Old Guys Rule... Through All The Pain & Medication
Old Guys Rule... Through All The Pain & Medication
by Rusty
The crusty crew of surfers I normally paddle out with have had a lot to deal with lately. Many of us salt & peppered degenerates have really taken a physical beating this year. Our collective seasons of surfing have led up to... one slider replacing both knees, another to swap his calcified hip for space-age titanium and just the other day, a newly minted grandfather, to “Cheater-Five” his way to the emergency room with a dislocated hip. All of these high doses of medication and pain has caused me to seriously question one of surfing’s most marketable slogans, “Old Guys Rule!”
Do we really rule? This old guy has witnessed a significant amount of pain and must fully admit that his own personal threshold for such things is, no bueno.
After surveying a few older guys than myself these past weeks, I have discovered one common thread amongst the healthier old guys; that is, no serious, oxidized, slider has ever squeezed into one of those doomed, cotton-blend, t-shirts.
According to one ageless soul surfer - that I, as an aging grasshopper sit at the feet of - there is only one way to deal with this hex... Fire! “My grand kids love to buy me these kookie shirts and I love those little boogers,” he said with joy and pride beaming from his eyes. “I would never purposely break their little hearts, but for my own personal safety and those in the line-up around me, I torch those communist made pieces of cotton on the grill. As a sacrifice to the surf gods!” And for that sage piece of pain avoidance, I say “Amen!”
Lastly, this is for all my surf brothers who are still in traction or slightly induced comas... The hippy, hippy shakes of 1965′s “Beach Girls and the Monster” - video remix by The Copper Tones.
More Posts from Rustedaloha and Others
Grandkids Are A Pain In My Bare Ass!
by Rusty Folks, it’s no secret that I am old enough to be a Grandparent… Yes! Rusty is the coolest Grandpa ever, to two of the most sticky sweet sand munchkins ever born into this salty world.
I love them so much, my heart literally aches - but I have doctor prescribed meds for that. To say I am a proud grandparent is an understatement. I am swollen with pride - but I have joint medication for that too.
I love these two Groms so much, that I overlook almost every mistake their clueless parents continue to make! Mistakes that continue to happen at the encouragement of my two ex-wives and current domineering spouse… aka, Da Tres Nanas… who endlessly and needlessly spoil these Little Tikes with my hard earned dinero - that is, alimony and cash (stolen, directly from my wallet). Yes, my love for these two Rug Rats is endless, but practical and sound. I would do anything for them, but I am also under no illusions as to how they fit into my life, my world… my rusted reality: They are cute… Bed wetters Cuddly… Playground monsters Gummy Bear eating… Nose pickers SpongeBob watching… TV hogs Go-GURT slurping… Droolers
Complete and total… Money sucking cry babes!
That I love.
But here is the biggest problem I have with this pair of Monkey Butts. Whenever they are dropped off at my casa, which is often, Da Tres Nanas have forbidden me to partake in any herbal activities… Which, I kind of understand. But, here’s the kicker folks, they have mandated that I must remain fully clothed around my precious Keiki. This is not what Grandpa Rusty signed up for! This was never part of the deal when I allowed my offspring to birth their own Water Bugs! As to the weed part of this deal. Again, I am in ‘almost’ 100% agreement that while watching two drunk toddlers, it is probably a good idea to have a clear, smoke free, mind. But having to do so fully clothed is just cruel. I spend everyday, outside of my house, conforming to society’s cotton blend rules. But I’ll be dammed if society is going to make me fashion conscious in front of my TV.
The truth is, outside of my house I mostly wear board shorts, sandals and t-shirts; an occasional aloha shirt. Yet, the moment I come home, the sandals are tossed aside, shirt ripped off… and board shorts become completely optional.
Now, as an audience member reading this, I suppose most of you are thinking, “Rusty, this is too much information. Old dudes like you, should keep their chonies on.” Wrong… I have spent of my life taking care of and pleasing other people - my parents, friends, employers, business partners, offspring, three freaking wives! - I deserve to be the king of my castle; and if I so choose, walk the halls of my suburban fortress in the buff! Even if the Grandpups are hanging around!
But Nooooo! Da “Evil” Nanas, have conspired against me; even organizing a military duty roster that ensures full 24 hour coverage of myself, at home, by at least one of these Fashionista Grannies. The three of them have sworn to my “ultra conservative” offspring to jump me with a full-length rob if any Little Boogers attempts to sneak attack my bare ass.
The truth be told, I can’t beat the Tres Nanas.
There is simply no beating the them… clothed and herb-less I shall remain around these tiny people… but rich in heart and bless in spirit they will make me. Now, where’s my stash, I need to burn-one-down before these little dudes show up. And, oh, I guess the Full Monty needs some camouflage!
Poor Little Willy
by Rusty The other day I experienced a premature stick - usage - problem… Needless to say, this moment left me shocked and embarrassed; feeling like a fumbling grom, who just discovered Alana Blanchard’s cheeky bottom turn.
Yes, in my rush to surf a fresh swell, I allowed my fragile Freudian ego to get the best of me. Anticipating a pumping swell, my salty libido chose to ride a sexy mid-length 7’7”. How quickly did that lyin’ libido let me down! By shrinking all my shreddable powers in front of a full line-up of long-time partners and friends. Scaring my legendary status forever!
The sad truth is, I whipped out and tried to ride a stick the was clearly too small for my advanced age in conditions that were beyond sucky. I fell victim to my own super-ego, believing that I was still a young ripper ready to “Schralp the gnar gnar.”
Well, my gnar gnar did little schralping that morning as I blew my surf load way too early - in high tide - shitty San O’s. Afterwards I felt humiliated, dejected, less of man, bruised and battered. My ego vowed to rack that mid stick forever.
The following morning, I awoke to a pulsing swell and chose to ride my 9’0” log. That solid single fin worked well, but a few buddies of mine keep asking me why I was riding such a big board in above average surf; all of them knowing my proclivity for shredding perky peaks.
In between sets, I lamented about my previous day’s poor performance to a much more seasoned, sage surfer whom I have always looked up to. He listen to me while floating on his board outside the line-up taking in every debasing detail of my humiliating experience. After reliving the horror, he simply chuckled, paddled away and yelled, “Rusty, don’t worry! My doc has some great drugs that will fix your little willy.”
Chummy Uncle Hobart
My family’s deadly history with sharks goes way back to this photo taken in 1916. That’s my Great Uncle Hobart, whom I sadly never got a chance to meet. My Grandfather claimed that Hobart was the chummiest, best looking waterman of his generation. A turn of the century bronze god, but cursed with a vain vanity and thirst for fame! He tragically died after this photo was taken - as these fossilized jaws accidentally snapped shut, cutting him into two bloody pieces.
Please show Uncle Hobart some love and visit Rusted Aloha’s store... linked in my bio… Ohhhh Uncle Hobart… You are forever missed. Love, Rusty!
When did Weed become Kush?
by Rusty
I share this story as a cautionary tale for all of my rusted brethren to heed; and when I say “rusted”, I mean the old school, vintage crew of malcontents that I am honored to still creep, or rather creak, around with. Gentleman, because of some crazy, technical circumstances, I recently discovered that the weed kids are smoking today, is some powerful shit!
As with most stories involving drugs, this all begins very innocently… And as a caveat, to those readers who may not know me personally, I am very fond of Mother Earth’s wacky tobaccy. The truth is, that I have been inhaling since my buddy, Rocco the “Roach”, passed me a joint while sitting in a dank, swampy delta near the Cambodian border… It was only my third day in country and nothing could make that place any better, but it sure helped.
But that was 1968… And this bad trip happen last week, 2016.
Ok, so back to the innocent beginning of this story. My favorite of three wives recently bought me a new sound system. It’s what Barney at Best Buy called a, “A wireless home entertainment system.” I guess my wife got tired of my stereo and classic Hi-Fi speakers taking up half the space in our living room. Even though, I especially felt that the speakers nicely accentuated our shag carpeting and lava lamp, but she disagreed.
This new sound system has basically has two pieces, a speaker bar and sub-woofer, but no freaking wires to connect them. After a few hours of trial and error and a few beers, I finally figured out how to hook-up the speaker bar to our TV, avoiding a serious spousal crisis - She must never, ever miss her telenovelas!
Everything basically stayed the same for the next three weeks… speaker bar hooked up, woofer behind the couch, inoperative and next to a huge box of technical instructions.
That is, until one sunny afternoon, when I cut out of work early to slide a few Boneyard peelers. It was a classic sessh, logging at high tide with a bunch of the old crew. As always a few young interlopers, “Jetty-Rats”, crashed our geezer party; led in particular, by one kid, whom I have watched grow up for many seasons. He is the spawn of a great family that I have known forever. A respectful young man who rips Salt Creek on a shortie and oozes serious style on a log everywhere else.
For whatever reason I shared with him in the line-up my wireless dilemma and he gave me a few pointers to fix it. Then afterwards in the parking lot, while we were packing away our boards in the day’s last light, he offered to fallow me home and fix my technical headache.
We got to my place and Wham-Bam-Thank-You-Mam, the kid hooked up the sub-woofer, adjusted the sound and room settings; even hooked up my old turntable and showed me how to operate everything from my smartphone (now if I could only make the font bigger on that “smart” phone, I’d be stoked!)
The kid got everything working and did it all within ten minutes of walking through my casa’s door, barefoot!
Afterwards, while we were flipping through some of my old vinyl the kid spotted something I normally have tucked away... “Stella”… my favorite of many bongs, like wives, I have collected throughout the years. The kids eye’s were completely transfixed on that smoking apparatus! He reached for it and with the complete reverence of a Kung-Fu Grasshopper asked if he could spark that sucker up! I, being the good influence, I have always been in this young man’s life... Agreed.
Trust me, this is still all very innocent… This kid is actually in his early twenties, a graduate of a local university and works hard as some kind of app coder in the tech industry. I am not subverting some unknowing tween. In fact, it was I, who unknowingly was being introduced to elements by this kid that will forever color my world.
We took Stella out to the back patio and I loaded up the bowl up with my standard herb, buds that I still get from my buddy, Roach (He has been my lifelong friend and weed supplier. Actually, since his retirement, Rocco's product has gotten even smoother. I think much of it has to do with how he intermingles his home-grown weed amongst his award winning roses.)
We both shared a few hits that I really enjoyed, yet the kid seemed disappointed.
“Rusty, I need to bring you into the 21st century dude,” the kid mumble as he got up and walked out to his truck.
He came back to the patio with a zip lock baggy of buds and a what looked like an ID.
“Rusty, this is my Medical Marijuana card,” he slid across the table. “And this is what eases my ‘Anxiety’. Without it, I would have never graduated last year.”
The professional looking sticker on the side of the bag read, “Cannatonic Granddaddy Purple Kush.”
Well, he opened that baggy and sprinkled just a little bit of it into Stella’s bowl and we began to hit that kush hard! Drawing in smooth, silky purple hits of medical grade marijuana. It was Goodddddd!
Then this old fart hit the Granddaddy wall… or most of that shameful wall crashed down upon me… brick by brick!
I don’t know what really happen, I Can’t Remember!!!
My favorite third wife informed me the next morning that she came home and found the kid and I on the back patio. I apparently was higher than all of the Merry Pranksters who partook in Ken Kesey’s Kool Acid Test. She and the kid carried me into the living room where I proceeded to blast my favorite Barry Manilow album on my new wireless home entertainment system.
The wife nicely got rid of the kid and things only got worse… my clothes came off as Barry began to croon about “Mandy”. She threaten to divorce me, and Stella, as I attempted to reignite it during “Copacabana”, which then caused me to bust into a chorus of “I Can’t Smile Without My Bong.”
My wife clearly had her hands full. She told me that somewhere around Manilow’s tune, “I Write The Songs”, she locked herself in our bedroom, with the bong, and called my previous wives for advice.
I guess the cannatonic portion of the purple kush kicked in as side two of Manilow Greatest Hits scratched the end. I pasted out, face down, nude, on the couch only to be awoken by a kiss on the cheek from my favorite wife. Her affection overwhelmed my aching head. Then she slapped my bare ass and screamed at me, “You are now officially forbidden to ever smoke dope with anyone more than 40 years your junior!”
To which I replied, “Oh, Mandy!”
Aloha.
Barry Manilow - Mandy
The Toyes - Smoke Two Joints
Only Pottz Can Save Pro… Surfing!
Last week the WSL officially announced the death of this year’s 2020 tour and a retooled 2021 list of events... But lets get real, only Martin Potter can save Pro Surfing! Here is a serious question for all you Pro Surfer lovers out there… Since the onset of COVID-19 and the shutdown of the World Surf League’s 2020 Pro Tour… Have you really missed Pro Surfing? Did you miss the sunny opening leg on Australia’s Gold Coast or her cold slabs at Bells or Margaret River? Maybe the itch you were looking to scratch was some live Indo? Or were you looking to gawk at the sandy thongs of Brazil’s Oi Rio Pro!?! I know I miss J-Bay… I miss everything about that cold, sharky, right hand point break! Teahupo’o? Slater’s ranch in Lemoore? No! The European Leg? Da Pipe Masters? Be honest… No You Don’t! Didn’t! Haven’t! Read More - Da Bob - Medium
The Rusted Wives Club
by Rusty
About every 3 months or so, I undergo a Cardiac Stress Test. It is not by any means a pleasurable medical experience and normally leads me to examine many of my life's questionable decisions. But none the less, this medical inquiry offers my loved ones a measured sense of reassurance that my old, rusted butt is going to keep paddling around this watery planet… just a little bit longer.
The seriousness of this medical procedure really should not be understated. To ensure that my heart - and head - are in the right place before I undergo this test, my wife encourages me to find my “Happy Place” by hanging out at the beach and surfing with the boys. She understands that a good morning in the surf helps relax me, calms me down, puts me into that zen type place, “that only a surfer knows.”
It took me three wives to find the right lady, but #3 totally gets me.
With my toes freshly sanded and hair still salty, I am ready to have all the wires and electrodes attached to my wrinkled body… I have to say, it sucks getting old. With each year the probing and prodding of my anatomy gets deeper and deeper, sometimes reaching soul piercing depths.
So this is how the test normally starts; again, this happens about once every three months... I come home from a sunny surf session and find all three of My wives, in My living room, sipping several bottles of My wine… 2 Former Wives + 1 Current Wife = Spousal Overload... Instant Heart Attack or what my doctor has diagnosed as a Cardiac Stress Test!
If I was actually hooked up to an EKG machine, at that shocking moment, it would fucking blow up!
These “Tres Señoras de Rusty” love to do this to me; they love to see the horror on my face, the fear in my eyes, the sweat build up on my upper lip. They love to redline Rusty’s old ticker!
Once the initial shock wears off, after I gulp down a glass of wine, the inevitable questions of my actual health come up. Because folks, here’s the bottom, without me, this “Rusted Wives Club” would have no financing!
This medical farce is actually a quarterly business meeting, called to order by the three owners’ of “Rusted Beauties.” Each quarter’s agenda consists of only one bullet point and that is simply my health; or rather their complex, non-medical assessment of my well-being and how that could affect their lavish purses. For the three of them, it is a fun afternoon of risk management done over a few bottles of wine. For me, it’s the fuel that will ensure that I outlive them all!
Aloha.
Doctor My Eyes - Jackson Browne Doctor, my eyes Tell me what is wrong Was I unwise to leave them open for so long
DjKK Wins Wipeout Of The Year 2020
DJ Keala Kennelly banked this year’s 2020 Red Bull Big Wave Wipeout of the Year.
It was her fin free take-off at Jaws that quickly morphed into an aquatic, cement skipping, triple somersault down the face of Maui’s most notorious north side break that secured Keala this never-sought-after, but seriously revered, surf recognition.
Important to note, Keala has always been a freakin’ charger as well as a force for equal pay for women in surfing — AND the inclusion of more ladies onto the big wave circuit; she successfully pushed for women’s inclusion at the Titans of Mavericks.
Read More - Da Bob - YEW
Patiently… Dealing With Life’s Kooks
by Rusty
There is a Zen thing all true surfers seem to tap into at some point during their salty existence. This happens when the impatience of youth surrenders to the power of Mother Nature. When a true surfer recognizes and accepts the swells, tides, waxing & waning moons… This centered place of Zen can only be learned over time; time spent searching for the right position to catch watery ripples of energy, seconds of time spent joyfully sliding, trimming and riding that amazing energy. The more time us flawed humans spend diving into the ocean, the more we discover how small we really are, in this big and crazy world. For the open minded, this all translates into the graceful gift of patience.
So, how come the older I get, the more impatient I grow everywhere else in my life?
I have no patience for my neighbors… Please mow your lawns and take down last year’s Christmas lights!
No patience for all you kooks on my freeway!
No patience for people who walk around while staring at their cellphones!
I have not patience for anything Bluetooth!!!
No patience for my expensive “High-Speed” internet! Freaking load already!
No patience for the gum-chewing blonde pharmacy assistant, who always forgets to refill my life-depending meds!.
No patience for $4.50 Grande Lattes! Hey kid, all I want is a black cup of coffee... To go!
No patience for airport security… How many TSA kooks does it take to waive a magnetic wand around my junk?
No patience for the “New Math” my grandkids don’t understand!
No patience for 909ers who show up at San O’s during a good swell and create a never ending line just to get down the hill… Pick up your trash & go home!
Oh shit… where’s my Xanax? I need to go surfing and get my thumping blood pressure under control.
Aloha Kooks!!!
This is dedicated to all you 909er’s (951, 657, 760…) You know exactly who you are! Surf Punks - My Beach
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tylerspangler liked this · 8 years ago -
rustedaloha reblogged this · 8 years ago
I hate people who trash the beach & don’t share waves! Groms & their shitty music! Kooks who ride Costco foam boards! But my aloha spirt is still alive.
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