Strange Brew Goes East to West

photos and edits by Danny Kern. words by Keenan Dean Faulkner Cawley.

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Keenan Cawley has a bitchin’ method. Dark Park, Vermont. Photo: Danny Kern

Serious Delirium

 

One van.

Two chicks makin’ out.

Three cameras.

Four busts.

Five fish caught under the ice.

Six stops.

Seven broken boards.

Eight injuries.

Nine times watching the Fantastic Mr. Fox.

Ten change of plans.

Eleven seats.

Twelve lost minds.

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Keenan Cawley in Stowe, Vermont. Photo: Danny Kern

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Sean Anderson. Rutland, Vermont. Photo: Danny Kern

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Can’t go through Burlington, Vermont without stopping at The Catfish’s house.

I’m to get writing and scribbling ‘cause we’ve been on the road tripping over the snow where it’s been drizzling and hoping for something when we’re found it missing. Oh well, we’ve kissed the lines on the highway behind us and the tricks in our mind and the camera logs clips to keep track of time, and the green paint chips cracking the road signs keep us from rusting and turning kicks to the glitter of dust in the wind. Here we are again.


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Ian Daly 5-0 in Duluth, Minnesota. Photo: Danny Kern

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Every morning, cracking, hacking, tic-taking, yaking, and lacking to begin. And you roll over the holes in your head and you feel your swollen pulse through the bed only your bed’s a floor and it’s hardwood and it’s sore but you weren’t expecting anything more; no score, bore, or whore, just your own folklore from the night before and just wait ‘til we’re out because it’s a tear. We’re here and never back, not scared and off track and our hair falls down our backs. And we layer in black, stare at attacks, count stairs to relax our minds and our knacks. Some know time and how to kick back, or hit it backside first time just to feel the Ollie crack. Some ride small and some thrash fat, some gotta give their deck a pat, or the lip a splash, or light a cigarette and try to keep all the ash. Some wish, some think tricks’re fish they gotta catch. Some lose their hat and some always land flat. Some redo their ratchet. Some won’t leave ‘til they get a hat trick. But that conflicts with the meaning of this trip.

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This isn’t a sport – you can’t hold it. It’s not a trophy or gold and it doesn’t get chicks. It’s a  dog with so many wounds to lick he forgets. It does have soul though and it is big. It’s like the reason we dig or the reason we’re alive. When you’re inside, you get it. It’s if you’re in the passenger seat or driver, if you take turns tight or wide or if you’re driving from the way back higher and if you’re tired but your eyes won’t close, if you learned by trying and learned there’s nothing you know, if you’re up at five in the morning and you can’t feel your toes because there’s snow in the sky and your snowboard’s cold, and you haven’t asked ‘why’ but you’ve told people to go or wait and if you say you got the time or date you got a different mind state.

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Macgregor Magnan. Photo: Danny Kern

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And that’s fine – it is what you make. After all, what’s mine is yours for taking. If you have any rules, they’re probably worth breaking. No mid-grounds of cool. This is about loving and hating and being foolish enough to hear your heart aching, to feel the frustration of washy makes and amateur mistakes. To say ‘kill your self’ as you commit down the grate or as the bungee scrapes the ice and makes water warmer than that on your face. We’re far from hasty towards the grave but at the core we’re suddenly brave to taste and store a metal and/or concrete spray just so a memory will save because often the shot won’t save. And we’ve borne ourselves insane. And tomorrow’s the same as yesterday, only now we’re in a different state, following the sun to generate our lives without anything late. The life you couldn’t trade. The life where you tie-dye your brain. The life with only first names. No Plain Jane life or training jumps. Use shovels to shape small bumps. To catch on fire at the gasoline pump and separate the fighters from the flatland frat boy chumps. Discover the runts and your own junt and that breakfast, lunch, and dinner are all leftovers. And you’re all set with your motives. No need to say who and what was told or feel like your board and brain fold. You’re infinite years old and young and when all you see is white you know you’ve done everything right and then some. Follow it. Pursue it. It’s the meaning of your life and you’ll be the only one who knew it. Introduce yourself to the birds who just flew in and be a friend. Maybe they have a couch to lend. Maybe they’re outside of trends. Maybe they’ll hold tricks ‘til the end. But you have to stick out your hand. You have to accept that you’re only man but when a man is crammed in a van with nine or ten others you’ve got a fine set of brothers with a wide open atlas to smother. A month gone – what’s another? We’ve got gas, boards, and smokes  and we’ve already kissed our mothers goodbye. Stared at police officers dead in the eye, thinkin’ “Why,” “Die,” and “Fry, Piggy, Fry.” But our mouths stay shut and we politely clean up. Tidy boards in the Thule and double check the genny’s tied up, then pile in again and whoever’ up front uses their phone to guide us to the next spot. We’ve got a lot but I guarantee it’s nothing you could’ve bought. Who could’ve seen it? Who would’ve thought? Ain’t us. Ain’t me. We’ve seen the movies and know where we want to be. There’s difficulty leaving, undoubtedly, but at the same time there’s nothing quiet that easily so.

Stop saying “No,” and go.

Remember that all roads lead home.

 


 

 

The Strange Brew Crew would like to thank Common Apparel and the Danger Castle for the epic crash zone, also big thanks to Gus at Rhythm, Ron and John at Rome Snowboards, Noylan Apparel, The Catfish, and Brady Ellis along with the Rest of the Nor Cal Burton Department. Thanks again, and be sure to Stay Strange . . .

 

 

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