of the rings is a prestigious Colombian tradition that Julia carried on to Torrance. I would like to incorporate that into my yet to be determined wedding day....someday in the distance future. That's my mother in the background.

Deneudho's older brother, Dan couldn't make it as he currently resides in Pittsburgh with his wife do the doctor thing. The Martin's streamed the whole wedding live on the net.

The fadegurl at Barancles after the wedding. Stephdawg and I were on a regiment with one purpose, "to bum out Little Mike." After taking a taxi from my parent's house, we spilled into "Hot's Kitchen." At the end of the bar, we got the chant going, "bum out Little Mike." A fade-gurl for the fade-dawg got served that night. Barnacle's was a blur, but when isn't it. Vodka press and an over easy bummed cigg.....sayonara Edfactor, I was fucked in a different way than Denuedho that night. Below: footage of Denuedho and I arguing and hour after the first clip. I'm trying to get him to finally ask Julia out.

On the Rocks preparty before the weddin'

2011-10-10T21:21:00.000-07:00

Photos by: Robert Sunjara.

Capo Beach, the land of misfit surfers, skinks, skanks, and scallywags. Gato Heroi Compound cat lair: Cat tails. part 8

2011-10-06T20:41:00.000-07:00

The morning after, Gato cat tails: Skitchy is drinking his virgin Screwdriver. The ever resourceful man, Skitchy, had the OJ in the back burner from the night before for morning hydration.

Robcat and the Gato shortbus posted up radiantly on the shores of San Onofre, Orange County, California, USA.

Yes, that is my JMJ wetsuit...the Silver Surfer Suit. JMJ Wetsuits is a little wetsuit operation out of my hometown of Torrance, California. Mainly a diving suit company, they have been making the en vouge smoothie look before it was deemed cool and before mainstream wetsuit manufacturer's in Taiwan and in "big Trouble in Little China," figured out the benefits of the material's heating properties and appropriated the design after being shelved for decades.

Mint 1941 Ford woody. I'm sure if I identify this car wrong, Shawn O'Brien will for sure correct me. Shawn may have me beat on pre-war Detroit, but I think I've got him on naming anything from the 60s-70s.

A couple of my favorite pics: Robcat on the constant quest to depict Gato lifestyles and surf for his up-in-coming, soon-to-be-titled, surf flick. Before this whole film renaissance "yet I edit on my mac" became the normality, Robcat always kept and currently still keeps a super 8 by his side in his surf cowboy holster. When I was on the maiden Japan tour with Creme sometime in 2004 and before I got completely fade-fucked, asscock cowboy status on the 10-hour Korean Air tour, Robbie had a great time negoitating for the safety of his documenting equipment with LAX security. Airport Security was convinced his super eight film canisters held something other than film. It probably didn't help that he had a shitty self-cut with a kitchen knife hair-do and two different colored socks on. In Japan, every 15 minutes you'd here the shuttle chasing itself while Robin was filming some tripped art Japanese cartoon advertisement or some random far-out stranger.

I went to see the premier of Robin's "Summer of the Cat" flim a couple years ago at the Coachhouse. Little Mike, "the knife fight," Siordia rode up with me in the wagon. I wish I could remember any details from the movie. Road sodas and woobers, and the hoppy refreshments at the event disrupted any of my memory processes during the viewing--plus I was too busy heckling with Little Mike. We'd yell "Torrance," or "Burnout," at random wave sections. "That chick is sooo hot," or "I want to fuck that chick," during Alexander's part (although he is the best postmodern hotdogger aka "postdogger" of our time) was another one of our distractions we continued over from the time Little Mike and i saw "the Present" in Long Beach. If you where there, we're those shitheads. During an intermission of our asscockness and while a scene I vaguely remember was flashing on the big screen of just a close-up of Chiz's prepubescent attempt of a moustache, I asked Chiz, "so five year's of Robbie and you filming, filming all over the world, and this?" Mr. Precious just giggled, "Yes." From that point, it all made sense. Gato's vision of a surf film is a juxtaposition of sources, sources the crew enjoys documenting....shenanigans, eccentrics, all types of surf--be it shitty San O or ginormous Sunset, daily life--but not in a pretentious, "I'm so bitchin'" kinda way. Today's surf films gets lost in it's own vanity. How many fucking time's do we have to see dudes doing long elaborate walks with a "log" in their arm like it's something unique...like they're fucking big bossman Tudor in 1995....the protagonist, a cultural outsider? Yet, a majority of longboards being sold today are single fins. How many Campbellesque rip-offs are there? Artsy for the sake of Artsy. And one more thing, Teckno belongs in an Ibiza club and not a longboard film. Robin's new project is going to be pretty entertaining. With the mainstreaming and acceptance of his whole scene, expect it to be more outrageous. Expect Little Mike and I to heckle and get shitfaced at the premier.

Skitch is an absolute natural in front of the lens and knows exactly when and how to pose.

Either you call him Chiz, Precious, or Chris, Mr. Ballevich has a heart of gold and took Skitch out in the water for the first time in 6 years.

The lovely Sammy Jane observing her love escort the legendary skateboarder out in the line-up.

I'm not a photographer. I bought a Nikon F from 1965 years ago and still don't know how to use it. I'm stoked I've captured this. Look at Chiz in the background. His arms raised in celebration.

An after-surf lukewarm OJ and you're stoked after catching your first wave in over 6 years.

Skitchy glowing in stoke and sweating in my wetsuit. He wore my suit for the next 2 hours while cruising the beach.

The round-up of this weekend coming sooner then never.....Apparently, I have to go to my lawyer's impromptu shotgun wedding. Coverage of this pivotal point in my lawyer's life is encouraged as it's purely a Torrance wedding. .EDFACTOR XOXOXOXO aka ED-FACTORIAL 5000.

LA in FULL EFFECT THIS SATURDAY NIGHT!

2011-10-06T12:00:00.000-07:00

Wow.
Stoked that Bruce Grant and Pat Ryan are finally being included in something like this...two of my favorite shapers in the world that deserve recognition! If they're not included in the Hermosa Beach Surfer Walk of Fame in the next 5 years, I call Shenanigans!

Capo Beach, the land of misfit surfers, skinks, skanks, and scallywags. Gato Heroi Compound cat lair: Cat tails. part 2

2011-09-30T22:28:00.000-07:00

RobCat Gato lair 2011: After pulling a hefty night shift that included a stop at Murphy's, the Pike, and the Reno Room in Long Beach, I ventured down the 405 to visit my brother in surf, Robcat. My head....rumblin' with the glasspack of my exhaust, me exhausted from a couple nightcaps of "Phil Jackson's," the hottest new cocktail.To greet me on the doorstep of the Gato compound, legendary skateboarder, Skitch Hitchcock. Apparently, Skitchy lost the bottom half of his grill the night prior. I have no idea what's up with the battery. It just seemed so natural.

Robcat seems that have the most interesting cats casually keeping the fort or maintaining the home front. Leonard, the couch philosopher, occupied the space the summer previous. Leonard chaperoned and drove Robcat, Precious (known to the surf world as chiz), and I all around the beaten track of San Clemente; a bar or two, and then Denny's where I preceded to puke all over my Salisbury steak and eggs at 3am. The whole time in the short bus we'd sing surfer 60s rants out into the highways.

The "sammy jane" doll was one of Skitch's sexual exploits although he claimed to not have had sex, "in 27 years and 13 days."

Skitchy playing a few notes on Robcat's piano. Last summer, I remember wheeling that shit across the parking lot on two skateboards to a certain bar for a certain member of Gantez Warrior/Costa Mesian fame to bang out a couple of sailor drinking songs for the drunken crowd. Later the night, the PA went out through drunken rants from the bands. Alexander Knost picked up the guitar and went into a few digs of his newest musical incarnation, "Tomorrow's Tulips." His voice battled the reverb of the fendercaster.

After being formally introduced to Skitch, we became best friends. Since my name is Edfactor, a name compounded with a noun and an adjective or a verb depending on how you look at it, Skitch referred to me as "Wilburrrrr!" The name "Ed," triggered the 50s sitcom, "Mr. Ed.," for Mr/Mrs. (I'll get into it later) for Mr. Skitch. Mr. Ed, the "talking horse's," big catch phrase was "WIILLLLLLBBBBUURRRRRR!". For copyright reason, I can't post a video, but here's the link:

http://youtu.be/y_PZPpWTRTU

So a couple of weeks prior to Robcat coming home from some far-out, American Abroad, surfari, in God know's 3rd world country, I hung out with Precious (Chiz in modern surf lore) and discussed youthful indiscretions regarding "JJ," or "Rainbow" at Doheny. Precious, or I'll just call him Chiz for viewers sake, reminisced about being 17 and driving the homeless surf population to liquor stores and having them buy the youth your standard shitty vodka. Of course, they'd kicked the supplier a pint. So when I met Skitchy, I was like, "shit, you guys are over 21, you don't need to bribe people to buy you booze." I think I mentioned this like 3 times over the 2-day fiasco hanging with the Gato crew trying to capture the comedic value, but Chiz and robcat were like, "What do you mean?" To not sound like a hypocrite, I bought Skitchy a pint that day. Skitchy asked me politely and I just couldn't deny.

Robcat in da midst of another Gato, "kitty treat," to all of you on the information highway. All Skitchy wanted to hear was "Jailhouse rock."

Skitchy doing Debbie Harry.

Robcat at work managing his recent business endeavor, Gato Heroi. I'm more of a Creme fan, but that might be me being a bit nolstalgic. I guess when the whole "Creme Crew" came about it....somewhat ten years ago when Robbie Kegel decided to grasp a planer....it was a different time. Baggy pants were in, hipsterism was in it's infancy, and pop punk and rap-rock flooded the airways. Shit, there was a whole summer when Robcat had a black-eye for being, Robcat. Don't ask him about his teeth.

Now fast forward and skip a few tracks and we're now in this current "retro age," where up-comers, pro-circuit, valley kids, Orange Country bros, and whatever it may be are embracing this whole vintage feel. Grap your hipmastic app, your "hull," and slap on a O'neil beavertail, or 9-plus wetsuit with smoothy skin and you're in, right?

Some how, I or Robcat, mentioned how it'd be good for Skitchy to put his dick in between the blanks.

And this is the outcome.

Mangina.

And that poor "Sammy Jane" doll.

Gee-ioon from France on the left. Gee, I just called the Gato Lair to get the correct spelling, but I think the whole tribe is at some surfer stomp. Gee-ioon is a really cool dude from Biarritz just hanging at the newest creation of Robin's wonderland, a surf factory situated in the heart of Capo beach with the arteries and veins oozing surf lore. Shit, his shaping bay is where Phil Edwards sauteed a few blanks and where waveset fins where massed produced. Skitchy has his skateboard in his right hand, just a piece of wood with red resin all over it minus wheels, trucks, and bearings. He let me and Robcat sign it. I've got more about the red resin, but that'll come soon. We're on our way to the after party of the Dale Velzy Surf Classic with something to do with the Doheny Surf Club.

Skitch on the train tracks of life.

Edfactor and Skitchy. Photos by Robcat.

Skitch borrowing a hat from some random dude who was playing "final fantasy" on the beach. Wish I had a shot of him, but he was very timid about being in a photo.

Oh Robcat, what foreign seas are you going to infiltrate....until then, "The Eliminators."

Chiz, "Mr. Precious," on the bike with his lovely lady, Sammy Jane (Not the Doll) in the forefront. Apparently, at this after party we missed the Luau and the $35 fee. But, Modelos were allowed.

Mr. Robcat.

This would be the last we'd see of our friend Skitch Hitchcock for the night. He got in through the back entrance. Robcat, Chiz, Gee-ion, Sammi and I sprinted to the front.

Skitchy got barred. His red resinned hands spooked the crowd and the ranger patrol. His hand's resembled blood as he danced into some surf rumble trance. He was kicked out, as he argued why his "orange juice" was confiscated. Above, some gremmie grabbing Skitchy's "skateboard," and wondering, "wtf." After Robcat convinced his parent's that it was crafted from a living skateboard legend, I bet it's posted now on some multi-millionaire mansion Dana Point wall next to a vintage Da Cat model...or it's in the trash. But then again, Skitchy was the skater dude doing all the headstands in that farce skateboard movie/documentary entitled, "Dogtown."

Robcat and the head of the Eliminator's/

Robcat groping the rails of a Velzy pig circa 1955 and realizing how refined they are...If only that whole noseriding thing didn't fowl surfing with concave and soft rails.

Robin Kegel and the Velzy Pig. Shit...he looks like a surfer possessed by surf madness. Surf madness will be discussed in a further entry.

Edfactor and the Velzy Pig.

Sammy Jane, Gee-ion, and the Robcat in deep conversation about what surf trend is going to be ripped off them by the mass surf market....or where's the after party.

Chiz and Robcat, a dynamic twosome in the "whole grand scheme of things." Chiz has been Robin's assistant for over ten years...fired a couple of times regarding van-acular activities, a pizza incident, but now is the mother goose of the whole operation while Robcat's chasing the hemisphere.

The surfer's stomp. Robcat was swing dancing this one fine bitchin' babe. Her head narrowly missed the stage by 2 inches. She then jumped on the stage and twisted with the band.

After a full night of "stomping," shitty jiving, pretending to be able to swing dance. and a hearty meal by Sammi Jane at the Sammi and Chiz household, shit was beat. More to come...Edfactor XOXOXO.

check out : http://www.gatoheroi.com/

Ventura Primer Nationals 2011

2011-09-21T16:18:00.000-07:00

Ventura Primer Nationals 2011. After last years hefty skirmishes, I decided to increase the peace and co-habit cohesively with the greaser nation. With Little Mike Siordia, aka "the knife fight," being barred at the door, this utopia was some what approachable. Much like in the fable, "Pochantas," with me being John Smith, I fell in love with a native indigenous lady. Imagine "Color of the Wind," with a rock-a-billy twang, stand-up bass, and snare drum back-beat playing while I courted her among the kettle corn and beer stands.

After cruising highway 1 and chasing Tyler Hatzikian's 32 ford, I met up with longboard legend Shawn O'Brien, his son, Cormac Cove, and his famous 59' chevy wagon. Much like the Hell's Angels, we always greet with an embrace and a kiss on the lips. A couple years ago, Shawn got sick of the black drape and drawg of greaser fashion and raided his dad, Bill-dawg's, dresser full of mid-90s hot rod t-shirts. Instead of a coolguy pin-striped dark t-shirt, Shawn now sports a fluorescent font style that say shit like, "Pedal to the Metal," or "F.O.R.D., found on road dead."

Shawn pointed out that those are fake air cleaners sticking out from the hood.

Cormac enjoyed the PBJ. Shawn taught him the value of the dollar with Cormac saying, "we're on a budget."

Cormac also mastered the thumbs up on all occasions. Super Bitchin' 1959 Ranchero. I dig the panels and lace. The one thing I disagree is the grill. Since I have had a 1959 Galaxie for ten years now, I've always like the stock "stars and galaxie" grill. I want to eventually chrome mine out. The 1959 ford also has the body lines that can support the white-walls, hubcap/beauty ring treatment, as well as a set of astros or mags. In my opinion early 50s fodder like a 50' ford shoebox should stick to white walls and caps as a complimentary feature to the bubbly body lines. The ultimate worst is when somebody puts skirts over a set of astros on early mid-century coches. By the early to mid 60s, astros, mags, and spokes, are the way to go. Chrome reserve rims work on early 60s iron but look bunk on anything later.The exception is Cadillacs. White walls always look good on a caddy. An exception to all , lowriders. Lowriders can do whatever they want because: A. lowriding has been a continual movement through whatever fad or trend. Let's face it, spokes like daytonas or kragars never went out of style and work on any era of ride. Just in the last decade so-called "traditional" car culture came about and disrupted pro-streeting and neon painted chrome modernism, while lowriding stayed true to form. B. Lowrider owners can kick our asses.

Shawn by an almost replica of his first car, a 1955 chevy wagon. Ten years ago, I remember holding the doors while he welded the shaved handles when all of a sudden my hands caught on fire. I yelled, "Shawn. my hand's are burning!" The following week we caravanned up to my first Paseo show, him in the 1955 and me in my 1964 Mercury Comet (RIP).

Pendeltons. Really? Who goes to a car show to go clothing shop? Last year's blog premise comes to mind, "Renaissance Fair or Civil War Reenactment?"

Here's my prediction for the whole car custom scene: We all will eventually become lowriders. It seems that more and more mid to late 60s styled customs have been slowly trickling into the scene. Customizer's are looking to be different which in effect parallels the original era of the 60s. In hence, more outrageous paint work as body mods become ridiculous. In fact, a lot of the late 60s custom touches are essentially more prevalent on lowriders so my question is...are they lowriders? The car above is the perfect example. Put some white walls and caddy sombero caps on and then bam, a custom, But then again, there is a lot of unnecessary accessories and fodder. Another idea to ponder: The icons: 50 ford, 50 Merc, hot rods, 40 ford, etc will still be around. But with the price of 50s and 60s-to mid-60s iron rising in value, where to turn? the 70s.

The lone dume buggie.

See premise of last year. Though, this chick could really wail.

Lowriding theory coming to life.

The pin-up girls where rampant. My favorite is when you'd see a pin-up decked out to the nine as a 50s fashionista, but with a boyfriend following her in cargos shorts, hoody, track shoes and a lakers hat. "Yeah hunny, you go do your thing."

The first and only time a 1965 ford fairlane stationwagon has had a pin-up pose on the fender.

While the Cramps are the Achille's heel of greaser chicks/pin-up girls, Morrissey is the ticket to their hearts.

The Pin-up contest. Some of the Lady's are trannys.

Second time I ever sat in a hot rod. I have vague memories of sitting in one when I was super young. Much like Tyler's surfboards, his hotrod's craftsmanship is impeccable. With being such a multi-facet craftsmen, I bet he could even craft the perfect ham sandwich.

Tyler doing his best impression of the "crying doll" accessories that used to grow on the fenders of classic cars many generations ago. I say bring them back, as they are forbid by the Ventura Primer car laws. When do car shows have so many rules? Isn't the point of car culture to break rules by customizing your rod to destroy social norms. What happens when the statement you once used to disrupt automobile society has become the normality? By a 65' wagon and go stock?

Shawn making peanutbutter and jelly sandwiches on his surfboard for the team. Cormac has no idea that a living surf legend, Tyler, is standing two feet from him. With a middle name like "Cove," I'm sure one day he'll appreciate it.

The 65' and the 59', one dirty and one clean old stationwagons. One day, my galaxie will be back from deep space nine.

1940 ford custom. I don't come for the bands, greasy black hair-dos with pomps styled ten feet high, pin-up girls who claim to live a "pin-up" lifestyle (whatever that means), tiki-inspired "surf wagons," kettle corn, $10 philly cheesesteaks, $1,000 desoto grills, mooneyes' accessories, flannels, psycho-billy art, shitty mickey mouse pin-stripping, lancer hubcaps, pin-striped toliet seats, primered valients, chopped Cadillacs, or riff-raff ass dragging pre-war rumbers with sketchy fabrication, I come for this. (look above).

Lots of more blogs to come: Davenport Debauchery, Surf Date with Purp-dawg, and a weekend with a certain Robcat of gato fame.

Mike Purpus Assembly Film This Friday Sept 23rd 6:00

2011-09-19T22:09:00.000-07:00

Besides, the aqualids, pukka shells, Frito's commercials, playgirl centerfold photos, white shag carpet wetsuits, wave hollow (first plastic hollow surfboards), No-pants Nance stories, the sickest mullet ever, the big floppy hat with the unused condom from 1972, the hot lips surf team, the dating game appearances, 2 year-old prosthetic hips, Doc's house on 16th st, and "kooching" stories, Mike Purpus still has and had one of the greatest cutbacks ever. A truly revolutionary surfer, five years ahead of his time, Purpus took the limp wrist cutback left over from the 60s longboard era and cranked it full throttle throwing 360s in the mix like a blender on amphetamine . Plus, rare footage from other surf greats of the 60s and 70s. LIVE PURPUS NARRATION, which in itself is a treat. SALT WATER WINE, a very obscure mid-70s flick will also be shown. location: Redondo Union High School Auditorium

ONLY $5! 6:00!
My favorite quote on the top of the poster is by Theresa Hernandez of North High in east Torrance. I'm not sure if girls use hair spray or straight-up peroxide anymore. I wish Purp could of included a pic of Theresa of North Torrance...you know he most likely kooched her.

Mike Purpus Big Makaha at 14-years-old. Photo Leroy Grannis.
Purp-dawg at Rocky Point early 70s. I believe this is a Dan Merkel shot (the same dude who shot his playgirl spread) I'm still working on getting that playgirl. The staple holding the fold-out poster (the actual centerfold spread) is stuck in the crease of the page which happens to be where Purp's dick is. Also, pay attention to the lines he's drawing. It's almost like he's doing a contemporary cutback to a tailslide.

Revolutionary cutback circa 1969 when Witzig's "Evolution" hit the scene. I think this turn is just as hard if not harder then the Aussies, on par with Wayne Lunch. Yes, I said it. Nat Young purposely did not include Purpus in his "History of Surfing" book, that is a different story.

Clip from Jamie Budge's "The Californians." Purpus is trying airs in 1971. Pulls one.

V-bottoms in Texas...Probably when Purpus used to tour all over the US with Jacobs Surfboards in the late 60s before riding for Petrillo.

Notice the lack of a dropped knee.

Purpus on the dating game 1969.

Purpus as a hotdogger for Jacobs Surfboards right before he earned his first signature model based on Hap's "New Shape." If you happen to run into an ORIGINAL Mike Purpus model, it will blow your mind. Pinched rails, thinned out, light concave, pulled in nose and narrow square tail, the best of the era.

Purpus in the early 2000s, overweight with the sickest mullet in the South Bay. I remember as a kid, I took in a photo of Purpus in a Jacobs ad from 1966 to my barber. I wanted the same haircut with the parted hair and the bangs (you couldn't have long hair in high school back in those days, so surfers went with long bangs) I went to visit Purpus one day to show him my new Purp-dawg 1966 haircut (he wasn't surfing anymore because of the weight and his hips) Earlier that day, Purpus cut his legendary mullet and gave it to locks of love. He told me he wanted a haircut like me. It was like a genuine hallmark moment. I was like, "But Purp, I got a haircut like you!" To shift from the cheesy gear, to think some kid is rocking Purpus' golden locks....

Purpus, still knowing how to pose in front of the photog. Two fake hips and 3 michelin tires lost, he's back in the water everyday. 6am in morning, five years ago, I took a panicked Purp to Torrance Memorial. I watched him hobble to the front entrance. As I drove away in my 59' galaxie, the glass packs rumblin' in the chilled air, Purp waved away like a scared child. In 15 years, he had been to the hospital two times.. http://www.anthonybphoto.com/ photo by Anthony Bevilacqua

Cutback is still the same as it every was. With two-year old hips, Purpus might as well be 25 again.

http://www.anthonybphoto.com/ photo by Anthony Bevilacqua

Yep, that's me in the back...totally getting stuffed. If you ever want to hear the never ending conversation, sit between Purpus and Richard Safardy. http://shenaniganswiththeedfactor.blogspot.com/2010/03/saf-pancaking-prince-of-palos-verdes.html (saff blog) http://www.anthonybphoto.com/ photo by AnthonyBevilacqua

Below:

Purpus and the legendary hat with almost the oldest condom known to man. It was a transitional condom, like a link between lamb skin and ribbed for her pleasure.

Purpus and me,Oct 2011. yes, I do have a flat-top with fenders hair-do inspired by

Toad from "American Graffiti."

Purpus shooting the Manhattan Pier at the last South Bay Surf contest. Always the constant ham; a contest, photographers, spectators on the beach, a pretty girl in the water...Purpus knows when to perform.

Me and the infamous "No pants, Nance" Hot lips Surfboard. Purpus put together the Hot Lips surf team together in the mid 70s. Wait for the full story in Purpus', autobiography. He's been working nearly everyday for ten year's now (I've got some ghost edits) and he's still in the mid 70s. Watch out for the Jose Canseco type revealing shocker book of the surf world, no holds barred.

Purpus and Little Mike on a surf trip last October.

Edfactor in "The Houseguest." How I spent my Labor Vacation: part eleven of the miniseries.

2011-09-14T18:17:00.000-07:00

On the way to 2011's Primer National's in Ventura. In front is Tyler's newest ride, a 32 five window. Photo by Josh Gilbert.

It's 6am, do you know where your Edfactor is? Out and about in front of Tyler's new storefront at his factory in lovely El Segundo. To the left of me is local longboard Tyler shop grom, Josh Gilbert, a cat, or kitten, on a hot Tyler foam board. Keep an eye out for the kid, as he's got more style than a Wes Montgomery riff.

From Tyler headquarter's, we headed up north. Little Mike, aka "Knife fight," had to stay incognito after an incident at the El Segundo Youth Center about 7 years ago. For legal reasons, my lips are sealed. He is supposed to stay outta the little beach community. He hid in his caddy underneath dark sunglasses until we skirted outta Gundo. Let's just say, the name, "Knife fight," was conceived at a Christian youth punk rock show thrown at that center.

Knife fight was barred at the gates this year. He had to turn around and putter his knife fighting ass home back to Hermosa. I guess he's got a reputation after an altercation during one of them Johnny Cash wannabe band's sets near the beer stand by the main stage. Plus, he was packing a few butterflies in his hippy tree jeans. He got searched so hard, he popped a chubby.
here's the link to last years shit-fest:http://shenaniganswiththeedfactor.blogspot.com/2010/09/ventura-primer-nationals-car-showmodern.html

Photo by Josh Gilbert taken from the '32 ford.

A couple of bath tub Porsches on the left.

The whole time I tried to capture the bitchin' rides without any late model interference. In reality if this was 1962, I'm pretty sure the driver and passengers in the Suburban would of been scared shitless being in between a chopped merc and a hot rod on a lonely stretch of PCH on the grounds of the characters who drove them way back when. I mean, have you seen, "Hot Rods to Hell?"

Next part coming sooner or later............EDFACTOR XOXOOX

Edfactor in "The Houseguest." How I spent my Labor Vacation: part one of the miniseries.

2011-09-09T18:28:00.001-07:00

Labor day weekend was a-comin. In the previous weeks during the dog days of August, I only requested the Friday before to be sunk into vacation days...shit, I do get a weeks paid. Once the thought of swell penetrated my brainwaves, I had to get Thursday off too. My boss, Michelle, gave it to me. It was on. Above pic, Little Mike "The Knife fight" Siordia's 1962 caddy driving into the sunrise somewhere in Manhattan. This stories gonna a be a bit non-linear....kinda of how I'm sure I'll remember all my stories while ramblin' at the Mermaid with an Ol' Fashion in my hand 50 years from now...a drunken rant about how bitchin' I was...okay, I guess I do that now

Little Mike and I on the way to Ventura's Primer Nationals, Day 2 or 3 or four of my vacation. I spent most my nights as Little Mike's houseguest, inhence, "Edfactor in 'The Houseguest." At one point, I went to see Mike at his work. As you all know from previous entries, Little Mike is the King Brewdawg at Hot's Kitchen in Hermosa Beach. I sat at the bar and went to order a beer from one of his employees. Before I could hand over plastic payment Little Mike was like to the bartender, "Give the card back..........he's my [motha-fluckin'] Houseguest." After that exchange, I felt very special and truly the ultimate houseguest." I tried very hard that weekend to be a good houseguest by doing the dishes, cleaning up empty beer bottles, and smoking less in the house. My one strike...I passed out one night and spilled beer on his 1970s couch. I fell under the category of "bad houseguest," and was put in the penalty box. I rationalized to little Mike, "at least it wasn't piss." Little Mike saw my point, and I was good to go and placed again under the "Good Houseguest" catagory.

Little Mike and I had a very knifey adventure at last year's car show. Check it out:http://shenaniganswiththeedfactor.blogspot.com/2010/09/ventura-primer-nationals-car-showmodern.html

Dougnuts, aka "circle's of death." Part one of the miniseries. Tons of great stuff on the way or my name is not Edfactor: cars, surf, Mike Purpus, some dude named Tyler from El Segundo, Shawn O'Brien, a high school dude hot rods, Torrance, oat sodas, ciggs, babies, shitty whiteboy reggae, knife fights, pin-up girls, pavement, fires, and much more, stay tuned....Edfactor XOXOXOX

US Open of Surfing in Riverside

2011-08-30T19:51:00.000-07:00

US Open of Riverside. A scene I witnessed on my drive through the fun on PCH near Main St. the Thursday before the final weekend. I just got out of the water on the South side of the Pier. I guess the sounds of the Swedish pop sensation, "The Sounds,' turned up the testosterone like 50 bros circle jerking at a UFC marathon. The following night, I chatted it up with some hammered dude from one of them inland inspired meat bars. He told me the Huntington PD were over the streets being consumed by inland Orange County's finest and let them all go at it...just to arrest the last stragglers. Oh here is another casual observation from that day: "south side huntington beach pier....only dude on a board over 8 foot...didn't lose my shit into the pier.....observed surf coaching in the water.....when did surfing become a sport....the aerial is the new surf jock homerun or touchdown....just flip a glorified chop hop in the should and maybe spin....wtf"

"Mom, can you come get me out of the drunk tank."

Dane Reynolds. As much as Surfing Magazine, mainly the editor Travis Ferre and staff writer Chas Smith , would bend over four times for Reynolds, he is super bitchin. Surfing Magazine is the most contrived, bullshit, redundant, surf magazine written by hacks fresh off of Freshmen American Lit post 1950. Just look at their cover blurbs. They go for this anti-corporate, avant- garde vibe, while being the most saturated surf corporate magazine out there. Those dudes need to just give it up! Like really, only 17-year-old's think you're bitchin cause you write the word,"shit" in every other sentence.

It's rad to see longboard style surfing en-vogue and being hounded by the crowds. Just like five years ago before Tudor stepped in and set things right, the longboard contest was filled with a bunch of dudes jockeying in three point stances wobbling on the shoulder for the sake of being "classic" on the nose then shuffling back for a Brazilian inspired tomahawk-chop luke warm floater ala bad shitty 80s surfing. It was more like a women's D-rated amateur surf event held out Seaside Heights, NJ circa 1983. More spectators watched the junior women's heats. Ironically, the first year of Tudor's noseriding event, the contest was held in overhead surf, not really right for the equipment prescribed for the event. I got a kick out of it, watching the contestants hold onto jet skis with 30 pounds of foam and glass underneath their arms being shuttled back into the line-up. I think probably the most raddest thing I'd ever seen was Al Knost pulling the gnarlest coaster ever. He took off on a huge 8 foot right off the pier, went up to the lip, hit it, came down, and then completely disappeared in the foam. I thought, "fuck he lost it, shits gonna hit the pier." In the flats in front of a massive wall of white wash, Knost pops up. The fucking hotdogger decided to do a layback upon landing. I thought that one wave should of earned Alexander the win and not some dude who was shoulder-riding a flat faced noseride on a 22 inch nosed battleship Galactic. Pretty much, I was the only person who appreciated Al's wave on the beach that day. The moment called for my mind to rationalize where longboarding should be going. Do what the wave calls for...noseride as a functional maneuver, actually do a cutback, and finish the wave. Good surfing on any equipment.

I even couldn't get up close to say "what's up."

Shawn O'Brien sighting.

What else is there to say?

Some chicks reppin' another clothing/t-shirt company of forgettable inland attire.

I think it is a common analogy and pretty fucking cliche, but the US Open was a circus. Doesn't the contrast of the blue and orange hue remind you of a circus tent. Where the fuck are the clowns? hmmmm.

It's hard to take pics around the event because you sort of feel like a perve even if your intentions weren't to. Thank God these prepubescent girls were clothed. The US Open is a pederast's nirvana. Where are their parents?

I think the hang-gliders landing on the beach during the heats epitomized how much mainstream corporate surf industry tries so hard to appease the general public. Sorry, watching a ten year champ show off in the line-up wasn't enough? Hang-gliders are soo 1975. The dude with the OP'S was stoked.

The official chariot of the event, a raised late model truck.

Mixing the sweet beats near the Rip Curl outlet.

US Open, until we meet again...next year. How can you top this one? Some ideas: lingerie contest, Nascar racing, alligator wrestling, a beach wide beer garden, UFC fights, or just get rid of surfing altogether (more space for people to swim in dickies and t-shirts) .

Here is the link to last year's event: http://shenaniganswiththeedfactor.blogspot.com/2010/08/pics-from-us-open-alex-knost-robin.html

beer fest part dos

2011-08-19T19:40:00.000-07:00

So after waking up with morning sickness, it was time to get the shit on the road. My lawyer, Dennuedho, opted to drive Little Mike and I to Costa Mesa for us to catch the party bus to San Diego. The lovely Julia from Columbia has been a fixture to Dennuedho, my lawyer's, side for about a year now. They met at the Redondo Beach Pier, Torrance's breeding ground for long-term relationships or more.

So it turns out, there was room on the BUS for the entire team. Julia was pumped as well as Denuedho.

"What, no knifes." Little Mike pondered to himself as he walked knife-less for the first time in his life. You could see in his eyes. The knife-fight was itching his palms and jesting to shank this dude. After an incident in the beergarden at the annual Cypress Festival, little Mike's been ordered to "not carry any type of blade," and to stay atleast 200 yards out of Cypress' city limits and jurisdictation. I guess little Mike got in a bit of a scuffle with legendary Cypress underground rapper, Peanutbutter Wolf, during one of Peanutbutter Woffs sweet Cypress beats underground sets. It was a battle of the Asscocks in the beergarden. Little Mike kept yelling, "Play some Pennywise!" Usually in more of a hipster setting, the band/DJ/other and the audience, would take offense. Not in Cypress. Much like West Torrance, Cypress follows suit on being San Bernardino by the sea. The crowd started chanting in unison, "Pennywise", throwing off the Peanutbutter woff, known on the streets as Steven Holmen. Homebody started stumblin' on some rhymes. Finally after his first song, a lyrical masterpiece of a verbal portrait of the gritty streets of Cypress, the Peanutbutter Woff called little mike out. Little Mike was like, "Cypress, what?" Shit got crazy and fucked after that. The controversial incident is in court right now, so that's all I can reveal. Let's just say, it started a riot that rumbled into the Concerts on the Green the next block over. It really fucked over the Neil Diamond impersonator, who jumped off stage after the peanutbutter woff. Weeks after the incident, I guess the Peanutbutter Woff and the Neil Diamond impersonator patched things up and are going to release a joint production called, "They coming to Cypress." Little Mike was also ordered to stay away from any Urban Styles T-shirt warehouses.

The Cask being cracked open!

Although Little Mike hasn't stepped in a classroom in over 5 years, he's got a masters in hops and a PhD in Knife fights. He here is studying for his second doctorate.

"OOOOWWWWWWWWWWW"

"Did I say, do we have enough beers here man"

The rave scene was in full effect. I got the chicks number on the right. I took her to nice steak dinner and never called her back.

A year ago, little mike and I were broke and faded. Now we make some money, and still are faded. PART TRES coming SOON!!!!!!!

SHAG ART closing NIGHT.......

2011-08-09T20:06:00.000-07:00

On a whim in the middle of a two day US OPEN (yes, tennis guys) slopfest, I ventured to SANTA ANA (pronounced SANTANA by my Mexican compadres in the warehouse) to check out SHAG'S closing day of his exhibits in the Santa Ana cultural center (I think that's the name of the place).

I met the dude. Super cool guy, he was stoked on my dress shirt.

I was introduced to Shag art by my buddy Anthony of http://birdmantribe.blogspot.com/ and http://www.anthonybphoto.com/ fame. Anthony has been shooting pics for as long as I've known him, way before everybody with the hipmastic phone app. became a photographer (he also can scribe like nobodies business). In college, I thought I could maybe shoot a few shots. I went ahead and bought a SX70. When I found out Polaroid film costs more than my actual camera, I was like, funk that. My next step into photography included purchasing a Nikon F from 1965 off of Ebay. Either that shit is broken, or I just don't know how to use it. I'll just leave photography to the pros, like Anthony.

I'm not an Art connoisseur, I'm just a half-ass writer that's full of typos and sometimes scribes something clever. As for art, I just know what I like. Shag kills it. Again, I haven't written an art review since 2005 in maybe the two art classes in college I took. Here we go: Shag art is rooted in space age aesthetic that tips over into pop art. I am regurgitating a bit of common knowledge here, but those are my own words. With the commercialism beginnings and aspects of pop art, Shag art follows suit in evoking advertisements of the late 50s and early 60s. Yet, Shag art tweaks the action of each piece making it entirely original, a statement purely it's own. When an artist tries to mimic an aesthetic to a throwback era, it risks being cheesy and unoriginal. Shag pulls it off, with his own interpretation and not copying something that's been overdone. I mean, how many Warhol wannabes are out there? Also, there's another element to his pieces...they're fucking fun. It'll be interesting to see how his shit evolves....

I thought my apartment was a "Space Age Bachelor Pad," until I saw these pieces. I decided that a few things in my apartment have to go for me to create the ultimate Space Age Bachelor Pad. Keep you posted.

I especially love this one....there's soo much that can be said, but the wife's with the knives are soo good.

other sources of inspiration..."Catch me if you can," and "the Flamingo Kid" with a young Matt Dillion.

MORE to COME!

XOXOXO ED FACTOR!

yip. I think I might of piss the bed after a night of drinking "On the Rocks"

2011-07-29T18:28:00.000-07:00

pretty much. Surfed blown out shoulder to head high Huntington Beach Pier with 75% floaters on lesser sized board yesterday. I didn't loose my shit. My biggest fear is taking out a family on the inside...or hit the pier. Good to go. More to come .
more photos:http://adamdavenport.blogspot.com/2011/07/maiden-voyage.html
Thanks Kiyo at Classic Waves

Mixture of "On The Rocks"....

2011-07-25T22:11:00.000-07:00

16 1/2 x 22 1/4 x 15 1/2 3 1/4 thick
I met Adam Davenport of Davenport Surfboard's at Tyler Surfboard's Christmas Party in a slightly altered state, chain-smoking my lungs to dust, ashes to ashes. A night that would end up having the party spill over to the Purple Orchid and being drenched by rounds and rounds of the faithful rimplemintz. Of course, Little Mike, aka "The Knife Fight," was there. Tyler dubbed Mike and I "Spring Break," as I spent the digression of my bank account on keeping the party going. Eventually Adam, Little Mike, and I ended up at the "Harbor Room," a classic bar that's been around forever in Playa Del Rey. At some point during the night, Adam said he wanted to make me a board. I forget when this actually happened, so I'm going to say "On the Rocks" was conceived in the Harbor Room with our asses propped on the bar stools.

The "On the Rocks" is a concoction of my ten years of getting longer surfboards from three different shapers, testing whatever design to whatever extreme: from fat nosed noseriders, no-rockered iron boards, 9 foot eggs, hatched-finned death pieces (on one of my hatchet finned boards, a laughing Bob Mctavish broke my hatchet fin off and threw it onto Aviation Blvd.), Happy Hours under the influence of 90s alternative music, triple volan glassed battleships, this includes a brief one week stint on the gnarlyest thruster 9'0" as a joke between fellow Mctavish/Pat Ryan/ET Surf teamrider Shawn O'Brien and I. After watching so-called progessive longboarding, we felt the need to "launch" air in the goal of obtaining "aerial antics."

The first thing about the "On the Rocks" model...

it is not a fucking log. I HATE THAT NOMENCLATURE! LOGGIN IS FOR LUMBERJACKS, go put on a flanner...When I think of so-called loggers, I think of dudes who are only preoccupied with snorting lines on the nose and doing pussy limp-wristed cutbacks every-so-once-in-a-while on dribbly soft-dick point breaks or mushed-potatoed beach break. SURF LIKE A MAN.

The "On the Rocks," model is not a Gato rip-off as most of the longboard scene is gravitating to. I love Robcat, miss the shit out of him, but the "On the Rocks" weighs as much as two Gatos together making it completely hipster proof. No baseball bat rails or silly trendy Bing-esqe concave, yet it can noseride...just not in the shoulder. So, forget any "just the tip" action on the flats. So, yes it makes frontal action a functional maneuver and not a donkey-show pony-trick. The rails are soooo slippery in the water and slide so quickly, no lube is necessary. A beer gut-belly in the center of the board proves, that the "On the Rocks" model leaves the light beers for the ladies. Yet, the thin foil may suggest that the "On the Rocks" model might also have added a third pun to it's namesake.
The color work is something I incorporate with all my boards over 9'0". It started in the days when I drove my 1959 Galaxy to the beach and stuck my board out of the trunk. Instead of a red flag, I always got my tail glassed red. White hotcoat color is prefect for the nose because it hides dings well. I'm bad on boards (don't tell Adam), and there are certain left point breaks (that really suck to shortboard under 5 foot but are still always crowded with people struggling) I surf that demolish boards in the case of wiping out and having to swim in. Adam went ahead and added a purple resin tint spoiling me in the process. I've never had a nicer resin tint on one of my boards.

There's more to come as I take the "On the Rocks" model through the depths of EDFACTOR's happenings, coast to coast. Here's Adam's take:

http://adamdavenport.blogspot.com/2011/07/on-rocksanother-round.html

Remember, as Tyler told me in the water on the maiden voyage, "Tip the Bartender."

THE MIXING OF THE "ON THE ROCKS" MODEL

2011-07-15T17:57:00.000-07:00

Okay, I will get to finishing Beerfest part DOS. I've been super busy with...okay, you got me...ummmmm...yeah I've been schlacking off a bit. For all those who hadn't heard, Davenport Surfboards is putting out a new Edfactor surfboard, the "On the Rocks" model. Above is Mr. Adam Davenport and I at our board meeting. There she is....dimensions....Fuck, like I know. Ask Adam.

The new "On the Rocks" model gets the seal of approval from pro surfer dude aka "Knife Fight" little Mike. I had to ask him to leave all the knives in car. He has a tendency to shank blanks for practice.

Just needs glass and a skag....then it's off to the nearest break to bum out all surfer dudes.

LOVE,

Edfactor

P.S. I promise to finish Beerfest part Dos very soonish.

On the Rocks...three fingers PLEASE

2011-07-05T21:20:00.000-07:00

Finally....

CHECK OUT:
http://adamdavenport.blogspot.com/

http://www.davenportlongboards.com/

A full write up to come soon......plus ramblings on attributes I look for in a shaper and why you should purchase an "On the Rocks" model.

Beer Fest Part Duex sooner or later......

BOOOOYAH

EdFACTOR.

BeerFest dude. Part UNO

2011-06-08T20:57:00.000-07:00

A few weeks back, I went to go visit one of my best-friends in the world at his occupation, Hot's Kitchen. Little Mike was behind the bar doing what he does best, pouring those dank oat sodas. He came up to me and was like, "Ed open your hands." In the middle of gobbling up another delicious IPA, I stuck my arm out expecting a woober or something to fall into my fingers....Instead, Little Mike gently caressed into my sweaty nicotine stenched palm two golden tickets to paradise...entry into Beerfest, San Diego.....

Of course, I had to make a weekend out of it. The next logical step was to at least steal one of my married friends for the night and get him or her in trouble. I had a choice between the wildbird or his wife....I chose his wife....(she loves my magic fingers as I kill it at back massages).....Wildbird opted to come out....His lady stayed home with baby and white wine...

Little Mike letting us into the Magical Kingdom of hops.....Hot's Kitchen......He is the King of fffffffffffadennesssss.........King Asscock Cowboy Status here, man.

My Mother came to supervise....don't perve....I came out of her vagina.

No fadeness equipped with out the mighty Wendl.

AND JOCEYLN....VegasBLooger sooner or later.

After a few hop-i-sodes at Hot's, it was down to Pier avenue for debauchery. Little Mike had to stay and tend bar. Blurriness is about standard in these operations. I really would not expect anything less.

The eye of the tiger....the heat of the Dragon.....

Wildbird, ever the expressionist, fulfils the fun-ness of a night out with the boys+Joceyln.

"What the fuck Edfactor?" Little Mike ponders with his perma-stubble. The kid kept calling me to no avail. I was lost somewhere into that Hermosa yuppie bar scene....my phone hit the dust and was juice-less. Thank God he found me, We only had a beerfest to go to dude.

Gonna find the magic taxi cab as I stumbled with my two left feet firmly situated in my untied drinking shoes.

"Get in the fucking Cab Edfactor"...Poor little Mike had just finish 12 hours of sud dispensing.

"Serious Edfactor, we gotta beerfest to go to tomorrow....don't piss the couch" I don't blame Little Mike for really wanting to hit the sack. I'm very lucky he didn't morph into his knifefight (see previous blogs) alter-ego from the previous summer. He sort of dropped the nomenclature recently after an incident at the Rodium with a bunch of Mexicans over a Los Tigres Del Norte Album. BUT, from time to time it comes back. Little Mike, as the knifefight, was last fully seen in full effect at the Orange Julius in the Del Amo Mall after the Natty Seed Dread Reggae Band concert in front of the Pacific Sun near the International Food Court. Little Mike was hitting up the "buy one get one free sale" at the footlocker. After buying some sweet kicks and not really caring or knowing the concert was going on, the knife fight, had a hankering for some sweet Orange nectar from the Julius and some motherfucking nachos. Well following his purchase of these Del Amo Delicacies, some dude in designer-all-so-perfect dreads (a concert goer of course), all hopped on hippy lettuce, decked in a Marley shirt, hemp necklaces and other paraphernalia, accidentally bumped into the Knifefight and he spilled his shit . Let's just say things got hella-knifey after that.

It's 1am...do you know where your knife fight is?

orr your sweet EDFACTOR? to be continued part dos XOXOXOXOOX