Michael Peterson: Shine On You Crazy Diamond

Posted in Uncategorized on January 12, 2016 by Rottmouth

The passing of David Bowie reminds me of the passing of another crazy diamond…

Enoch Ward

The young, wretched masses garbed in garish getups, bodies bedecked like childhood picture books, poisoning their bodies and minds, seeking truth at the bottom of an elbow-deep book full of constraining devices. Gratuitous sex acts and gaudy music are circuitous trails which lead to depression. The feeble and forlorn frantically sniff the air for Teen Spirit but find Nirvana at the muzzle of a shotgun.

Michael Peterson is dead.

These wretched multitudes, middle-aged and malcontent, spend days cramped in confining cubicles while rushing to reap rotting rewards, darting along death track drive-thus; countenances contorted, racing to the rim of a rapidly redoubling abyss. A maturing mass living out the last payments of pseudo-prominence… grappling like grim death to fleeting, lost youth. They wear wrinkled wayfaring maps of discreet desperation on distressed faces. Failing to find their Eden, they curse their absent adolescence and search for short-lived immortality in commentating…

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Läird, Läird, Lama Sabachthani?

Posted in Uncategorized on October 5, 2011 by Rottmouth

Would You Die For Me?

*This is an unpublished interview with a former Blogger who shall remain nameless, to protect the guilty. I pulled the plug on allowing it be published because I didn’t want too much revealed and I wasn’t all that impressed with my answers. That was then. This is now.

I have found your thoughts on the passing surfing scene to be incredibly at odds with anything I’ve ever seen before. A blend of wit, very dark humor, rage, sarcasm, irony and all formulated into words that have such an eerie draw to them. Through all this, you’ve decided to stay Anonymous. Why is this?

I am a nobody in the miniscule bubble of surfing. Nothingman. I knoweth not a single person employed in any fashion by the Surfing Industrial Complex. Who I am should mean nothing. To anyone. What I have to say, however, should mean something to some people. I have a lot to say. I have a lot of nothing to say.

You realize this interview is all about you though, right?

You must also realize that beyond my Heart of Darkness is where The Wasteland begins.

Where did you grow up that allowed you to surf without being touched by the surfing industry?

Rejected by my biological parents at the feet of The Carpathians, I was adopted by Romanian-American parents. They took me to their home in Astoria, near Pier 39, a small port town near the mouth of the Columbia River in Oregon. We lived in several towns between Lincoln City, Heceta Head, Ecola (where a few scenes from Point Break were filmed) and Astoria (where the heretical abomination Cthulhu was filmed recently), as I toddled my way towards adolescence. Surfing in that part of the world exists only in small portholes and I never had the fortitude to take on the larger swells that frequent the area. Hence, my skill level falls somewhere between a palsied sea lion and floating piece of driftwood.

So you are a Goonie’s kid?

That movie came out after I had moved out of Clatsop County thankfully. They film all sorts of movies in that area though. Into the Wild and The Road most recently. Of course I am a Goonies fan for life. Alas, I am a lachrymose cliché of the Northwest.

You have mentioned traveling a lot. What sort of places have you been?

My father’s business interests led us many places, mostly away from the ocean. We lived in Leticia, Colombia for nearly a year where I learned a bit of Ticuna. My initial exposure to constant danger and death begat there. We continued down to Cochabamba, Bolivia and then across the world to various places along Lake Malawi. We hopped and skipped through Turkey and Armenia before scouring all the Baltics. I still make annual journeys to Romania, Croatia and northern Alaska.

How did you get involved in Hollywood?

Hollywood is an easy term to use… but it is not correct. That is a small part of what I do. I really just work in the entertainment industry. I was fortunate to have attended a college that breeds creative writers. I was one of the least creative, yet still able to rummage enough words before stuffing them into pockets of known-people that came to visit the campus. Eventually one such idea found purchase in the soils of an accomplished producer. And from there I rocketed right to the bottom of the overflowing barrel of writers contributing to all mediums of entertainment.

You mention other mediums. What is your main focus and what other mediums, if any, have you been involved in?

I began as a joke writer for comedians while in college. I still do… on occasion. I then swindled someone into a script for a two-buck chuck Horror film, as I mentioned before. And then a few more. Which, I suppose, makes screen writing my main medium of employment at the moment. I contribute to various entertainment magazines and actually wrote a book. I have co-authored as well.

Do you have a favorite Book?

Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole.

If you flashed a picture of your real face for just thirty seconds on your blog, would anyone recognize you?

Anyone in the surfing world? Highly doubtful – probably technically and medically impossible. In the nerd world of science fiction and horror? Perhaps. Like I said, I am a poltergeist in the surfing world, and a wart on Stephen King’s ass in the entertainment industry. But the entertainment industry is like the Sun to surfing’s pint-sized ass-teroid. Regardless, I have a face meant for radio or writing… no one needs to see me mug.

Why the Donnie Darko avatar?

I personally believe it to be one of the best movies ever made. It certainly is the best movie I never wrote. This exchange, a cinematic masterpiece, sums up my selection of the avatar: Donnie asks Frank, “Why are you wearing that stupid rabbit suit?” Frank responds, “Why are you wearing that stupid man suit?” I believe this answer corresponds with your first question.

What made you decide to evolve into surf blogging?

Lewis Samuels asked me to do a post or two. Then Nugable did the same. Without them, I would not exist. This wasn’t meant to continue on. It just did. At times I feel a bit nailed to a cross beneath the inscription: “God and Commerce.” Diarrhea of the fingers ensues.

You manage to keep a pretty prolific pace of new posts. How much time do you spend on your average post?

I never write anything ahead of time. Most days I wake up, see what news is cooking, breeze through my email, and skim what people are discussing in the comments threads and on other surfing blogs – then I conjure ideas throughout the day while doing real work. By the time I get home, or finish up a block of real work, I hammer out a post in an hour or so. All together, in an average day where I publish my own thoughts, I probably spend two or three hours thinking and then exercising my fingers. I only sleep about three hours a night so I still have much more time to work on things that really interest me. On days I have no thoughts on surfing, I let other’s talk.

What spurs you to go on with your own blogging?

Seeing the talent of my regular readers come out in their own posts is the thing I am most proud of. They are more entertaining and thoughtful than almost anything you will find in a surf rag these days. I owe a great debt of thanks to Mike Mantalos, Steve Nug & M, Max, Chris, Jam Bag, Cock Ring, Amir, Dumbth, Doug Mac, Mark’s recent contribution, Rusty Steele’s epic Photoshop help, and my muse: Chastity, of course. The voices of real, everyday surf fans… compounded with other humorous voices in the comments by many of the regulars.

If you could sum up Independent Blogging in the surfing world with a few words, what would they be?

Andy Irons. Simple. The handling (or mishandling) of that story by the Established Surf Media represents EVERY SINGLE reason I started commenting at PostSurf and ended up with my own Blog.

What have been the highlights of your blogging career?

The comments thread (see Mark’s comment at 2:51pm) the day Andy Irons died and the subsequent posts regarding that tragedy. The Dropped Ball at Tahiti this year. My Peace Sells But Who’s Buying post from a soldier dripping with venomous irony (missed by some – so it goes). The Baja Chronicles Story. And I probably had the most fun doing blogs from The Motherland. The live commentary in the comments section during contests, an idea pioneered by Nugable, is also something I cherished.

What have been the lowlights?

Buying a couple IP addresses to keep my paranoia at bay. And I suppose the day I walk away will be a lowlight and a highlight at the same time.

When and why would you quit?

I have no idea. My interest in writing about surfing really comes and goes. But I suppose I’ll walk away the moment I personally feel I’ve reached critical mass or terminal velocity. Not sure which. The Prime Directive will let me know.

Have you received any threats or requests to stop a certain story or post?

Nothing the word “idle” wouldn’t handle.   

If you had to pick an all-time favorite surfer, who would it be?

Easy. Christian Fletcher.

Not Laird?

Not Läird. But he is the most popular surfer in the world… not Kelly Slater. That’s why I started the joke way back at PostSurf: “In Läird We Trust.” He represents a massive disconnect in the perception of what professional surfing is. An hourglass with no middle.

Thoughts on the world of surfing right now?

Professional surfing is a condemned structure loading its cracked foundation on a bed of loose sand facing an incoming tide. Surfing itself is what it has always been: an extremely boring adjective, but an extremely exciting verb.

Who is Blasphemy Rottmouth?

A small hyperlink to the Third Eye.

Allegorical Construction of a Metaphorical House in a Sarcastic World

Posted in Uncategorized on October 3, 2011 by Rottmouth

The End Is Nigh

My life fades. The vision dims. All that remains are memories.

I remember a time of chaos. Ruined dreams. A wasted land. But most of all, I remember the house that the foolish men built upon the sand.

This heinous horror was spawned by The Architect. This curious creature was naturally flamboyant. Like most architects, he sketched in those days with various weights of graphite on taped vellum sheets. More importantly, he sketched documents for an edifice overlooking the sea. Not just any sea; an oceanic amalgamation of the scorching Bondi sands, the languid shores of Rio, and the shifting sandbars of Huntington Beach. This man, clad in pink and black leotard, cummerbound with a ruffled tutu, drew great dreams using circular templates, rigid T-square, triangles, and scales of every measure. His plans called for a soaring gable with steeples at either end. Moment frames allowed impressive spans of ecclesiastical emptiness within the holiest of holies. Expansive Nanawalls, bookended with stunning, stained glass murals of the saints, bore outward views to each corner of the beach that met the face of the shuddersome monument.

A tabernacle fit for a king.

As construction rumbled to life, a renowned team of builders gathered to realize The Architect’s drafted dreams. Names like Richards, Townend, and Cairns were on hand. Their pygmy stature stood resolute and tanned – ready with tools provided by ancient craftsmen. Before ground was broken, an election was called to settle the phasing, permissible procedures and schedule. An hour later, when the hanging chads were hypothetically tallied by an immutable conglomerate of conflationary creatures, the crew mumbled while staring at their jackboots, wondering if a polling place had even existed.

The Architect pranced out to greet the staked out footprint; holding the report for the soils at hand. “This report,” he fabulously flitted his glossy-red lips, “bears no ill tidings for the work to proceed, however, the financial institutions supporting our apostolic erection must never see this report, for the sand’s a bit lean. Simply take extra care when pouring the foundation, and make sure the Adverse Adhesive is poured to such depths that no heretics will uncover it.”  

With these profound proclamations entrenched in the lobes of their shallow minds, the crew began their inspired toils under the watchful scrutiny of Superintendent Tomson. Neighboring communities soon were serenaded with barking hammers, prying crowbars, sputtering generators, worn drill bits, saws with few teeth, and all manner of tools echoing through their streets. The commotion caused such a stir it piqued the Building Inspector’s keen ears. With no time to lose, the inspectors moved to ensure a sound structure under every seismic code. Yet these well-heeled inspectors were met and turned away by an impregnable fence built by both Gerard Security Services (ASP and ISA).

Thus, the project commenced unencumbered. Safe within the embryonic confines of the compound, Steele + Jimmicane + Neville Media Corp., stepped over debris, rolling film of their Idols at work and emailing them to the voracious whores on Pacific Coast Highway – careful never to document the contents of The Soils report.

A team of concrete workers arrived from the Australian Ministry of Mental Health Medicine right on time. Using the newly supplied material of extracted grey matter and stem cells from the imposing frame of a recently rendered impotent Michael Peterson, they poured his crazy diamonds deep into the loosely compacted sand… unwittingly failing to reach bedrock several fathoms deeper beneath the earth’s crust. The concrete mix design was leavened with the soul of Christian Fletcher to ensure the foundation, though buried, was stout as prescribed. As the gray matter hardened amongst the loosely fortified sand and was covered with floor joists and plywood, the memories of Michael Peterson and Christian Fletcher were swept neatly away. For reasons long forgotten.

Shortly thereafter, the balloon framed bones of the structure were raised on the backs of the bronzed construction crew; wood studs made of Richie Collins’ femurs, Nick Woods’ tibia and fibula, Cheyne’s vertebrae, Eggars’ metatarsals, Button’s humerous, radius and ulna, and Bertlemann’s rib cage. Button’s and Bertlemann’s bones were particularly tough for the monotonous crew to handle as they resembled nothing they had seen before. Many rooms were created. One such note was the Sunday School room. Built to nurture impressionable minds with the narcotic happiness of The Golden Carrot, devout parents could be sure their offspring lived up to their own presumptuous and Great Expectations.

The All Consuming Art Of Consumption

The central moment frame, forged from the appendages of Andy Irons spanned the entire width of the house and allowed a seemingly endless floor plan. This particular feat of engineering was the brainchild of Superintendent Tomson, who passed many of his trade skills on to Foreman Naude… a man well versed in the nuts, bolts and welding required to build a moment frame of Andy’s size. Once all the dust of the angels were swept away, a drywalling team from the faithful company of Carroll, Baker, Cornuelle, and Sarge Brothers, along with their armies of subcontractors, were employed to cover up the skeletal structure. They then prepped the interior for a finish coat of paint, brushed impeccably to divert attention from the ghosts beneath to the shiny brass door knob of the looming closet full of suits.

High above the floors of the great hall, the roof was laid by Surfing America, Surfing Australia, Surfing France, and others… all with their committees, sub-committees, boards, and chairmen in tow. Layer upon layer of paperwork, scrawled with rules and regulations, were encumbered upon the roof joists. The paperwork was sealed with several more layers of red tape to ensure the sterile environment below was undisturbed by moisture.   

With the envelope of the cathedral nearing completion, a most cherished object was installed. A wall of plasma Technicolor in all four dimensions looped two things:

  1. The 2011 Billabong Pro in Jeffrey’s Bay with its inordinate amount of team O’Neill’s Jordy Smith profiles and promo pieces. These pieces were layered with team O’Neill’s Jordy versus Logie heat at the 2011 Billabong Pro in Teahupo’o… a heat much admired by church members for the exerted efforts of the event organizers to adhere to The Holy Scriptures.
  2. Then the screen danced about, MTV production style, from sweatshops in Brazil and Indonesia, to obligatory Save The Whale and Plastics Recycling gospel outreach in a paradoxical Yin vs. Yang juxtapo-doctrination of Hail Mary salvation. 

The wall of media was framed in golden dollar signs hewn by the sharpened IP Address of Graham Stapelborg himself. An inscription above the high definition installation spelled forth The Doctrine: “E Pluribus Unum.”

Sometime after the main hall had been completed, a Real Rabbit came along and offered to fortify the sand around the concrete pilings. His idea met with initial hesitation, but was eventually conceded to. Granite was brought in by Dream Tour Construction and Organics Rivalry Inc., to shore up the already sagging foundation. The rocks bolstered everyone’s confidence for the length of an historic vapor. But those rocks began to break down under the extreme bureaucratic weight of the temple above. Consequently, the Real Rabbit was excommunicated in favor of a Lamb named Carr. The Lamb did not have ideas. The Lamb listened. The Lamb smiled. The Elders loved their Lamb. And all was merry as the eroding sand was forgotten.

Then came the rains.

Then came the floods.

And with these tribulations, away flowed the sand that held miraculously for decades. Blood rained from the heavens in the form of toxicology reports, recent excommunications, journalistic molestation accusations, sweat shop facilities, homophobia and blatant racial bigotry. Wrathful ink welled up from the depths of Hades to join the hemoglobin downpour. This blasphemic storm endlessly pelted the exposed church and engulfed those caught inside their place of refuge.

Without a foundation of rock, the flock realized they stood on The Nothing.

Blindly careening through their temple in search of the lost Soils Report, hoping the financial institutions were oblivious of their mistake, the electricity spluttered and gave up the ghost. The clergy spoke forth in tongues and prayed and gnashed their teeth in the dark. Yet nothing could stem the torrential tempest outside. Men began to feed on men. In the despondent chaos ordinary souls were inadvertently battered and smashed… without knowing the foyer, just inside the front door, was still built upon the same sand that had been flushed all away.

Men like Steve. The warrior with a plunger. In the sulfurous roar of a brimstone-fueled wind, he lost everything. He became a shell of a man. A gaunt man haunted by the demons of his past. But a man who survived days without sustenance by eating his own pride.

Once the tempest had ebbed, this warrior – this simple man, grabbed a baseball bat and wandered out into the wasteland.

And it was there, in that blighted place, that he learned to live again…

(Note: This is the last post with an open comments thread. The next post shall be my last. There will be nothing left to say in this place.)

Penultimate Noir

Posted in Uncategorized on October 2, 2011 by Rottmouth

Goodbye My Friend. The End.

The smoke circling up from the end of my gun cut a figure more in line with one of them movie star actresses, but I had more important things to think about. I’d just plugged a surfer by putting a bullet in his mouth. That also happens to be my name: Blasphemy Rottmouth. But don’t feel bad for the surfer: he had it coming to him. This loathsome individual was a waste of perfectly good chromosomes. And before long, he had me seeing red. But it wasn’t anger, it was a dame. And, as they usually are, this one was trouble. I just had a feeling that before long, I’d end up in jail. But not the County Jail, run by those crooked cops and judges that had been paid off too many times to count. Nah, this was a special jail; exclusive, you might call it. Or her. Yeah, I’m talking about Chastity Boner.

Hers was the kind of “solitary confinement” a guy could enjoy. Too many times, I wanted to say, “I confess, yer honor. Lock me up and throw away the key.” But she wasn’t happy with just one mug, and she broke my heart.

But, just like those cold cells with bars, I found myself coming back to her all too often.

*My last two posts have been put on hold a few days to deal with unforeseen familial issues. They will unfurl this week.

As The Grains Slip Through The Hourglass

Posted in Uncategorized on September 30, 2011 by Rottmouth

A Surfing Family

By Mark:

The world was different then.

Eddie and Clyde Aikau were raised in an era light years before the media manipulated madness that is Pro Surfing today. A time when young, upcoming surfers who showed promise might have only one board at their disposal and, in many cases, rode that board in everything from two foot Queens to twenty-five foot Waimea. A time of enchantment and surprise as surfers would wake up to “best day of the year” conditions with absolutely no prior warnings or alerts. A time that was, according to Gerry Lopez, the “best of times,” since surfboards were being rapidly refined, yet the dark clouds of overcrowding had yet to obscure the horizon.

Most prominent surfers on Oahu from that period have classic stories regarding the legendary parties at the Aikau household. Overlooking a Chinese graveyard above Punchbowl in Town, Solomon “Pops” Aikau, would mix up a huge batch of pineapple “Swipe” and shennanigans would be on!  Drinking, singing and crying as the night proceeded and old friends, as well as new, were embraced and made to feel at home.

This piece is supposed to be about surfing siblings but a story on Clyde and Eddie is incomplete without equal attention being devoted to their family. A family of modest means, headed by a hard working father who brought his family to Oahu from Maui, shortly after Hawaii became a state so he could have more economic opportunity. A man who busted his ass working on the docks of Honolulu Harbor by day and maintained the grounds of a graveyard in the evening to make ends meet. A man who instilled a solid work ethic in his children and would not allow them to go surfing before their chores, which pretty much consisted of maintaining a FREAKING GRAVEYARD, were done.

No need to recount the heroics of Eddie here. No need to relive Clyde’s historic victory at the 1986 Eddie contest or his recent hard charging at the 2009 contest at the age of 60. We have heard them all before. Better to take a deep breath and close your eyes and try to imagine a different time.

A slower time.

A simple time when a family of Hawaiians lived a life of tradition, a life of discipline, and a life of giving.

 And of course their biggest gift of all was Eddie.

Love At First Fright

Posted in Uncategorized on September 29, 2011 by Rottmouth

The Immaculate Mrs. Rottmouth Speaks

By Mrs. Rottmouth:

I was walking down to the beach to meet my cousins and the rest of the family after the drive to Costineşti. Out on the diving raft in the bay, there was the gaggle of my early-teen cousins; skinny, pale boys with birdcage ribs, lanky limbs and crooked teeth. And then, on the far side of the raft a hand rose from the water and grasped the ladder. A tall, slender and milky man pulled himself up the ladder… glistening droplets of water rolling down his slightly sunken chest. His dark brows furrowed in the harsh sun and a broad, white grin began to spread across his square jaw.

I gripped my Auntie’s arm and asked, “Dear GOD, who is that?”

“Oh!” She replied. “That’s Blasphemy!”

I stopped and took another long look. “Blasphemy,” I said. “The sixteen year old exchange student from Astoria, adopted by the House of Röttmouţh at birth?”

I stared in disbelief as he stood, talking to his host, my cousin. He easily towered over Dragomir by a good five inches; yet his spindly biceps were barely larger than Dragomir’s rangy fingers. His legs were solid though. Powerful. Like a runner or a soldier. Or a rabbit

“He’s…he’s a little boy,” I stuttered. “But…he’s a MAN.”

“Yes, well, in ‘Merica they grow fast, you know. At sixteen in ‘Merica, you ARE a man.”

“Yeah, but, do they all look like that?” I asked. “Look at our boys, for goodness sakes!”

“Who know? Maybe it their diet,” She replied casually.

I felt a horrible shame, ogling a child that way. I was eighteen. Old enough to have my own school-age children in those days, and too old, I felt, to be lusting after a teenager. But, there was nothing boy about him, nothing at all.

Back at the house, everyone was toweling off, and someone mentioned my job as an artist to Blasphemy.

“Ah, I have always wanted a painting,” He said, and one hand came up and rubbed his left pectoral. “Right here,” he said, looking into my eyes. “You think it would hurt?”

“Blasphemy!” My aunt barked in broken English. “You talk about tattoo? That you do in ‘Merica. We no do that foolishness here. Not on boys.”

He leaned in closer. I could smell the warmth of his skin, see the fine veil of dark stubble coming in sporadically around his lips. “Maybe you can make it in secret for me?” He smiled devilishly, and I immediately got a hot rush to my loins. My eyes nervously scanned the room for my father, who was, mercifully nowhere in sight.

I licked my lips. “Um, yes, that is okay,” I squeaked. I had heard that in America, young bucks like this would screw the daylights out of wanton older women all day and night if given a chance. My mind immediately raced with the possibilities. Where, how, how not to get caught? Is it pedophilia if HE started it? Am I exploiting him if he’s a willing participant? It’s not like he’s a virgin or anything, there’s no way….

Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, nothing came of it, and I spent the rest of the night surreptitiously gazing at him, hoping he wouldn’t notice, or anyone else for that matter. After all, I was barely a woman, and he was just a boy…or was he?

Eight years later, I visited America for the first time and never permanently returned home. I visited The Röttmouţh’s, who were then living South of Astoria along the heavily wooded coastline. Blasphemy had just returned from school and asked me, trembling in his Mariana-trench voice to dinner my first night there.

The rest is his story.

If Ever Two Pictures, Juxtaposed, Could Mean So Much…

Posted in Uncategorized on September 28, 2011 by Rottmouth


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