LAKEWOODS'
Last Contest
MOrizen FOche
The small but perfect "clamshell" pool at Lakewood provided a challenging setting. It's too bad that the park had to close a week after this shot was taken.
TRACKER
The usual bus transportation mode was
used along with the weirdness that is
associated with the low-budget
passengers. Upon arrival at the L.A.
depot, I quickly found a place in the
cocktail lounge to await my host. My host
waited outside for me. I was on the inside,
and he was on the outside. After two
hours of this, I got bummed, then decided
to call the Video Star's house to see what
was up. On the message machine (no
Video Star is ever without one of these
handy-dandy gadgets of the eighties), I
found out what the general consensus
was. I was to take a Taxi there.
Well, I couldn't find a Taxi, so I hired a
Chicano in a beat-up Volkswagen to take
me to the humble abode. Upon arrival, I
searched my pockets to pay the bloke,
but could only find a partially full pint of
Schnapps. He claimed that it was more
than enough and that it would do just fine,
I couldn't find any (not even the slightest)
reason to argue. Next came the usual
uncomfortable politeness and restrainment
of burps and farts, all of which are
associated with the accepted behavior in
hostful households.
That was my Friday evening.
Saturday morning, my host took me to
breakfast at a fashionable seedy bowling
alley. Unfortunately, I was forced to insult
our waiter because he kept wanting to
take my plate away. I should've been
ashamed of myself, but I wasn't. A couple
of antacid pills later, I felt fine.
Getting to the contest was easy, but
associating with some of the people who
were there was pretty hard. The local Fire
Department arrived in the parking lot next
door at about the same time that I arrived
at the park. They proceeded and
succeeded (in glorious full-color
emergency tradition) in blowing the crap
out of a little tree with a high-powered fire
hose. I was glad to see that somebody's
tax dollars were definitely being put to
good use and not being wasted on
defense or local development.
What was slated to be a weekend affair
was cut down to one day. Our judges for
the day: Steve "Rockabilly Rebel" Olson,
Peter "Punk gone Prep" Drotliff, Gregg
"Hockey Puck" Ayers, Chris "erb" Strople,
and Tony "Rebel Rouser" Alva. The old
Corp evaluating the new crop of thunder-
buster coping harassers. Ya know, you
couldn't ask for a much better crew.
In the audience under the hot
Lakewood sun were: Stacy Peralta,
Damien Pythias, Jay Alabamy, Todd
Seizure, Vlaadmir plus a whole bunch of
local skaters whose names I have
forgotten. In the announcer's position was
Jerry Hurtado. Well at least until he
stepped on the cord and yanked the wires
out of the mike, he then used a
megaphone and announced à la
"Winchester Cathedral."
Outlasting Stevie's everpresence, Pro skater Billy Ruff hung on to take first place. Although the Pro
turnout was low, Billy and Stevie provided a skate rivalry that should get intense in 1982.
Chuck Wastead