Call It Stupid, or Be Astonished With My Capacity For Wonder
I love this magazine. I've never stood on a surfboard in my life, and I don't rank the act high on my priority list, but the culture it embodies...amazing, and The Surfer's Journal is the National Geographic of the sport. It's chalk full of history and art and stories and some of the best photo work on planet earth. It's a quarterly vacation to a world I'll never live in.
June got me a subscription for Christmas this year.
It's an expensive little muse at $15 an issue, but well worth it, I mean provided you supply ample more quantities of imagination and romance. I pick the magazine up and instantly it's 1967, or I'm following along on some 1977 road trip through Central America...its brilliant. It's beyond brilliant. It's transformative...times ten.
It was maybe the best Christmas gift I've ever gotten, at least in the last twenty years. I just got my second issue last week, and I snuck off to relax and imagine a different universe. Geek? Maybe. A fool capable of immense and grandiose imaginings? Definitely.