It was time for another paddle-out because another surfer died. This time it was Kelly Slater. Kelly Slater died. You’ll never believe how he died though. You’d think, like, oh he got eaten by a shark. Or, like, he probably drowned from a gnarly wipe-out or something. But no. No, it was neither of those nor any other way you could think of. I don’t even know exactly how it happened, but I know it was something crazy random because I heard the old heads out at Log Cabins talking about it yesterday morning. They said his dog found him and dragged him all the way home by his leash. So I mean, it did happen on the beach but we’re just not sure how. No one seems to really know. It’s all hearsay. All I know is it’s time for another paddle-out and this time it’s for Kelly fucking Slater.
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All the original members of the Bones Brigade are having a big memorial party at Poods today. I heard there’s going to be a big cookout with probably hundreds and hundreds of cheeseburgers and hotdogs. I’ll admit, I’m mostly going for the free food but it’ll be nice to be a part of a big memorial for such a legend. Tony Hawk died. He died either last week or the week before, but the news rushed thru town quicker than a California wildfire. He died the exact way you’d imagine—skateboarding. He was out at Bob’s house skating his mega ramp and it was a windy day. The Santa Ana winds had been coming thru pretty heavy the past couple of days. But yeah, basically the winds caught him midair and sent him flying off to the right side of the landing. People always said, ‘The Birdman can fly,’ but damn, it would’ve been nice if he really could’ve flown this time. When he hit the hard desert floor it was game over. Dead on impact. His shoes even flew off like Jake Brown’s did that one time.
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Straight up, Robert Smith died. I was supposed to hear Robert Smith sing me a Lullaby the next week in Atlanta but he had already dozed off forever. He was about three-fourths of the way thru a full US tour when he met his untimely death. Very untimely for me. The Cure was running thru soundcheck in Detroit and Robert Smith was very unpleased with the sound. More specifically his sound guy, also named Robert. The Roberts got in an embarrassing yelling match. In a fit, Robert Smith ripped out his in-ears, stormed off stage, and went to cower backstage. When he got back to the green room, he realized his phone had died and tried to plug it in behind the worn leather couch. A faulty receptacle sent 110 volts of pure man-killing electricity thru his body. He was dead within seconds but his bandmates didn’t notice when they walked in the green room minutes later. I guess they just thought he was napping on the couch. It wasn’t until later when his lipstick had faded and they could see his bluing lips that they realized what had happened. The Cure had to cancel the rest of the tour and I’m still pissed about it.
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The Obamas and I flew private to Banwa Island in the Philippines. Everyone was on the flight except Michelle because she was busy finishing up a book tour for the shitty new memoir I’d ghostwritten for her. She planned to meet up with the rest of us on Wednesday but she wouldn’t make it before Barack died. She also wouldn’t find out about his death until she got there. Banwa was very remote. Poor Malia felt all sorts of guilt and shame regarding the death of her dad. She figured it was her fault because her marijuana stash was depleted and she found the empty pot bag appropriately labeled, ‘THAT SHIT THAT MADE BOB HOPE.’ She went searching and found him dead by one of the many pools with a primitive wooden spear thru his chest. There was a bright yellow post-it stuck to the spear that simply read, ‘THE ALIENS ARE REAL AND THEY’RE COMING.’ Barack Obama killed himself in a state of paranoia. But I knew they weren’t coming because I rolled the spliff that morning and I thought the same thing—yet they still aren’t here.
md wheatley is a dude with a website—mdwheatley.us
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