StrangeLove
the 2019 year end wood review
Sean Cliver
Well, hoot and holler and all that because we survived our first full year as a company. Woohoo! StrangeLove first stumbled out of the gate much later in 2018 than hoped—a midsummer release was originally planned but production delays put us further into early fall, which, in turn, bumped our projected Halloween releases well into Christmas and… St. Patrick's Day?! Yep, that's right. Best laid plans and all that idiomatic jazz, you know, especially when it comes to gambling on positioning in the screen-printing queue.
jim thiebaud and the contest of holiday champions
Sean Cliver
You know what's fun about running your own skateboard company? Being able to fulfill all sorts of silly fantasies. The flip side to this, however, is that in my whimsical case it often means doing so to my own detriment, because running is only a typo away from ruining—but not today! No, today will not be yet another instance of me shooting myself in the foot, because I finally feel like I managed to successfully stitch up a loose thread that's been dangling through my life.
the 8th annual reggie destin memorial
Sean Cliver
A little over a decade ago, my friends and I gathered our resources, jumped through all the grown-up hoops necessary, and built ourselves a skatepark — The Donuthill Project. Beyond surprising ourselves with one of the best designed, best executed, and best detailed things any of us had ever skated, we quickly realized the power of our collective abilities to move mountains in the name of fun.
strange bedfellows: skate or dead
Sean Cliver
Something about the words “Dude Ranch” smacked of an unhappy conflict. And so it was. I had to be the only person who said the word “dude” on this ranch somewhere deep in the Santa Ynez valley. I’m sure it was beautiful, but my god, dude, it was boring, oppressively so.
how did it get there?
Sean Cliver
Eventually this post will, I swear, provide an answer to that question, but for now I'm going to fly in the face of upstanding journalistic standards* and veer straight off to Tangent Land rather than Main Point. If you've come to expect anything from these entries, though, that bar should be set very, very low, because: a) I'm my own worst editor; b) I'm not getting paid so there's no reason to be all professional and shit; and c) I'm by no means equating myself to Kurt Vonnegut, but similar to his novel Breakfast of Champions I do think I'm in the process of purging all the garbage that has been piling up in the assorted sordid waste bins of my mind—and, if I may be entirely honest, I wish the contents were more substantive in nature to reflect a life well lived, but… well… so it goes.