Concrete Curves and Fisheyes....

Dave V, crail air
Dave V, smithgrind
Dave V, front rock

Photos by Pete

Crailtap
Lipslide
Grind
Kickflip

Photos by Dave Viera

Let's not forget, skateparks are only training grounds for the real thing...

Influences

Some of these people are part of the reason I bother to put out Foulweather.




If you are into street, outsider and surf/skate influenced art, do youself a favour and check out the book, that the film Beautiful Losers is based on.

On a side note, Chris Johanson used to drink coffee at Crowsenberg's Half and Half, my favourite coffee shop. I kept meaning to fan-out and offer him a 'zine but I was too scared.

Sick day

I'm not a big fan of ski resorts but the Wend crew hooked up a pass for a shred fest up Mt Hood yesterday. All I had to do was agree to a little camera duty. Here's the faceful of powder Ian rewarded me with.

And Stiv on the slash attack, giving you a little sense of how good conditions are at the moment.

Nice to see the lads shredding in between smoking cigs and necking beers.

Beauty From The Filth II

A few months back I wrote a post about Andy Hughes and how he uses garbage as the subject of his photography to make a point about the pollution of the world's beaches. Well, here is a satellite photo of the same thing on a much larger scale . Instead of magnifying a plastic Bic lighter into a monumental piece of offending rubbish, here we have a distant view of The Great Pacific Garbage Patch, which is essentially a giant soupy whirlpool of plastic refuse. 

Lovely.

The Great British Seaside

There is a haunting beauty to deserted British Seaside resorts in winter. The late Victorian era saw the rise in the British Seaside as a cultural institution but by the 1980s (or earlier) many of piers, fun parks and resorts were decaying. In recent years, as people have started to holiday at home more, the Seaside resort is experiencing somewhat of a resurgence. However, I still enjoy the aesthetic of decay. (More of this in Foulweather #2)

The British Coast took a hammering last week. In general people, tend to grumble about the weather, but there something to be said about the ever changing North Atanlitic climate as it hammers run-down coastal towns. Below, is one the beaches I learned to surf at. It only really gets waves in winter. The surrounding hills are usually a dull green and the sky grey.

I'd usually hop the train with my surfboard from Aberystwyth, get off the train in the pissing rain, no one around save a few hundred bleeting sheep, and maybe the odd heroin addict. Then, I'd walk across the empty street to the beach and look for the best sandbar before my clothes got too wet.

But I often think I'd like to hole up there with a few books, a few bottles of ale and sneak away from the fireplace for the occasional strategic surf.

The time I think most clearly
The time I drift away
Is on the bus ride that meanders
Up these valleys of green and grey
I get to think about what might have been
And what may yet come true
And I get to pass a rainy mile
Thinking of you

And all the while, all the while
I still hear that call
To the land of gold and poison
That beckons to us all
Nothing changes here very much
I guess you'd say it never will
The pubs are all full on Friday nights
And things get started still

We spent hours last week with Billy boy
Bleeding, yeah queueing in casualty

Staring at those posters we used to laugh
at
Never never land, palm trees by the sea

Well there was no need for those guys
To hurt him so bad
When all they had to do
Was knock him down
But no one asks to many questions like that anymore
Since you left this town

And tomorrow brings another train
Another young brave steals away
But you're the one I remember
From these valleys of green and the grey
You used to talk about winners and losers
All the time - as if that was all there was

As if we were not of the same blood
family, as if we live by different laws
Do you owe so much less to these
Rain swept hills
Than you owe to your good self
Is it true that the world has always got
To be something that always seems
To happen - somewhere else
For God's sake don't you realise
That I still hear that call
Do you think you're so brave
Just to go running
To that which beckons to us all

Not for one second, did you look behind you
As you were walking away
Never once did you wish any of us well
Those who had chosen to stay
And if that's what it takes to make it
In the place that you live today
Then I guess you'll never read these
Letters that I send From the valleys of the green and the grey 

New Model Army-  Valleys of Green and the Grey

Five years

The above photos made up the front and back covers of a zine I put out about five years ago. The front cover was a burning oil well in Kuwait and the back was a tree covered in oil after it actually  rained oil as a result of such fires. The photos were taken during the aftermath of the first Gulf War in the early 1990s, by my friend's Dad. My friend Matt and his parents, Giles and Patricia went to Kuwait shortly after the Iraqi defeat to help get the neglected animals from Kuwait Zoo somewhere safe.

This 'zine was largely an anti-war publication in response to the US invasion of Iraq, five years ago. It was also the beginning of trying to make sense of my time in the Middle East.

I was wandering downtown Portland on Saturday with my friend Andrew and caught part of the antiwar march (five years since the invasion). I never thought this nightmare would last this long. I watched a few hundred people with signs, some drum banging, some bare foot hippies, a somber church groups, a gang of Black Bloc youths looking tough, some young families beckoning us to join in. Everyone playing the their assigned role in neat assembly, escorted by some bored cops. We didn't march or protest. Instead, we went to drink fancy hot chocolate at a very fine bougie establishment and discussed the hopelessness of it all.

Five years ago, the evening the war kicked off, I remember everyone mobilizing a massive protest to shut down Portland as an objection to the invasion. It was spontaneous but everyone had known it could happen any evening, as soon as that first bomb dropped. I was still writing a column for Streetroots newspaper at the time and thought it was my duty to cover as much of the protest, as I could.

The rolling bridge blockades started early in the evening and I remember racing my bicycle from one bridge to the next. After the Burnside bridge, some person, dressed head to toe in black and a face mask began to run along beside me. We began chatting, dizzy with anticipation, wondering how crazy things were going to get. A portly man in a suit shouted at us from the sidewalk, 'Hey, you two, get out of the street!' I replied, 'Why don't you calm down?'

And then he pulled out his badge, 'Stop! police!' 

'No fucking way!' With that, I realized I couldn't be impartial media. And for a moment, I started to believe we were actually resisting an historical injustice, defying authority and making a huge statement to the world. 'Portland will not stand for this war!'

But as the evening played out, and some people battled the riot police, as the highway got briefly shutdown, inconveniencing a few irate commuters, and bridges were momentarily Free Autonomous Zones, I also began to fear it was to become a pointless song and dance. By midnight most people had gone home to their beds and a few determined pacifists sat in the intersection, willingly waiting to be dragged away, cuffed, jailed and booked. Talk about anti-climax.

It sure felt good to occupy the Burnside bridge, with fires blazing, banging drums, people getting naked and getting away with it (most of us). It felt good running into random friends and trying to convince each other we were not only holding the bridge but taking a meaningful 'stand.' But, as is sickeningly evident, our little party did little for the people of Iraq. And copping a face-ful of pepper spray did little for the people of Afghanistan. If only it was as simple as getting crazy in the streets. And now, five years later, people are getting less crazy, even though opposition to the war is at an all time high.

I don't know. I'm not down on people exercising free speech on a Saturday afternoon. Maybe each protest is a baby step towards something meaningful, significant and effective... And I certainly see the profound significance in people seizing public space to display their malcontent and opposition. But I can't help but feel its all a part of a very complicated game, with a predetermined outcome. Give people just enough freedom to feel they are resisting and then they can go back to work again on Monday morning feeling a tad less guilty and little less angry... while in the real world not a damn thing has changed for the people getting blown to shit half way around the world...

Cynicism sucks...

Postscript

The other day I heard a story about a woman, who after years of listening to pro-war, anti-gay, pro-Bush rhetoric in her church finally stood up, terrified but composed enough to proclaim, 'You know, we're not all of this mindset and just because we come to this church, it does not mean we support this war.' Afterwards, several members of the congregation thanked her for speaking out. That is the type of thing that gives me hope. That woman just might have taken a way bigger step than thousands out marching.

I recently deleted a post for the first time. The post was a result of a 'debate' I was having elsewhere on the internet about radical environmentalism. Its a good and necessary discussion but the internet is not somewhere I'm capable of having it. More and more, I have have been thinking about the way we conduct ourselves and the way we read, write and digest information online. I think internet 'discussion' is only useful up to a certain point and then everything becomes polarized very quickly and soon, useful exchange tends to degenerate into personal slanging matches. Maybe, I'm copping out... or maybe I should do a thesis on it... but I'd rather be outside catching some waves or cruising around the streets. Spring has sprung, get some air while its still breathable...

Apologies to 'David' who responded to my deleted post with a worthy point.

Blogs killed the zine writer

It has been two years since I started this little blog thing. I hate the amount of time I spend on the internet but this has been a good way to test the waters with some writing, to promote Foulweather and whatever else I'm up to. Its also been a pretty amazing way to get contributors and like-minded people to collaborate with. Even though this 'blog community' is mostly virtual, it has also been instrumental in the establishment of some genuine friendships.

Foulweather itself started before this blog. I had actually just finished up the first issue and was thinking of ways to promote it. There was always a danger that this would become just another surf/skate blog and I struggled with that as my writing is not really about these two limited activities. Then I realized that surfing and skateboarding have been the lenses in which I've chosen to view the world and they have gone as far as to shape my personal politics and philosophies. I am a firm believer that one can often see more through a narrow focus than if one tried to digest it all by grasping after countless fragments randomly. And in a sense this is what Foulweather is becoming; a way of placing one's methods of escaping daily drudgery in a wider political context. 

If you've read any of the nonsense I've written over the the last two years, you'll notice that I have some Luddite tendencies and that is why I'm still hell-bent on wasting hard earned money on printing an actual hard copy (maga)zine. I hope potential readers will dig the efforts of everyone involved and support independent publishing projects such as this and I hope it will encourage other people to do the same. Blogs haven't quite killed the zine writer...

Much thanks to everyone who has contributed so far. Max Macias, Saeed Farouky, Frank Cubillos, Justin Hocking, Rick Salcedo, Dave Fitzpatrick, Rick Albano, Jeff Petersen, Jason Powers, Dennis Dread, Gabriel Liston, Alison Lewis and Kara Dolan Trapani. And thanks to the Stiv and Ian from Wend Mag for giving me a chance to do what I do in a more 'professional' arena.

Hood River Barney

Went out to Hood River for a quick shred sesh on Sunday and to check out the new bowl. Caretaker Carl got a few nice snaps and was cool enough to email me this, yet another boring frontside grind by some over-aged padded-up Barney.

Anyway, if you like skateboarding under trees at the base of Mt Hood, along the banks of the mighty Columbia river, within a maze of a variety of terrain, definitely pay this park a visit. The locals are seriously invested in this place and recently built their own mini-bowl, DIY style... I wish I got some photos of that but now I have a reason to go back.

In other news, I was the victim of a ghastly prank on Sunday night. Read about it on the Wend blog...

Weapons

When I was about fourteen, I had a switchblade. I used to play with it in my bedroom. I’d stab my mattress and my punch bag with it.

‘Uuuuuuhhhhh!

Aaaaaaaaaahhhh!

Take that fucker!’

I’d slice up my school uniform and even cut my school tie in half with it. Sometimes, I’d put it to my head and release the blade. One day, I was busy cutting an imaginary foe to ribbons with my knife. I was stabbing him in the stomach, slashing him across the face and watching him wriggle and bleed on my bedroom floor. He was the personification of the many demons that I didn’t care to name. Then my father walked in and without saying a word, grabbed my knife and walked away.

At that time, I also played the bass trombone. I got pretty good at it. I played in the school brass band, took examinations and even gave solo performances. The better I got the more pressure was put on me to practice and work towards excellence. I had private tuition to prepare for more examinations and more solo performances. I’d go to Mr Harrison, my music tutor’s house a couple of times a week. We’d practice hard for an hour at a time and then his wife might bring in some lemonade. But by the time I was fourteen, I began to watch the clock tick by in anticipation of getting out of there. I loved the music and Harrison was a dedicated and decent tutor but the structure of the lessons and the demands were getting to me. I simply was not as dedicated as he thought I was and needed me to be. And if I’m perfectly honest, it wasn’t as therapeutic as slashing up my enemies with my switchblade.



So one day, when I was supposed to be practicing, I took a large spanner and beat the fuck out of my bass trombone. Now, I didn’t own the trombone, it belonged to the school but it was still a very valuable chunk of musical instrument. I beat the slide a few times and soon, it was locked in place. A trombone without a smooth operating slide is virtually useless.

The next day I went to Harrison and told him I was done with being a bass trombone player. I didn’t say why. He could see why by looking at the crater-like dents on the shiny brass instrument. He did ask what happened. I said, I was practicing and a fly came towards me and so I tried to swat it away and smashed the trombone into the wall and then dropped it. He looked at me and said nothing. His facial expression cried shear disappointment and hurt. I’m sure he knew the truth. I certainly wanted him to know the truth. I wanted to tell him,

‘I smashed that fucking instrument because I’m fourteen and I want to be out in the streets fighting my enemies. I want to be putting my foot through people’s windows. And it felt good to smash it. I’m not sure what made me stop. I only wish I had had the courage to smash it beyond repair or bend that brass into an unrecognizable metal knot.’

But that was unnecessary. Harrison and I had become somewhat close over the years I’d been playing, but we spoke very little after that. He encouraged me to take the drums and I did for a while but I was done with structure and done with his icy stares as he tried to keep me in rhythm while the rest of the brass band drifted off out of time.

Shortly, thereafter I took up writing. I’d read a short story in a surfing magazine. It was a science fiction story about two lads who traveled the universe looking for waves and it climaxed in this tremendous wave of epiphany. I ripped it out of the magazine and ripped it off in my head as I typed, creating my own version. I gave it to my grandmother to read. She was an avid reader and was thrilled that I’d actually sat down to attempt to write. For a few years after, I’d write all manner of crap and give it to her to read and no one else knew about it. Of course, writing did not stop me from still wanting to slash my enemies with a switchblade and engage in all manner of teenage recklessness. I wasn't a juvenile delinquent by any means but I certainly left a wake of broken glass, blood and puke here and there. Writing certainly offered me some sense of release that playing the trombone never could.

I mention this only because I still have days, like I’m sure we all do, where I have so much pent up energy that I feel like I need to take a sledgehammer to the street. Only now it feels almost entirely positive. It makes me peddle my bike until my knees feels like they are going to explode and my thighs are going to burst. It makes me grab my skateboard and push as fast as I can through the streets and sometimes it helps me shit out a few words. But more importantly, it helps me tap back into all the positive attributes of raw teenage energy, mostly without the self-destructiveness due to the perspective of age and experience being largely on my side.


Years after I smashed my trombone, I ran into Harrison in a very unlikely place. I had driven way out into the Bahraini desert to spend the afternoon skateboarding down a steep but always quiet hill that ran along an oil pipeline. On one of my descents, as I was maxing out my speed, a car came from the other direction. I was a bit worried because there were usually no cars out there but they gave me plenty of space. So I tucked down and sped away. At the bottom, I turned around to walk the long walk back up and noticed the car parked on the peak. I feared it was some idiot wanting to give me shit for skateboarding alone in the desert. I eventually made it to the top and there was Harrison, sitting in his car, his wife by his side and his two kids in the back.

‘Wow, Pete. I thought that was you.’He smiled.

‘Hi Sir, I haven’t seen you in years.’

‘That looks like tremendous fun, you’re having.’

‘Oh man, it is!’

And then silence. But big genuine smiles. I had nothing else to say and neither did he.

‘Well go on then. We want to see you go down again.’

So I did.

And that was the last time I saw him.