Musings on the Imagination.

Most of the posts on MazReal read as meaningless drivel, maybe inane musings and possibly downright laughable childish crap or even silly willy [sic] and I agree with all of it. They are. But they are based on one important thing that is seriously lacking today and that is the use of the imagination.

This is what I think is happening here and as semi-retired/retired people we hopefully have time to think and muse and use our minds in more esoteric, individual,inward  ways than just thinking of ideas to get through every day and wake up the next. These are the things that the majority of people on this planet have the misfortune to think on, how to get through the day and live. 

Think about it, we live in a period of history where nothing miraculous really happens ( I am not alluding to bread and fishes and raising Lazarus and healing lepers) and we have no geniuses. We have no Gandhi, no da Vinci or Michelangelo, no Freud, Karl Marx, Newton, Descartes, Shakespeare or Milton. All these people had ideas that to todays generation would have been thought of as downright fanciful or ridiculous or even dangerous. Most of them belonged to secret societies of one form or another wherein one was positively encouraged to explore really deep into the imagination. So deep in some cases they experienced death.

Today I am willing to say we have no imagination. We have lost the ability or the will to go deeper into our consciousness and think crazy thoughts, stupid ideas, ridiculous musings because we believe in a matter-before mind philosophy where governments purport to do our thinking for us. It's better for them. They believe they will get no dissent from men and women who have the imagination to think and thereby rock the boat and if they do come across such people who formulate dissent or weird ideas, they quickly nip them in the bud - 

Anna Politkovskaya, Tianenmen Square, Arab Spring Syria - you know the rest
even down to such things as of lack of government art funding thereby stifling debate from artists with too much time on their hands.

We are living in a scientific-materialistic universe where there is no room to be mad, to take of your clothes and roll in mud and stand on Speakers' corner in Hyde Park and rant. We think of those people as lunatics. However anyone who did that in the era of our grandparents would have been thought of as lucid or maybe thought of as a genius and maybe what crazy things they did say actually had deep meaning. Our consciousness is different from our heirs. Although it is probably more liberal and sympathetic and conscious of class, race, gender, less respectful of authority, more commercially motivated and all those good ideas. But go back to our great grandparents and our consciousness would be very different. Continue backwards and soon you will come to a time when we all lived inside our heads in a dreamworld like the aboriginals of Australia.

What I am saying is that we have lost the ability to use our imagination. Many geniuses developed it to produce what we have today in philosophy and medicine and physics. By and large the people who have most changed history have not been the great generals and politicians but artists and thinkers. An individual sitting alone in a room giving birth to an idea can do more to change the course of history that Napolean on the battlefield.

In a mind-before-matter philosophy there is the excitement in thinking. It is not just what we say or do but what I think that affects our fellow humans. The leaders tell us not to ask the big questions, just get on with it. They mistrust the imagination and associate it with fantasy and illusion but by using the imagination we got Leonardo da Vinci, Shakespeare and Mozart. Where are the like of those people today?

Imagination is the key.


Amen.


Christ, I eventually got that of my chest. Time to go back inside my head. Ta Ta.




Now we can get back to silly things like sexy men's underwear and Marlene Dietrich on a bike in big clothes using her imagination to the extreme. (bet she's never placed her superstar ass on a bike saddle in earnest)

Badly Dressed Tourists Rant.

Monthly Rant..............

Following on from last post commenting on how tidy and smart most Indians are when promenading or even travelling as tourists here's a few examples of how badly us Americans or Europeans (Italians the exception) dress when wandering around the streets of a foreign country. Latins like Indians are generally smart when strolling the streets of a mediterranean sunlit resort.

What is it about us that we have to dress sloppily like we are lounging around our sitting room watching television with our bellies hanging out stuffing snacks into our gaping mouths. 

I know they are Latin tourists because they are family.

Germans. Now these guys should be taken aside and given a good talking to.

English. Not only is man shirtless but he has an old man's greasy ponytail which is the crowning glory in ultra bad styling sense.

WE like tattoos though if they are stylish in fact I'm off to get one or two soon.

Now this man knew how to cut a dash..........

Cary Grant knew how to dress casual even when he was having breakfast in the South of France or even while he was chased by an aeroplane in the country. Still wearing a pressed classic white shirt and thin dark tie with a charcoal suit dashing through the maize fields and diving in the dirt. 

This is the way to go when you go out to dinner in the plazuela or local restaurant. Charles (never to be King) looks like a smug prat sitting in his fancy gold chair but I bet your average tourist would cut quite a dash with this outfit down at Pedro's and Lola's.

The wearer of this get-up could even at the end of an evening jump on a table shout some slogans and looking like some cheap-skate banana republic wanna-be dictator with those medals and gold and sword and epaulettes, he'll have a revolution in no time. (lucky the UK citizens love their monarchy so much or he'll be up against a wall very quickly dressed like that in any other sensible country)

The D-6 From Agua Verde to El Walamo

Route D-6 connects El Rosario to Villa Union in the Mexican state of Sinaloa. It passes SW through the small town of Agua Verde, through a salt marsh when it hits the coast and turns abruptly NW for 52 or so dead straight kms then abruptly NE and onto El Walamo and Villa Union. The coastal road passes through coconut plantation and chilli farms and the the sparse traffic is composed of trucks full of chillies and trucks full of itinerant chilli pickers many of whom live in squat shacks outside El Rosario. 

This road holds a fascination for me in a non-auditory contemplative way where occurrences happen in slow motion through the super-heated atmosphere. Maybe because the road is so straight that when a car or bicycle comes wobbling into distant view through the perspective of coconut trees, they take what seems forever to grow normal size then they pass by in a blur, their noise muffled for a few seconds in the heat then silently they continue in slow motion disappearing into a hot tar  haze the other side. The palms leaves move in the breeze without sound and the only auditory events are distant surf overlaid with bird trills and dry insect noises fills the empty space. It's a pleasant contemplative atmosphere where you can happily submit yourself to its quietude.

Warning: We take no responsibility if people take themselves out there and fail to attain the same internal feelings as the authors. The self conscious is highly subjective.

We also advise people to watch in full screen Hi Def and full volume. 

SlowpokeGold Classic Surf Weekend Interview with Surf Akamahi Duke Malakai

M monthly magazine came out yesterday celebrating the onset of summer and a couple of articles caught our eye. One being the Quicksilver Surfing Weekend and the interview with organiser Luis Skeen.  But few people know of the alternative surfing competition happening further up the coast called the SlowpokeGold Surf Weekend where the hard core guys and awesome wahines turn up to scope The Zone. This group are mainly surf trolls who live out backs of their cars

MazReal sent our babelicious ace surf correspondent and beach bunny Casey 'Crash' Kling down to the beach to meet the organiser of the upcoming SlowpokeGold Classic Surf Weekend, that primo brah rad surfer  Duke 'Stoned Crow' Malakai also know as the comeback kid. Crash began by asking him:



Q. Put it here Stoned Crow. Can I call you Stoned or Crow? 


A. Aloha dudette. Call me Dickhead if you want. Anything man. I'm not really into names or gender.


Q. Thanks Dickhead. Any tips for beginners or folks wanting to learn?

A: Dude you just look for the best barrels dude, you just like pull in and you just get spit right outta them, you just drop in and just smack the lip WAAAPHAAA, drop down and BWAAAAAH and after that you just drop in and ride the barrel again get so pitted and so pitted like that till you are in the bone-yards man but don't be fuckin' clucked by the breaks man. Da Cute dude.

Q. Best surfing experience?

A. Fo' Shua doooowed i had this gnarlatious experience on O'ahus North Shore the world's big wave magnet on a dawn patrol and this beach man had all its meatballs out and fully mackin' some gnarly grinders with corduroy to the horizon out there and giving me pucker factory dodging all those black tipped Noahs. I was amped man but could only see ankle busters inside and booga boogas out on the fucking beach man. Anyway with a side eye a ground swell took off with a sleeper set and I knew it was time for honkers man and suddenly this off the richter momboosaloid came out of fuckin' nowhere man, I gave that wave the stink eye man and careful not to schnarf it I knew I'd better t.o.a.d and screamed "YEP fucking BANZAI" and I was outta there ridin' a coffin down the avalanche. It was kinda crab man but i didn't care man and before i knew it I was in a double spinner, then hang ten, then droppin' and radically cuttin back into el rollo and an elevator drop. I was full on surfing man. Next a headstand and a head dip and I hit the lip. I was hot-doggin' dude till suddenly this deak dragger did a shoulder hopper and I was gone, eighty sixed and full on spinning through the glasshouse and into the impact zone. Next thing I knew I was having a sand facial and selling buicks man on account of the neptune cocktail. It was a bad over the falls man the worst and I was noodle dude but alive. And to make it ever worse this purplified queeb sidles up and says " Hey man you got a woofy stuck to your your arse?" Jesus I'd lost my fucking baggies and was bare-assed. It was bummer dud.


Q: Your worst moment?


A: A friend talked me into surfing Fat Dick's in 1792.  The incoming tsunami wave coming as a result of the Krakatoa explosion was probably 1000 feet, and had it caught me, I went into some kind of psychotic panic episode underwater. I paddled up the face just as the lip started to fringe, and I was just about vertical as I crested the thing and fell down the backside, making little whining noises in my throat. 



Q: What started your fascination with surfing? What keeps that passion going today?



A: Doris, my mom who is much younger than me, visited our San Fernando Valley house in 1965, threw her 12'6" Hobie in the pool, stood me in the middle of the board and pushed me into the deep end.. I was five and she nearly drowned me.  Literally and figuratively by holding my head under water saying this'll do you good sometime son. After heavy resuscitation and chest pounding I came round still clutching that board. By '69 we were living in Venice Beach, and I was still holding that board not wanting to let it go. 


Q. When did you get interested in surfing?

A. Before the Partwii, Lauren, the cyborg, bus surfed over to Mickey D’s with his brofriend Chuck D and bought a McGangbang happy meal with the funds that he jacked from his sugar momma after his disco nap that afternoon. Big C pulled out his phone from his nuthuggers and started sexting a ginger slice with a tramp stamp that he had been friendly following ever since they shared a game of Jager pong. Lauren gave DeeDee the air jerk as he noticed Tanasa the grade digger that sat next to him on the break water. Lauren gave her the “let’s just be friends” nod and grabbed his happy meal. As Lauren walked outside he saw, Bruce, the designated bodybasher, as he started wailing teenybopper show tunes. Bruce was manstrating again and wanted his fix of Dr. Pepper and Big league chew. The night of celebrating Lauren’s nomotion had barely even started and already he was knackered.


Q. Tell me about your surfboards?


A. Yep, my original board, it started out to be a Potater, then I got a Weeber Puffyormer, shaped by Horald Figgy himself- the master! Could barely fit it under my arm, you know one of those type of boards you dragged everywhere you went. The fin was duct taped on, so that, you know, everytime I hit rocks and stuff, it would pretty much bend and stay on. Dings, you never fixed dings, but then it was hard to ding a board back then because they were built so strong. Products were really, really heavy duty. The resin out there was just very inexpensively hi-tech. So, boards didn't break like they do now back then. But then you only needed one. Now you've got a fleet of twenty and you only use about three or four of them, then you give the rest away. It's definitely not as soulful as it used to be


Q. Tell me about the SlowpokeGold Classic?


A. Todos is a big nalu, Mavericks is gnarly wave, extremely bombora, the conditions are very elite- its for an elite group of people. I prefer to stay here, down at Waimea or Sunset, or two foot V-land, its all the same- for fun. But if you throw money into it, you get guys doing it for the wrong reasons. Its like dangling a golden carrot in front of people.


Q. Convince us to come to the SlowpokeGold Classic Weekend June 1-5


A. Whaaaadja say dude? The Slowpoke Gold man is the most bodacious surf competition/Festival ever in Mexico's ancient surfing history that began with the Olmecs man  - a bitchin' contest fer sure,  it's the choice brah, dirty food, gnarlacious bands and a  unique lifestyle.


It's Hawaiian time dudette no more on MJ, I'm outta here.




Thanks to Duke 'Stoned Crow' Malakailahoolahoolhan.

MazReal Reveals It's Identitiy. Here At Last Are The STAFF!!!

 Ce.leb.ri.ty -
1 : The state of being well known
2 : A famous person.

Our staff have just returned from that (in)famous photographic studio on Benito Fandango Boulevard so they can present themselves in the best possible light to the millions out there who have no hair because they have torn it all out at the sheer frustration of not knowing who the hell have been behind the stratospheric success of this journal. The MazReal writers, photographers, film makers and those famous for being in the right place at the right time (One member of our circle was caught WeeGee style in a raided brothel in Shanghai with a horse nose bag full of what could have been cocaine, hanging bollock naked upside down with a toilet brush in one hand and a screeching cat in the other) have been itching to get down to that famous Mazatlán downtown photographic studio owned by the international acclaimed snapper - Count toni von Spondooli Vagondross (He insistes on the small 't'), better known as toni d' Mazatlán.

It's damn stressful having to lead a Mata Hari lifestyle, flitting from one den of iniquity door to another and not being recognised and mobbed in the streets. What is celebrity without the adulation, without the fame, without being written about, without the lawsuits, the tantrums, not getting the  best tables in restaurants, never jumping the queues, not having the opportunity of putting our names to famous brands, punching paparazzi and spouting racist comments when drunk and often when not drunk?


We canna take it any more Jim......................

Now, thank Yahweh we can take off those false beards, get rid of those bananas down our pants, prosthetic noses and bald wigs and wrap around sunglasses and stroll the boulevards of this fine city in all our fabulous imperial glory.

HERE YOU ARE, THE STAFF..............................

The head honcho, el jefe, tribal chief, gaffer, chief nob, political boss and top dog money man McInley 'Muddy'  Morganfield looking dapper in his expensive gerbil leather flying jacket with soft collar of  New Guinea tribeman's beards. (sixty were slaughtered just to furnish that collar). Muddy just flew himself in specially on his Airbus A380 for the shoot from his 3 trillion acre game lodge on the Sirenguti Plains of South West Namaqualand South Efrica . He has already flown back after the shoot to be with his harem of 7 foot tall Batoonka tribeswomen, six Colly dogs, a Pug and best his friend - a horse named Su and his hillside of Moroccan prime marijuana and Dutch Skunk trees so we won't seeing that cheap skate bastard again.


Good riddance and don't come back you cheap low down shoyn nudnik, go Iben El Mentakeh you Masende wakho. (That's enough foreign swearing - Ed)

Count toni, the celebrity photographer toying with his monocle. The great man in reverie thinking what colour background and f stop to use for the shoot of these A+++listed celebs.  He did the shoot on his boat cum studio called Carl, anchored in the mudflats of Stone Island. Hence the nautical attire and dictator epaulettes.

Your man on the ground and Mazatlán MAZREAL Boss Man, Claymore 'Michael Caine' Jones from that great Empire building country of Yoo Kay looking casual, relaxed and downright splendid in his three piece worsted Andes alpaca brushed bespoke suit from Braithwaite and Jeeves, Seville Row London W123, glasses from the same shop as Michael Cane Toad that great British actor, shirt by Jacques Tati and moustache by Handcok and Over. Those famous snippers from Jermyn Street London West End. Hair suavely set by Joné, that famous crimper from the hovels of Milan Indonesia. 

"This season is all sophisticated, the details are subtle and less pompous." he assures us sexily.

Doesn't he look delicious enough to eat slathered with chips (french fries to our naughty cousins across the pond) and tomato ketchup coming from God's own country.

Timothy 'Tim' Burr looking so damn cool and confident set against a typical Canadian forest scene of silver birch, so typical that you would think he was actually back home in that damn fine country of woodchoppers. We have never been to Canada but were are sure we have got the styling spot on:

 big axe (everyone carries them), skin tight jeans by Paul Getty of Detroit tucked into Rhino skin hide woodsman boots (great for tramping through those pristine wooded city parks), tight body huggin' Gucci red shirt and a log to rest the foot on whilst taking in the vista and breathing the champagne quality of the great wooded slopes.. We are reliably informed that the red shirt is good at scaring away those ubiquitous Canadian animals - the great Canadian smokey wooded bear yak -  a highly dangerous and prized fer huntin' but never been seen wood-chip and urban garbage eating animal. 

Well done Tim, you're lookin' good. Wouldn't mind giving those biceps a good squeezin'.

Our IT man Schaffer 'Schaffer' Schaffer having a rip roaring joke with Mohan Shitoot off camera. By his awkward expression you can see he is not used to a joke as he is always banged up in some dark hole somewhere doing computer stuff keeping the MazReal wheels oiled and the systems online and running smoothly. (We however joke that he spends his days heavy breathing over porn. Those jokes don't do his already fragile self esteem any good. We know that naked men and women and gerbils don't interest him nearly as much as RAM and Ghz and Gigabytes and hardware and software). He looks well primped with freshly combed hair and beard using a sheep brush but in fact it took a hired drug cartel to coax him into a shower, scrub the daylights out of him, hold him down comb his beard and clip his lower jaw and give his teeth a good going over. The dentist has to be pursued at gunpoint to get his arse down and clean those teeth whilst his family were kidnapped and tied up in a dark stinking cellar in Chihuahua or Ciudad Juarez to add incentive. Or Else.
They were let loose (well we hope they have been). Schaffer is wearing some crappy suit, tie and shirt bought from a Salvation Army shop somewhere.

You can get back to your cave now Schaffer.

What more can you say about star reporter Page Turner looking confident and serious, desperate to get back to his famous battered Olivetti to finish and file his latest front-line, under-cover, over-the-top, in-depth, top-secret, non-biased, left right-leaning story on Jacob Zuma's peace mission to try and persuade that mad tin-pot dictator Muhammed Al Capone Gaddafi to relinquish command of his North Saharan highly trained division of suicide goat herders. The goat herders' tenacity the only obstacle to peace in the whole of sub-Saharan Africa. As you can see Page has disguised himself as a college professor to gain entry to that parched landscape of desert tribal universities. Bearing an uncanny resemblance to 12 year old boy with a false beard wearing his dad's glasses he was soon tossed out of Libya by the seat of his pants and given a good spanking and finger-wagging telling off from yours truly Claymore 'TheMan' Jones. He says he's going to keep his shitty beard and serious expression so it will allow him to enter PG 13 movies at Cinemex and buy a beer at Copa de Leche and carry an AK 47 through the border to Arizona.(we know it can be done with impunity  the other way round)

We never cover sport but this athletic hunk of gristle and coiffured smooth loveliness is our sports correspondent Jerry. None other than that anchor man of international infamy and infirmity Jerry 'Strawberry' Fields. Decked out in Kappa Phi Delta Epsilon Epa Psi Lamda Panda college prat tennis garb and suave turtle neck shirt from that label with crocodiles on it.  Glancing cheekily out from behind his 140 cart gold glasses from Dolce and Cabanana Republic, that famous and desperately expensive shop off LA's Sinset Boulevard he maintains a pert moist-lipped coolness even under the most arduously tense and finger chomping  CCA (Canadian Curling Association)  competition.

His intensely annoying and even slappable expression we are sure would instantly melt the frozen hearts of any stunningly beautiful Inuit supermodel.

(We wouldn't mind seeing this twat get caught in the ring between 6 wrestlers from Lucha Libre Ultraviolento - Ed)

This is Curtis James "Boo Boo" Jackson III, our diamond toothed music correspondent at this moment deeply embedded in the tour bus of that well known rap quintet Blackalicious The Gift of Gab. Those guys are so  friggin' hard-core that Boo Boo has to go armed with a submachine gun and bazooka stuffed down his ample trousers. 'The Gift'  think he is a member of their own notorious band where they are on the road  doing a city to city tour of Chechyna and the Caucasus states finishing their sell-out performances in the war torn city of Groznyy from a stage barricaded with razor wire, sand bags and half the Russian army who will no doubt be tapping their jackbooted feet to the beat.

We're not sure when he will return if he ever will but we hear rumours that he may stay and fight for the Chechen Separatist Movement against those imperialist Russkies. 

Good on yer Boo Boo. Don't forget to Twitter us soon with an update.

Last but by no means least is our super-hunk of burnin' leather and cigar smelling llurve machine Clint 'Hot Rod' Dickens. Hot Rod generally hangs around the office doing fuck all and acts as a procurement guy and minder and dog's body. But what a body!! The gals and guys take one look into those hazel and blue eyes and thick luscious bearded face and chest like a gorilla with a sawn-off draped across his shoulders and they plain melt into his cigar and horse sweat smelling arms. Christ we have to keep a ice-cold fire bucket of water handy to throw on him when he gets all heated up. Dunno what he keeps under that hat man but he never takes it off even when he goes into the sea. (Some wag tried to flip it off but all he got for his pains was two barrels of buck shot right in the face) Hot Rod gets his yak piss smellin' clothes from the Canadian Outdoorsman Huntin', Shootin' and Trappin' Varmints Catalogue from that famous town of Bateman Saskatchewan. 

Woof woof what a guy.

This dweeby looking short-arse with bow tie, crap hair cut, toothy grin and retro cool glasses, not to mention his ridiculous kiddy suit, one hand suavely in his pocket and other hand clutching the furniture like it's his tojo: is our gopher and tea boy. This poor kid is so ridiculous looking that we keep him hidden in the mop cupboard till he gets sent out to hitch-hike to downtown Culiacan when we need some tortillas from that fine blood-soaked city . We may send him to work for the El Guicho for a couple of years to toughen him up. We haven't a clue what his name is but think it is Yoo Boy Come Here as that's what everyone shouts at him. 

The rest of the lads having a joke and swopping drugs in the company car park. Left to right: Skip Church, Bruce LaBruce (fashion) and of course Mohan Shitoot. Just a note to say that Bruce LaBruce was dragged away by the cops just after the shoot for getting drunk in a restaurant and mouthing off about how he had 'sympathy' for Newt Gingrich and joking he himself was a right wing bigot.  Famous Hollywood actress Kirsten Dunce said afterwards 

" he just likes to provoke". Anyway he is now persona non gratis at that famous restaurant of the stars just out of town called El Habaneros. (no more machaca and tortillas for you Bruce) 

The boys are all dressed in the latest cardigans and slacks from New York's famous old man's salon Ermenengilda Zagnut of Broadway and Main NYC.

We just got news and this picture sent from one of Mongolia's trouble spots is actually our famous man-on-the-spot Nasty McFilthy in disguise. He has spent years perfecting his camouflage to loose himself amongst the Mongolian Yak herdsmen who are being systematically starved by those naughty Chinese who want them to leave their ancient homeland and become slave wage workers on the Nike footware assembly line in Ulan Bator. We haven't the heart to tell Nasty the the disguise he has adopted is in fact that of a typical Welsh hill farmer from the town of Llanfairpwllgwyngyll on the borders with that great empire building nation Yoo Kay. 

The act of using his lips to carry his tin plate is a joy to behold. We hope you are not rumbled by those canny Yaksmen that roam the plains but we know they will welcome him with open arms as a fellow herding sheep farmingWelshman.

We want to avoid these uncouth shenanigans on the dusty streets of Mazatlán. So please when approaching your heroes don't do a Justin Bieber Screaming Fan Type Thing and refrain from tearing our expensive shirts from our backs.


Just sidle up with dignity and graciously ask for our autographs.


Footnote: As you can see we have no women employees. We have interviewed all over the globe but for some reason they have never remained for longer than half an hour. We think it has something to do our procurement man 'Hot Rod' who does the interviewing. We did have one who managed three days after when 'Hot Rod' was heard to scream and run out the toilet where she was having a pee standing up. She turned out to be a man in drag who had a taken a certain likeness to Hot Rod.