Aloha - Blog Posts
3 … 2 … 1… ALOHA!
Sometimes in space, you have to set your clocks to island time and gather for a good Hawaiian shirt day. In this 2001 #TBT, Expedition Two and STS-100 crew members gather for a group photo with a pre-set digital still camera.
Clockwise from the 12 o'clock point in the circle are Kent V. Rominger, Yuri V. Lonchakov, Yury V. Usachev, Umberto Guidoni, James S. Voss, Jeffrey S. Ashby, Scott E. Parazynski, John L. Phillips and Chris A. Hadfield, with Susan J. Helms at center. Usachev, Helms and Voss are members of three Expedition Two crew, with the other seven serving as the STS-100 crew on the Space Shuttle Endeavour. Usachev and Lonchakov represent Rosaviakosmos; Guidoni is associated with the European Space Agency (ESA); and Hadfield is from the Canadian Space Agency (CSA).
Make sure to follow us on Tumblr for your regular dose of space: http://nasa.tumblr.com.
Ohana means family and family means no-one gets left behind or forgotten.
Redhat One of those days a homeless with a big smile stopped me at the streets while I was walking with my camera and sayed "take a photo and make me famous in the internet :) ". I can't promise this success but now you can smile to more and more people my brother. Aloha! Um dia desses um morador de rua com um grande sorriso me parou na rua enquanto eu caminhava com minha câmera e disse "tira uma foto e me deixa famoso na internet :)". Não posso prometer esse sucesso, mas agora você pode sorrir para mais e mais pessoas, meu irmão. Aloha! #nikon #nikonphotography #streetphotography #smile #aloha #promise https://www.instagram.com/p/CnxMHebP85K/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
Snag this Summer’s Limited Edition Merch... Gone Forever after 30 Sept!!! Look your best all winter long... Rusted Aloha! Stoked~Till~Death
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
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
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
Campaigning for Aloha
by Rusty
Face it folks… the USA is on the brink!
On the brink of what, I don’t know… but we are definitely teetering on some sort of suicidal edge.
Whether Clinton wins or Trump tweets his way into the Oval Office… We’re screw!
You may think this rusty, old dude is exaggerating, but I am not. This is my warning, to the entire surf world, “Wake up and smell the poopie water you’re paddling in!” The flow of brown crap running down stream, out of this storm of politics, is of epic proportions... And this old dude sees little hope of us ever being healthy again.
Whomever wins, neither can unite our line-ups. In fact, both candidates are complete kooks; flawed as bad as Surfline’s forecasting abilities.
The Donald reminds me of crazy lady I use to surf with at the Trestles; a lady who completely owns her nickname… Danger Women. She is an accomplished surfer, but completely reckless! Everytime she took off on an wave, you never knew what she would do or where she would go. There were countless times I found myself facing down the 9 foot plus board of Danger Woman; feeling like there was target painted right between my eyes. Sometimes when I am alone, walking down the trail to Trestles, my mind flashes back to the haunting line-ups I shared with Mrs. Danger. I still hear her grunting take offs, see her flailing arms, whipping blond hair and rippling bikini clad muscles shredding over dozens of dazed & confused paddlers… Our country cannot survive a Trump styled “Danger Woman” presidency.
While Hillary on the other hand tries to showcase a calmer, more presidential demeanor… A facade that none of us are buying. Her tangle web of lies and cons resemble the life of surfing’s most talented shysters… Miki "Da Cat" Dora. Da Cat elegantly partied his way across the globe, writing bad checks, stealing wallets, jewels, purses and passports; never admitting to any wrongdoing before skipping out to the next cinematic surf spot. HRC must of met Miki somewhere along his trail of destruction. Perhaps, she was scorned by him in the 70’s, and because of that lovers quarrel vowed to scorch the remaining earth Miki never attended to. Whomever stole Hillary’s heart needs to return it and save us from a liberal tax-n-spend destruction.
So go forth and vote my fellow Americans and please only vote once in this decentralized, yet rigged election system. Afterwards, when this campaigning marathon ends, remember the importance of Ohana. Come the morning of Wednesday, November 9th, we will all need to begin mending this nation’s wounds by extending the tolerant and loving hand of Aloha to this Ohana of Americans.
Once again posting old art until I run out.
Army Freaking Shanks Aloha
Real bruh moment...
Here's some good BG music.
(Tumblr butchered the image quality! Yay!)
Source: @incorrect-splatoon-manga-quotes
-Pasta