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Intro

 

 

 

By Cira Riedel

 

 

 

We have introduced Jamie as our poet on so many occasions already; this time we have allowed him to introduce himself: “I was a pro surfer at the end of the eighties and I resolved to become a writer at the start of the nineties. Since then I have worked on film, photography and text-heavy projects whilst at the same time working on my memoirs about all the above-mentioned activities.“ Though he has neglected to mention it, he is also the author of several books. One of these is entitled: We Approach Our Martinis With Such High Expectations. A title we ourselves regard as particularly interesting. “I am married to a hot, sexy Brazilian from Sao Paulo, love red wine and 70s porn. I have spent most of my life travelling…“.
When we read his text, we thought the feeling it most conveyed was hope. Like a photo album full of memories of a vibrantly colourful and romantic time, the adventure of being young. Jamie lives in NYC and L.A.

 

 

 

www.jamiebrisick.com

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Veruschka

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Hot German Chicks, Bob Dylan, and the Fucked Up Way in Which We View Women at Age Nineteen

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By Jamie Brisick

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Photography Corey Duffel by Brian Gaberman

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WSA District 4 Invitational at Malibu, circa ’85. I’m crazy for a Germanic blonde called Veruschka, who my good pal Booger also happens to be pursuing. Not only did Veruschka reside in Germany for a few years, thus exuding a kind of Euro-sophistication that makes your typical LA girl look like some kinda cotton candy valley bitch, but she also lives with her step mom in a house overlooking Zuma 10, my regular surf spot. This motivates me to no end, considering I occasionally look up and see her sitting on her back porch gazing out to sea, watching my dazzling snaps and screaming cutbacks, gauging my abilities in the bedroom on the basis of how well I ebb and flow with the waves.
So Veruschka’s at the contest on the Saturday and Booger and I are doing the dance around her, never for a second failing to recognize her presence but rarely addressing her directly, as you do when you’re eighteen and emotionally stunted. We don’t talk about it, but we both know that whoever places higher in the event is the one that gets the girl.
In the afternoon, after we’ve both advanced to the quarter-finals held the following morning, Booger asks if I want to stay over at his house in Point Dume, a rustic, exclusive little community that sits on the headland between Malibu and Zuma.
“Sure,” I say. “Love to.”
His cabin-like, glass-and-wood house amongst the trees, it turns out, is right next to Bob Dylan’s Malibu property, and before going to sleep that night, in one of those campfire scenes where flames dance, stars twinkle and crickets chirp—only we’re actually inside the house so it’s more of an imagined thing—Booger tells me about Bob’s gypsy wife, who prefers to live in a small caravan in the backyard rather than the main house. He tells me how Bob is sometimes seen wandering down PCH, playing his guitar and singing (the line between bum and superstar blurred); how late at night he’ll occasionally hear him strumming on the back porch, working out songs. Whether or not the stories are true is beside the point. Suddenly the entire community of Point Dume becomes illuminated, and for the next few years, despite my jockish pursuits and bumper-stickered boards and fluoro bike shorts, I’m prepared at any given time to see Bob, which casts a kind of homespun, poetic light on the otherwise over-glossed Malibu. My romantic dreams shift to gypsy women, misfits, patchouli-stinking hippie chicks with hairy armpits and natty heads. I scribble things like, “Don’t shower, don’t douse yourself in Eternity or Chanel No. 5—let me smell you!” in my journal. I see one-night stands in an anthropological light, an opportunity to experience another person. I’m as interested in the things they hang on their bedroom walls as in what’s between their legs.
The following morning Booger beats me in the contest and a week later I see him and Veruschka together at John’s Garden, sipping lemonade and having a good time. But it’s all cool with me, I rationalize, many of man’s greatest achievements have their roots in unrequited love.

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Scott Sullivan

By Cira Riedel

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The old Cowboy and snowboard photographer has already rocked on several occasions at different events and his songs make quite a few riders’ long journeys more fun. His tracks have been used to embellish Absinthe’s snowboard films and he is often called the human juke box, for his repertoire rival’s that of an iPod. Over the years Scotty has become a good mate of ours and when he played me the songs he was considering for Jamie Brisick’s text, they were so catchy that I couldn’t get them out of my head for weeks. He even joked that he found the idea and Jamie’s text so good that he might just release a mini-album to mark the occasion. I must confess that I couldn’t immediately decide which of the different versions to choose. Thanks Scotty, you were the first person to get on board!

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Lyrics:

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„Veruschka“ by Scott Sullivan
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Veruschka, I‘m crazy, for a petite Germanic blonde
But I’m saving myself to reside where I don’t belong
Sophisticated lady, makes your typical California girl
Look so plastic and silicon and I’ve tasted this for far too long
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Suddenly I see we are all alone
Its 1985 and we are still at home
With neon signs that point to all these
Wishes and Dreams
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She lives with her mom by the beach
By a place that holds a place in my heart
I’m floating and racing my enemy
To hold her arm
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Suddenly I see we are still alive
Its 1989 and we cant hear the lies
Stories cant explain what’s come over me
these Wishes and these Dreams
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Suddenly I see we are all alive
Its 1985 with these neon lights
Stories cant explain what’s come over me
these Wishes and these Dreams
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