BIG arts project needs your help

I need your help with a Big CONCEPTUAL ART Project I’m developing. Good News: it won’t cost you a dime. And it’ll be LOTS of fun!

Pineapple Heads already know that prior to working at ad agencies I worked at a

Islands wrapped in fabric by the artist Christo. (Conceptual art)
Islands wrapped in fabric by the artist Christo. (Conceptual art)

large arts council in Florida, and that have a strong interest in conceptual arts such as Christo’s work wrapping islands in fabric, placing yellow umbrellas across the landscape of Japan, and stretching a billowing curtain across two counties in California. Cool!

When I parked my sailboat and moved to rural South Carolina, it was

GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN: The blue rubber pool, purchased while Pineapple Hill was being built, was ugly and weird but a lot of fun while it lasted. I added the privacy fence after a UPS guy came and went while I was “asleep” on my pool float.

Christo that inspired “island surrounded by cows” concept for Pineapple Hill. I built the beach house up on pilings in a cow pasture then gave it a boathouse, surfboards and oyster roasts. The cows showed up on their own –an endorsement as I see it.

Still, my transition to Jonesville, South Carolina, wasn’t easy. I felt, truly, like a fish out of water. I tried swimming in the Jonesville

These guys are playing "duck ball" in their blue rubber pool. Do you know about Duck Ball?
These guys are playing “duck ball” in their blue rubber pool. Do you know about Duck Ball?

Reservoir (across the pasture and through the woods from The Hill) but never felt at ease. Too many snakes …plus the possibility of a ranger sneaking up (since swimming isn’t allowed there).

So I bought a blue rubber pool. An ugly one. A very weird one. The kind that resemble a big blue rubber mushroom…

There's something very neat about getting so much from a cheap blue rubber pool.
There’s something very neat about getting so much from a cheap blue rubber pool.

It cooled me off on hot summer days. Brought back the sound of splashing gurgling water and, too, the sensation of floating, weightless and carefree. It provided a lot of laughs at a time I most needed them. And time to think, floating ’round and ’round, clockwise or counter clockwise according to my mood and my adjustment of the jets.

I loved that freaky pool. I can’t explain it but there’s a bit of attitude built in –a sense of what  Harley-Davidson riders mean when they say (“if you have to ask, you wouldn’t understand.”)

Either you get it, intuitively, or you don’t.


I want to create a website dedicated to blue rubber pools and the people that love them; that have been changed by them; that understand their similarity to space ships; that have written poems in them, and dreamed big dreams in them.

I want photos of your blue rubber pool along

Yellow Umbrellas --another conceptual art project brought to the world by the genius of Christo.
Yellow Umbrellas –another conceptual art project brought to the world by the genius of Christo.

with your stories, essays, poems, observations, inspired thoughts, dreams …whatever you’ve …as long as it relates to a cheap rubber pool.

I want to tell the world our story. I want to build a masterpiece of conceptual art with all of us inside it.

Send your stuff to me via tim bryant (at) pineapplehillsc (dot) com.

Another way you can help

is simply spreading the word. Point people to this proposal using Twitter, Linked In, Facebook, etc. and help make #BlueRubberPool bigger than I can alone.

I don't know who Lucian is but he appears to get the Christo concept.
Will probably end up with a lot of photos and stories like this one …but that’s okay I guess. Pablo Picasso said “The artist is a receptacle for emotions that come from all over the place: from the sky, from the earth, from a scrap of paper, from a passing image, from a spider’s web.” I’m going to update that by adding “…and from the Internet.”

Make it one big pool party!

# # #

— Tim, Surf Director

# # #

Bone up on Christo here

The Number 3-1-6

Cow #3-1-6 played a significant role in the book Blue Rubber Pool
about my transition to the South Carolina boonies (i.e., Jonesville,
South Carolina). One role had to do with this cow. The other role
related to something that happened in Central America.

Get your copy at Amazon, Barnes & Noble and other retailers.

Jonesville History: De Soto

Taking a lesson from the ancient Chinese general Sun Tzu, I’ve been gathering intel on my surroundings—most recently Jonesville history. Get this: Hernando De Soto strolled through here in 1540.

That’s right. It’s believed that Spanish explorer/conquistador Hernando de Soto passed through the Jonesville area in 1540 while leading the first European expedition deep into the territory of the modern-day United States. He was the first European documented to have crossed the Mississippi River.

Here’s an excerpt from information gleaned from the Internet…

“…on Monday, the seventeenth of that month, they (with De Soto) departed from there and spent the night in a forest (near Jonesville); and on Tuesday they went to Guaquili (Spartanburg), and the Indians came forth in peace and gave them corn, although little, and many hens roasted on barbacao, and a few little dogs, which are good food. These are little dogs that do not bark (opossum?), and they rear them in the houses in order to eat them. They also gave them tamemes, which are Indians who carry burdens. And on the following Wednesday they went to a canebrake (Inman), and on Thursday to a small savanna (Landrum) where a horse died (probably of starvation); and some foot soldiers of (Captain) Gallegos arrived, making known to the Governor that he was approaching.”

Perhaps they slept in my back pasture, the one called “The Bottoms.” Who knows what all they did back there: Bonfires, howling late into the night, taking pot shots at the moon.

Just like me.

— Tim Bryant
Author of Blue Rubber Pool
Surf Director at Pineapple Hill

Little Train That Thought It Could Cartoon

[Rooting through that box from the liquor store where I toss my writings and doodles, I found a bunch of cartoon sketches from 30 years ago.]

Another nugget from my cynical side even way back then, this cartoon depicts the famous “Little Train That Could” American fairy tale (i.e. the Little Train That Could trying to climb a steep hill). However, in my version of the story the train falls over backwards and says “Aw crap!” and the cartoonist, Yours Truly, says that as an American citizen he resents the lie. At the bottom, it’s identified as part of the great childhood rip off series.
— Tim Bryant
Author of Blue Rubber Pool
Surf Director at Pineapple Hill

Anejo Tequila (my Austrian nun)

In the pantry this morning I happened to notice a fancy gift bottle of limited edition anejo tequila.  It was hidden behind the cat food. I’d forgotten it was there. It had been given to me by a client in Dubai. We were setting up to promote a new eco-resort in Romania where Uzi-toting bodyguards were necessary and where bribes had been handed out like Mardi Gras beads.

I find it amazing that, when you consider the situation at Pineapple Hill—the vacationing lifestyle in general and some of our freewheeling guests in particular—that bottle of tequila has remained as tightly sealed up as an Austrian nun, escaping every possible threat: from oyster roasts and birthday parties to New Years Eve and visits from Little Brother. Regardless of our mood swings—from full throttle-wide-open gleeful partying to sullen-deep/dark-hung over introspection—it remains virginal.

It has waited and waited and waited while, all around it, a plethora of rum, bourbon, vodka and gin bottles have rotated through like a hysterical mob of disoriented passengers arriving and departing Miami International Airport on the day before Thanksgiving. Its handsome bottle and stylish crystal storage case (“in case of emergency, break glass”) make it nice enough to be on display out in the open next to other special favorite things: a brass ship’s clock, a rare first edition of French-American ornithologist and painter, John James Audubon’s color-plate book The Birds of America, a WWII era mint condition officer-of-the-deck spy glass in its eye-pleasing wooden case, a larger-than-my-fist prehistoric shark’s tooth, a vintage Tiffany sterling silver tea set and flintlock dueling pistols.

Instead, it’s been in a butler’s closet on a shelf beneath the drinking glasses (tumblers, steins, and stemware) across from the canned soup, peaches and broth, canisters of flour, rice and beans, large cereal boxes and little tins of tea, and the aforementioned crunchy fish-flavored cat food morsels kept for Pineapple Hill’s never ending parade of strays.

My thought was to save that tequila for a special occasion—never remotely thinking it would last so long—but now so many have come and gone that I’m not sure what to do. It has crossed that invisible unspecified line that warrants preservation, much like the amazingly large lobster that makes the news now and then, so old it is pardoned and tossed back into the sea.

I don’t mean to cause a big stir about this bottle. I don’t mean to cultivate a death watch as if it were the oldest woman on the planet or the last living ex-president or the only surviving veteran of a war, but it bears mentioning because it’s on my mind today.

It has not been forgotten.

# # #

–Tim Bryant
Author of Blue Rubber Pool
Surf Director at Pineapple Hill

If grapes could talk (Labor vs Management)

This morning I found this photo of a handsome overhead arbor for grapevines and wondered if it would have been a better approach than stretching cable as I did at Pineapple Hill. My little  “test ” vineyard gets hit by deer every fall.

In business, hindsight isn’t always, as the saying goes, “20/20”. Sometimes hindsight remains blurry. Other times its way better than 20/20.

Creeping out on gravel, driving Pineapple Hill’s old but sadly not vintage Jaguar this morning, it hit home that if the grapes at Pineapple Hill had feelings, my grapes must be pretty miserable.

If my grapes could talk, there’d be a lot of serious “labor vs management” grumbling out at the strands of cable at night…

Firstly, there is the problem of Management’s lack of experience—not a good thing on its own and even worse when paired with totally unreasonably high expectations.

Management being me. Labor being the grapes.

Management demands that a dry wine grape variety succeed where usually only sweet wine varieties are found.

Management demands grapes that grow in bunches versus the native berry-like muscadine and scuppernong.

Management, of course, doesn’t really understand —and appreciate—what Labor is up against because Management has already moved on—mentally, physically and emotionally—to other matters (i.e., to whatever shiny object has next caught Management’s eye.

Management, in small business settings especially, must often address The World through a multi faceted, prism-like perspective of desires and fears.

Management often feels surrounded by snarling frothing rabid hyenas.

Management is tired. Management rewarded itself with too many sessions on the pool lounger this week and is nursing a sore shoulder. Management rewards itself with pool lounger time  because Management needs stress relief and networking and besides, if you can’t slip out away on a pool lounger, why even be in Management?

It’s true that, on Pineapple Hill, Labor faces awful working conditions and is expected to succeed in blazing hot sun with a minimum of water whilst totally exposed to the threats of Pearce’s disease, fire ants and hungry deer.

But Labor is counter positioned (i.e. “at odds with”) the realities of Management’s goal: (i.e., testing several different grape varieties to see which does best with the least amount of effort or expense).

Management’s attitude is one of water seeking “the course of least resistance” as it runs downhill.

Happy grapes, schmappy grapes.

Consequently, I doubt my grapes include Management in their prayers at night (other than to pray that Management someday “gets a clue” or, sweeter, is replaced by better management).

Labor wants the cables tighter.

Labor doesn’t just require more pruning, the pruning must be strategic if  Labor is to deliver greatest ROI.

More than anything, Labor needs Management to be more careful when leveraging the weed wacker and lawn mower. There’s a been a run of terrible on-the-job accidents lately.

And it doesn’t help matters that Management, despite the carnage, passes by Labor in an air conditioned British import, waving to Labor and smiling, eyes all a twinkle, as if to say “keep up the good work fellas”. No condolences or a promise to do better. Nothing.

If grapes had tempers, mine would be rounding up torches and pitch forks.

# # #

I’m going to run the numbers to see which is cheaper: Spending more to help Labor …or buying sturdier door locks for protection against Killer Grapes.

# # #

Management spends too much time on the porch sipping wine and not enough among the vines growing wine.

# # #

Management does not want to be a prisoner in its own home, constantly fearing retribution from Labor. Utopia, Management realizes now, requires a trip to Lowes for fertilizer, some irrigation hose, and more of those ratchet thingies that tighten cable.

# # #

Management  also realizes it can probably do better than saying “ratchet thingy” –I’m sure the tool, whatever it’s called, has a better name.

Management realizes it must “man up” and take more responsibility—perhaps buy a book on grape growing. Perhaps take a class.

# # #

Management hopes to never again have “clueless” and “Management” used together on Pineapple Hill anymore.

# # #

IF grapes had feelings and could talk, of course.

# # #

— Tim Bryant
Author of Blue Rubber Pool
Surf Director at Pineapple Hill

Jerry The Sniper

[I found this short story in the liquor store box where I keep my discarded writings. This snippet was inspired by a real life Miata ride down state to have a barrel threaded for suppression—that’s “silencer” most of the world. I’d have added it to Blue Rubber Pool had I known it was there.]

My beloved CZ 75 Semi Compact was perfectly balanced for suppression according to Jerry The Sniper.

Going with a different platform for 9mm suppression required having another barrel threaded at a time when my regular source for that work was in jail. The Colonel suggested a low-key guy that happened to actually be located in South Carolina, not far from Ft. Jackson. “You’ll like this kid,” the Colonel said. “He’s an innovator. I had him build a couple of specialized machine guns for me and what he came up with was totally evil.” That word, coming from the Colonel, could have any number of meanings, some good, some not. You could never tell at first glance. So I figured, what the hell, check it out, why not? I rang up the kid and, two weeks later, took a high ride in the convertible to check him out and retrieve the barrel he made for my CZ-75 Semi Compact, an usual pistol that would quickly become my new favorite.

The kid’s shop is in an uninteresting metal building that can be seen from the highway but, turns out, can’t be accessed from the highway without untangling a mess of winding, scatter-brained back roads that from the air probably looked like strands of paint slung at the canvas by a retarded artist. “Evil” certainly described the kid’s directions at least. Wicked and brutal worked too. And that was a bad thing, not a good thing at all. I’d been tuned for a no-brainer high ride with speakers blasting reggae and a fistful of marijuana pinners readied for time release perfection. What I got instead was a nightmarish stop/start zig/zag maze of paved and unpaved roads dodging between trees and billboards hiding small town sheriffs. Several times, I had to slow down to barely a crawl because my low-slung convertible kept bottoming out. I was a flippn bundle of nerves by the time I found the kid’s shop.

Still, to his credit, it was right where he said it would be, hiding in plain side along a highway just a hundred yards off as the crow flies yet on a completely different galaxy in terms of getting there by car. The Colonel must come in by chopper, at night, with the lights off, assuming he’s even made the trip (I suspected he never had). The place was totally stealthy …on the radar screen  …yet NOT on the screen …if you know what I mean. It was pretty freaky even by my own standards. I don’t mind trekking through boonies in other countries but for some reason USA boonies (and South Carolina boonies particularly) creep me out. There’s a tendency to let one’s guard down due to the suggestion that one is “at home”.  Deliverance made as big an impression on my generation as Jaws did.

The kid’s shop had green metal sides with a green metal roof and no windows. Just a single, standard-sized door painted the color of dried blood. It was locked. There was an unobtrusive doorbell buzzer button next to it. I pressed it just once, heard the familiar small motor sound of a 1980s vintage surveillance camera stir. Noticed the camera tucked high up in the eave of the building and then heard the “click” of the door lock releasing as, at the same time, I heard a tinny voice say: “enter” through a barely working speaker. At another time or another place I might have leaned into the speaker and ordered a cheeseburger with fries but I wasn’t in the mod for kidding around. My brain was hurting from the ride in and I wasn’t looking forward to the drive our. I just opened the door and stepped in and closed the door behind me. I heard the lock shut tight. “Hope this isn’t a mouse trap,” one half of my brain said to the other. I has certainly stepped in to some sort of cage.

The entry room to the kid’s shop stopped abruptly at a counter. There was just a long thin strip of floor bordered by 10-foot steel walls topped with chain link all the way to the rafters. There was even a chain link ceiling. There was nobody there, just a lot of signed insisting that “Magazines Must Be Removed From All Weapons And Breeched Must Be Open. No exceptions. This means you!” But given the mood I was in, and the fact that I’d just walked into a place much resembling either a jail cell or the towel dispensary at my old high school gym, I chose to ignore them. The tinny voice said “Be with you in a moment” and then the place was client but for some the faint, muffled sound of at least two different voices drifting up from the other side of the steel walls and drifting down to me through the chain link ceiling. I leaned into the speaker and said “I’ve got to take a piss” then, a few seconds later, heard another surveillance camera swivel on an outdated little motor. It was located up in a corner or my cage, on the other side of the counter. “I said I’ve gotta take whiz,” I repeated right away. “Been in the car all flippn afternoon.”

But Tinny Voice was ready for me. “Shitter’s broken,” it said.

“No problem,” I told it. I leaned into the counter to reach through the small opening in the chain link counter. As I did, the camera swiveled for a better view. I grabbed a Maxwell House coffee can full of pens and dumped the pens on counter. “I’ll just piss in this.”

And without waiting for a response, I whipped out Andre The Giant and peed into the can. As I did, a steel door on the other side of the counter opened and in walked the kid wearing a plain gray cotton tee shirt and desert camo pants. He was in his late twenties with that “beyond my years” look of having seen some action. The grin on his lips and in his eyes told me it hadn’t been so much action to have to charred his sense of humor. As I pushed the can over to him through the opening at the counter (piss sloshing around inside), he said: “The Colonel said to expect this sort of thing from you. C’mon back if you don’t mind waiting while I finish up with another client.” Without waiting for an answer, he pressed a button on the wall behind him and I heard the lock click free on the door to my left.

We both stepped into the massive space at the same time but through separate doors. The shop was a combination of workspace and storage lit by just a few strategically located florescent lights hanging from the rafters and small, brighter lights at selected work counters and tool and die machines. In addition to the familiar equipment of a metalworking shop, there were bins of different bits of metal including bins of different steel tubes from which rifle barrels and suppressor would be made. And different counters held different projects in various stages of completion –SBRs, suppressors, and a several odd looking weapons such as the “evil” ones the Colonel had mentioned. It occurred to me that he may have even been making some of them for the Colonel and that some of them may eventually find their way into my possession by way of the Colonel. There was other eye candy too. The kid had a nice collection of posters that, in addition to weapons and accessories for the black ops set, included some vintage Playboy pinups and bright scenes of bikini clad island girls posing on white sugar sand beaches beside nearly transparent turquoise water.

I followed the kid to the back of the shop –zig-zagging through machinery and rows of shelves to get there much like I’d had to zig-zag through his fucked up directions to the shop. Maybe there was something to that. Maybe the kid’s calm under fire exterior presence concealed a clusterfuck of emotions inside. I tucked the thought away for future study as snaked our way through dark aisles and then rounded a corner into an open space with better light.

There was a guy waiting there, wearing full camo with hair high and tight and boots laced and polished as if on his way to or from a “back-in-the-states-temporarily” assignment at Ft. Jackson. I had the feeling he wasn’t on a rotation; had the feeling he only came back for just a few days at a time between long stretches of being in far away, fucked up, radio-silent places. The soldier leaned over a table with his back to us, giving us just a quick look as we approached then returning to focus on the table top –a rifle and various parts arranged on it with great care as if a tricky transplant were underway. The kid went around to the other side and picked up where’d they’d left off before my interruption. There were no introductions, nor would there be. My presence alone was introduction enough, a symbolic “he’s okay” vote of confidence that spoke volumes in this line of work. Names and further details were customarily left out. Everybody around the table just them operated on a “need to know” basis. It was a very efficient and effective way of getting by.

The rifle was a “reach out and touch someone” M14 that snipers often carry and Jerry was having some “personal preference” tweaks made beyond the norm in terms of what Uncle Sam would normally provide. I stood by quietly, trying to offer the professional courtesy of reduce my presence to that of barely a shadow. We all knew the etiquette of our situation. In his late 40s, Jerry was getting up there. Most of the guys he served with were half that – probably too young to notice his spot-on resemblance, in my opinion at least, to The Who’s Roger Daltrey. It was uncanny. He had Daltrey’s high energy eyes the color of blue mountain stream found only near active glaciers. He had Daltrey’s confident but down-turned mouth and square chin and, too, those long thin dimples that gave his face and square jaw line and chin it’s deeply chiseled. Also like Daltry, Jerry carried his compact, medium-sized frame ramrod straight and seemed to be like an engine idling for now …but ready to break off into full throttle on a second’s notice or into an easy jog that could be sustained even in hard terrain with the ease of a mountain goat.

His “high and tight” haircut, hard jaw and firm chin made Jerry’s head as rectangular as a shoe box –a Saturday morning cartoon super hero comes to mind—but what really made an impact on me was his voice: a hoarse, sleep deprived-sounding baritone that he had a way of spitting through his teeth. It sounded to be on the very edge of cracking, straining toward a preference for whispering—as if life depending on not being heard. I easily imagined that for Jerry that was usually the case. His words came out as if having been pushed through clenched teeth with great difficulty under uber levels of chaotic stress.

Jerry was complaining that earlier tweaks to his weapon had given it an unusual fire signature that, last time around, had nearly gotten him killed. “I need to get back to something that sounds less like an AK,” he told the kid. “My own guys were calling in air strikes on me.”  The veins in his neck strained a little as he told the story and of course the kid and I didn’t make a peep listening. Jerry’s voice need total quiet and no interruptions. Jerry’s voice needed all the help it could get. He spit it out through clenched teeth with a ramrod straight spine and rectangular head –yet the eyes were like marbles, like walls built up to create an appearance of calm at all times, under all circumstances. The eyes were the real story. The eyes kept the vibe from throttling too fast and getting away. The eyes kept the air around Jerry steady while his story of a shit storm played out around him.

Jerry’s accounting of what trouble had been caused by the odd sound of his rifle barrel bouncing off the rocky terrain of Afghanistan’s mountainous area near Pakistan was told with one foot on the accelerator and the other on the brake.

And at the end of it, there was a pregnant pause to which Jerry finished by asking us both “How fucked up is that?”

On one level it was a question with too large an answer. Yet on another level, it wasn’t a question at all.

# #  #
— Tim Bryant
Author of Blue Rubber Pool
Surf Director at Pineapple Hill

Union County. Get Smart.

Union County, South Carolina, reminds me of Get Smart, the 1960s spy parody television series starring Don Adams.


Each episode opened with Agent Maxwell Smart (aka Agent 86 …”Max”) walking a long narrow hallway through a series of strange doors. One door opens to reveal a stairway. Another, fake prison bars, opens to reveal a simple telephone booth. And the booth, it turns out, is a trap door through which Max drops down into the secret headquarters of his spy agency.

Union County, where Pineapple Hill is in South Carolina, does the same thing …metaphorically.

It has secret entrances only the natives know about. Long winding roads that disappear into trees. You quickly vanish as far as the rest of the world is concerned.

After woods, you follow the path to a lovely meadow at which point the sky opens up on a bright blue sunny day.

All of a sudden you feel safe and at home. This land is for getting away, keeping the rest of the world and its unnecessary chaos at arm’s length. For some, at barrel’s length.

It’s the opposite of malls, movie theaters, crowded sidewalks and traffic jams. I came here because a woman made me. But most are here by choice and would have it no other way.

I get it now.

— Tim Bryant
Author of Blue Rubber Pool
Surf Director at Pineapple Hill

Blue Rubber Pool: Excerpt 290

The news from Honduras had not been good. In an early morning raid, soldiers stormed the palace. Mel was tossed out by the seat of his pants–the first military coup in South America since the fall of the Berlin Wall.

It was dusk. I was up in the lifeguard stand again, aiming a Crimson Trace red dot at the early moon. Marianne’s cat was with me on the bench.

She nudged my ribs then whipped around and swaggered to the other end, John Wayne-style, then decided to sit and lick herself.

Something moving in the woods made her stop. She’d been rather skittish lately. Two nights before, there had been a wild crazy ruckus underneath my sailboat, the cat hissing and making kung-fu-fighter sounds, spine arched, ears back, in a Mexican standoff with what–Marianne told me later–was probably a coyote. I went out on deck, firing into the air, and the coyote ran off. I squeezed off a few extra pot shots and got a yelp in response. When I checked the next day, I found nothing: no blood trail, no tracks.

# # #

Buy it here.

# # #

–Tim Bryant
Author of Blue Rubber Pool
Surf Director at Pineapple Hill

Funny sailing video from Irish Sailing Olympics

Tacking to and fro across YouTube for just a minute and just for “kicks” I found this funny sailing video from the Irish Sailing Olympics. The commentator is clueless. The more he yammers on, the more befuddled he gets.

It’s here to wish you a wonderful day. At least compared to his.

 [Warning: some profanity in this one.]

Be sure to watch the end (which is really just the beginning).

–Tim Bryant
Author of Blue Rubber Pool
Surf Director at Pineapple HIll