I’m only posting today because, quite frankly, I am sick to the back 9 of that stupid bee on the post below. I really have nothing to say. Nada. Zip. Diddly squat. Absolutamentally sweet Fanny Adams. There is no thing that is more like nothing than the thing that is not a thing that is here right now. If I had any more to not write about I would be deleting previous posts just to make way for the vacuous chasm that would be opening up for the giantness of its non-existence.
So here is a photograph of a man in giant rubber trousers telling his wife he is stuck in traffic on the IP8 just outside Caldas da Rainha and he should be home before lunch. If his pants weren’t all wet and rubbery they would be on fire…
Ay didne surf today (trying out different accents).
This is a very rare photograph of the renegade wall tagging nuisance caught defacing a national monument in the historical City of London. Having recently gained popularity with the masses this tiny airborne vandal has become a sort of peeny weeny ‘Robin Hood’ for the 21st century – scrawling his irreverent nonsense across the walls of the World.
His recent works have been bought by well known celebrity figures such as Timothy Mallet and Scott Baio and he has rumoured to have been subjected to a piercing in depth interview by the deep and piercing Rikki Lake.
If you see this miniscule sprayer of destruction please contact the appropriate insect outlaw authorities. Or, preferably, calmly roll up the nearest newspaper and deal with this edifice daubing monster with some swift squishy justice…
(You can find more photoshoppery by rooting around my flickr pages)
Every now and then I sift through my statcounter and see why or how people arrive at Papersurfer. One search that brings this blog to the very top of Google is the commonly used term ‘wooden breast’.
Having inadvertently tagged a post with this a while back I am now attracting many fans of the carbon based mammary. However, they do (understandably) leave somewhat disappointed as there is not a single solitary nork fashioned from the bough of a tree available for delectation within these digital pages.
I have redressed that balance and included the above photograph for all those wonderful souls searching for inspiration from a heavily carved funbap. Please, chiselled hooter lover, enjoy…
It’s a bit groovy and a bit funky with a cool, deep undertone to help you through these hot summer days. Take off some clothes, turn up the stereo and upset your neighbours by jiggling around on your patio. I am. Oh yes indeedy and it feels very nice…
Playlist is as follows (MP3 on digital decks)
Plaupez Blood drunk (Jimi Polars bloodhound sono mix) on Fairlads digital records
If you ask a German any more than a few years younger than myself about world conflicts in the 20th century you’ll mostly be met with a blank face. If you ask them specifically about the year 1966 they might ask if Elvis was born around that time (for anybody non-English 1966 was the last time England won anything of note, apart from Mrs Edith Winthrop winning the Bingo at Chudleigh village hall in 1972).
The way ‘we’ hold on to these moments seems somewhat idiotic after such a passage of time especially in the face of such Global nonchalance. We all know that if any forum thread has devolved into the use of the ‘Nazi’ insult it has officially lost credibilty, so why should it still be acceptable to chant “2 World Wars and 1 World Cup!” at every sporting fixture we go to…?
It was strangely comforting, however, to hear that Daddy Bravo has said on the subject (in his loverly German accent)…
“…finally, after 65 years – ve’ll be settling ze score vonce and for all (und zis time with no help from ze Americans).”
I demand freedom. Society has smeared its smog covered and weighty hand across the canvas of surfing and created a brutal corporate image for us to adhere to. It was the last bastion of the open mind and the free will to express ourselves in a physical and raw moment of integration with the universe. We were wild and savage beasts, fighting our way through the endless drudgery of modern existence to find that tiny element of time and space where we become one with ourselves and to be is all we need.
Now we are tiny mice on the treadmill of the Man – going round and round and round. Day in day out. Becoming autonomous drones – dressing the same. Acting the same. Being the same. Surfing the same. Be free tiny people. Grow your hair and burn your bra. Stick it to the Man.
This painting could say all of that. Or I could be spouting a load of old toss and it could be a weird dream I had the other night…
I was going to write a post introducing a list of the best micro novels currently in progress on the internet. These are works of fiction presented in tiny chunks of text via a micro-blogging platform such as Twitter or Facebook. A seemingly brilliant notion that panders to the world’s attention deficit disorder. No rambling monologues or indigestible diatribe. Just plot and dialogue in pieces so small even my father could digest them.
I googled around (I love a good googling on a Friday evening) but was unable to find anything appropriate. A few authors are releasing mini teaser series on facebook to get people hooked before sending them to Amazon but no purpose built micro novels. Fear not, oh reader with miniscule attention span, you can feed your peeny hunger pangs with the latest micro-blog-buster from the Penfold Crockett house of very small publications…
The Dead Monkey Society has just started on Facebook featuring the intrepid Sam Phoenix (I chose FB as the base platform so I can do some illustrations occasionally) you can also check updates on Twitter (@samuelphoenix).
If anybody knows any micro-novels currently in progress please leave a link in the comments below…
Living in the foothills of the Serra de Estrella in central Portugal is supposed to be an idyllic existence – stunning picture postcard scenery, perfect weather all enhanced by friendly and convivial neighbours. Aging donkeys retiring peacefully by the river, toothless old crones carrying bags of washing on their heads. Just the sound of birds in the trees, the river bubbling through the granite rocks and an old peasant man hacking up some phlegm on his way to market.
What I’ve experienced over the last 20 years certainly has included all of these elements but there are many other bitter tasting ingredients to spoil the taste of this delicious metaphor pie. I won’t get started on the hideous mouldy concrete building developments marring the countryside or the fact that it pisses down with rain for half of the year. I’ll stick to the continual theft of my belongings I’ve suffered whilst living here.
The most recent happened a few days ago whilst we were slumbering beneath a full and shining moon. Some thieving Gypsy bastards relieved my truck of a pair of brand new batteries. A relatively small haul but added to the several thousand euros worth of property that has already been stolen from me it begins to smart a tad. So the security upgrade will continue – more fences and gates. Cameras and alarms. It all just takes the shine away from this supposedly lustrous life.
I discussed the issue with my exceedingly wise mother:
“…maybe you could attach live electricity wires to the truck?”
“…a good idea Ma. But it would be terribly inconvenient to find a smouldering pikey stuck to it in the morning…”
Another creation from the Papersurfer-Pixar workshops. It’s a new technique recently developed called ‘dynamic retrographical inversion’.
This is achieved by painting a lovely picture, then rubbing it out again very carefully (whilst filming it with a camcorder) and then playing the footage backwards on a television whilst recording the screen with another camera.
There are are a few minor technical details that I won’t bore you with (like how you rub out paint one layer at a time without filming your own hand) needless to say it was very technical and required a large amount of being very boffiny. Please enjoy…
I didn’t surf today. Although I did make some tiny surfboards out of plywood. Not the same…
I bought a shortboard about three years ago – at the time I was surfing most weeks – I was in good shape and the purchase seemed to make sense. I used it a few times that summer – on bigger, hollower days. But on the whole it’s just been gathering dust in my bedroom as I’m sure many small pointy boards do…
I loved my shortboard. Apart from being red (and quite shiny) it reminded me that I had the capability to get into critical waves even if that skill is now slightly buried under some aquatic inactivity and a miniscule smattering of subcutaneous polyunsaturates. It’s like hanging onto a pair of old jeans that used to fit or never letting your gym membership expire even if the most exercise you get is lifting a gin and tonic to your mouth.
I caught a wave on Monday that shattered all expectations of a mediocre session – an overcrowded corner of Baleal concentrated by unfriendly winds on all other breaks. But as the sets drove through at high tide the inexperienced crowd was naturally culled by the incoming lines of swell – leaving a few of us to take the pick of the waves. After a couple of suicide drops into close outs I got lucky and scored a classic Cantinho left – a peeling wall that lifted to meet my board at the perfect speed to gouge bottom turns and hit the lip. A foot higher and I would have needed that small pointy thing that stands between my shirts…
So I shall be keeping my shortboard even if it just stands in my wardrobe for most of the year with my metaphorically tight jeans (my mythical gym membership card in the pocket) hanging over it…
...proudly sporting a ridiculous mini-mal I marched boldly from the surf shop. Stopping briefly to hand my spectacles to a passer-by I stumbled blindly into the sea...
