Admiral Cod On Tour: Santa Barbara

Freedom In Living

All around me I hear the sound of those bemoaning their misfortune to have been born in interesting times. It's feeble sentiment, wishing things were otherwise. They're not. There's no turning back the clock. We move forward. The only sensible approach is a 'yes-saying' to life, to fortune, and a readiness to ride the tiger. The chaos brings with it certain opportunities, that, if one has been prudent, can be assumed to one's advantage. Like a bird of prey, I've done precisely that.

The advent of the InterWebs has meant an acceleration of information exchange. The quality, however, is lacking. Even the most moronic among us have it in their head that somehow their opinion matters. Many say, but few actually do. Screen time is no substitute for life. From an appropriated corner of reality we can make flesh-and-blood connections and achieve success in the field, enlarging as we go our infinite existential universe. There is freedom in living. We patrol the space beyond the borders, frontier scouts scaling the wall of time and being.

Schmiß

For The Love Of Success

Last weekend I nailed a young brunette hottie 12 years my junior.

We met at a wine bar in Newport Beach. Bored and companionless for the evening, I had decided to go out on my own. I stood at the bar, drinking cabernet sauvignon, watching a recording of the Germany-Greece football match from earlier in the day. I can appreciate good wine--I was practically raised on the stuff--but I'm just not that into it. Still, female wine drinkers can be an amusingly superficial, silly lot and wine bars tend to attract a certain kind of young woman. Years of hitting the upscale bar scene alone or with a friend or two have made me extremely confident in this environment.

Surrounded by an orbit of flirtatious women in tight clothing, whose interest in me was as obvious as their perfume was strong, I noticed her sitting with another girl at a nearby table. When her friend momentarily got up and left, I walked over, smiling, wine glass in hand. She looked like a much younger version of the actress Marisa Tomei. I said something that made her laugh, ordered her another glass, and then said we should get two seats at the bar where I could watch the end of the game. Her friend returned briefly, and then said her goodbyes. Later, over a bottle of pinot noir, we discovered shared tastes in politics, movies, and sex. She was recently separated, she told me, and lived nearby with a roommate.

She tried to spring a jealousy shit test on me. When she started chatting with two young men at a nearby table who had been staring at her, I merely laughed and gently encouraged her. They were friendly chaps and the conversation soon turned to Euro 2012. When one of them made a suggestive remark to her, she rubbed my back and replied: "No, he doesn't get jealous". Which is true. From that moment she couldn't take her hands off me, slowly rubbing her hips on my thigh or stroking my large, tanned forearms.

At my place she stood in the library, glass of water in hand, admiring the books, framed prints, and various exotic souvenirs, occasionally asking a question about one item or another. We soon kissed, undressed, and went upstairs. She smelled deliciously of coconut body oil. In between bouts of sweaty sex, where I pounded her into the bed, she discussed her failing marriage. She made a comment that I found very interesting: "I don't want a man to feel as if his happiness depends on me." Obvious, of course, but the reminder alone was worth the soaked, stained sheets. It is something that all men, expecially single men, should take to heart and be reminded of now and then. One's happiness does not depend on a woman, but rather on achieving success in other arenas, at the office, on the sports field, in the studio, or in battle. Satisfaction comes from manly accomplishment. Stay focused and take your own side first. Put yourself above all--and women will, too.

That was several days ago. I haven't contacted her since. I did find an elastic hairband of hers on the floor behind the bed, which I disposed of in case certain interested parties found it. But last night, as I was draining the last cocktail of the evening and getting ready to head upstairs to bed, she texted me: "I've been thinking about Friday night. I want more of what you've got". Stay tuned.

Croquet Style

Thor Steinar Bikini Original

ne plus hésiter

"Ne plus hésiter, ne plus reculer devant rien. Aller jusqu’au bout de toute chose, quelle qu’elle soit, de toutes mes forces. N’écouter que son impérialisme."

Jean-René Huguenin, Journal (1964)

Porterhouse Blue: Present Economic Circumstances

Sir Godber Evans: Don't you find this a little indulgent? Particularly in the present economic circumstances.

Dean: Oh, we never bother with "present economic circumstances".

Senior Tutor: We find that they tend to go away after fifty years or so.
 
Porterhouse Blue (1987)

Reds Don't Surf !

N is for Nationalist

Bahamas

Underwater Stalking: Pressure At One-Atmosphere

It's tourist season in Laguna Beach. Time to abandon the main beaches. Hordes of dowdy out-of-towners pick over the tide pools like hungry shorebirds hunting sandcrabs. Whole families of exotic foreigners congregate on the boardwalk in formal clothes watching the tanned beach-volleyball players. The rocky coves, inaccessible to our bloated visitors, are far less crowded at this time of year.

I met my chum Grant on a Saturday morning to go spearfishing. The sky was overcast as it usually is at this time of day. The sport is illegal in Laguna Beach at the moment, but we sneak in anyway, using a friend's beachfront home in a gated community as our launch site. (Fuck the hippies). So far, so good.

Grant broke up with his girlfriend a couple of weeks ago. He was drunk and called her on her chick-bullshit in an expletive-filled diatribe. She was a hottie, for sure, but it was a long time coming. His frustration with her had been building for several months, he explained, and now it came flooding out in a torrent of hot relief, like a virgin on his wedding night. Three days of angry phone calls, emails, and texting ensued. And now, peace.

On the rocky beach we put on Riffe camo wetsuits over our Quiksilver boardshorts. The water temperature was still in the high 50s, requiring at least a 3mm suit. Our guns lay beside us on the pebbles. Mine was a mid-handle teak Riffe. I favour the mid-handle model for its comfort and maneuverability, although it may be excessive for shallow reef dives. Grant's was a state-of-the-art Cressi Comanche 75cm.

He was mostly quiet. I could tell he was still bothered by what had gone down. I'm not here, I told him, to give advice on girls. So what can I say? Let's go kill some fish.

We waded into the surf. The shore break was heavy, making it difficult to stay upright. We put on our split fins, mask, and snorkel and then swam about sixty yards out where the new kelp beds broke through the surface. Visibility was about 10 to 15 feet. I could see large bat rays sweeping along the sandy flats. A school of sand bass moved away from us on our left. A constant surge swept the kelp back and forth. We hovered above the rocks seeking sheepshead and calico bass. We had decided on one fish each. After about 30 minutes Grant managed to spear a bass. I was content to leave empty-handed this time. It was getting cold, so we headed for shore.

"No sign of him today", said Grant, referring to the white shark he and some buddies had seen in these waters two months ago. "As big as a horse", was how they described it.

On the beach we peeled off the top half of our suit. It was getting a little warmer now. Grant put his fish in a plastic Albertson's bag. Just off shore we could see a pod of SCUBA divers moving across the cove like ridiculous turtles.

He smiled. "Okay, dude, let's go do some fish tacos and watch surf vids on my 40 inch."

"Sounds good to me".

We passed some tide pools and started climbing the hillside. I once found a small octopus stranded in one of these pools, squeezed in between some rocks.

"Why did you do it?", I asked him later.

He thought for a minute. "I just wanted to see if I could", he replied.

Within a few days of the break-up, he told me, he was fucking two local girls that he kept on the side for emergencies. In fact, throughout their relationship, he had a stash of other girls (including a hot escort whom we both know well) that he regularly tapped into as the needs arose. And arose they did, with a vengeance.

Palm Springs Tennis Club

© Slim Aarons ca. 1970



Life Is Its Own Answer

“I have something to fight for and live for; that makes me a better killer. I’ve got what amounts to a religion, now. It’s learning how to breathe all over again. And how to lie in the sun getting a tan, letting the sun work into you. And how to hear music and how to read a book. What does your civilization offer?”

'—And the Moon Be Still as Bright,' The Martian Chronicles, Ray Bradbury (1950)  

Autobahn (Kraftwerk)

Vert d'Absinthe

Fashion Victim

A Guide To Facial Hair Types

Mjölnir

For the last several months I've been wearing a small replica of Mjölnir, or Thor's Hammer (at left). It symbolises, I suppose, a final transformation, a gesture of resistance, or, perhaps more accurately, a restoration of bio-cultural identity. But I tend not to think too deeply about it; I'll leave the analysis to the intellectuals. Wearing it at the beach or pool occasionally I get curious looks from people; I've noticed these same individuals often wear a cross or surf pendant, or sport curious facial hair or tattoos. All rather conventional statements. How do you turn your revolt into style?

Fritz !

Pyjamarama (Roxy Music)

Prussian Dagger

Pictured (at left) is an exclusive photo of one of my German knives. I acquired it about 20 years ago from a hunting and fishing shop in rural Connecticut. I used it extensively during my fly- fishing trips around Connecticut and New York. Today it occupies a spot on my desk, where it is more likely to be used to carve some prime rib than fillet a freshly-caught Brook Trout.

Coriolanus