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TEXAS MADNESS:
with style
Craig Johnson, backside air.
Photo by Cody Bell.
Saturday Night: Sometimes leaving home
is hard. Especially if a nice six to eight-foot
south swell comes in the day before you
leave. That night as I packed my bag and
said my farewells to my girlfriend, I
thought seriously about whether I really
wanted to leave or not.
We were supposed to leave H.B. at
12:00 a.m. We didn't really get on the
road until 2:00 a.m. We, being the
infamous "Master of Disaster" Duane
Peters; northern skate wizard Peter "Kiwi"
Gifford; Chris "Cooksie Malooksi" Cook;
and Carlos "Rockford" Amezcua. Not
to forget myself, T.A. My first remark
concerned, "Get me out of this state."
Before I go surf instead, I thought
inside my head. Everyone agreed,"
so we did an all-nighter on the road.
We puffed all of our rastas before even
crossing the Calif, state line. Picked up a
couple of 12ers of Millers to start us off.
This helped start Kiwi off on a week of
absolutely tasteless humor. His jokes are
so bad they're almost good.
Sunday: Drove half a day. Stopped in
Tucson to buy Jakartas and check the
skate action. I drove up for a curb slider in
time to rap with some Phoenix skin
heads, who were across the street from a
skate shop. Bam Bam, the drummer from
JFA, was one of these guys. They took us
to a rundown skate park we called the
"Skate Grave." It was definitely fun and a
great release just to get out of the car. A
quick pool-hopping session after skating
and then back on the road again. We
rapped about our frontside air and other
skate lines while passing THRASHERS
out the window to other cars on the free-
way.
We told Bam Bam and the boys we
might see them in Phoenix on the way
back. We drove from Tucson all the way
straight to El Paso.
Once we hit El Paso we had to get a
good meal. By mistake we ended up in
the full on sleazy Mexican barrio. The
local law officers informed us of the bad
food in the area, so we headed for the
other side of town. Luckily we ran upon an
unreal Mexican restaurant under a
freeway overpass. The prices and food
were both great. Duane bummed the
waiters' life with stupid questions and
reversal last-second decisions. Tecates
all the way around with a 'lil lemon and
salt added the fine touch. After dinner we
drove as far as we could without passing
out, but not before getting in a late night
hassle because of Duane's sense of
humor with the Border Patrol. His 5'10"
male caucasian remark to his question
of our nationality didn't go over too big.
We made a quick hotel stop for the
night.
(Opposite page) Mark Rogowski
flew into Dallas to take 4th Place
with a vast array of tricks.
Photo: Jeff Newton.
Monday: Another big day of driving was
in store for us. We hit the liquor store first
thing. Whiskey sours and margaritas were
first on the agenda.
El Paso to Abilene was ditch country.
They were spotted every few miles. We
only stopped for the best ones. The first
ditch we rode was slightly downhill
angled, fast and gnarly. Good for rock
thrashing slides. Small bowl-type banks
were at either side of the bottom. We had
a good time on a morning buzz and
sunshine skating. The second ditch we
rode was mellow and very surfish, with a
little ollie air lip on the frontside wall.
Cooksie broke the tail on his board acid-
dropping. Carlos took a little roll. The third
ditch we stopped for was suicidal. We
didn't ride that monster, too big and steep
with an unmakeable transition. We
christened it with our empties instead.
After skating more than driving all day,
we decided to power it to Dallas. We even
spotted a few pools on the way. Dead
armadillos and races with bikers were
common along the way. A THRASHER
trucker (he had his own original
THRASHER sticker) raced along at 100
mph. Hot meat burritos we tooled from a
cowboy with a roscoe gave Der and me
an extreme case of the fartz and we blew
Cooksie away while he was sittin' in the
middle, hating life.
When we hit Dallas county line, we were
already on many cases of desert
Pearl and Lone Star beer. A few miles
down the road we are fully raging and
belligerent as hell. Our attitudes are
perfect for a midnight arrival at Jeff
Newton's, alias "Fig's House." A quick
stop at 7-11 results in Fig guiding us to a
typical Texas Cleaver household for our
next few days stay. We instantly terrorize
the Cleaver pad. Newton is shocked to
say the least. We decide to go out on the
town at 1:00 a.m. To a bar we go. Just
what we need. But first we give Cooksie a
much needed haircut so he's cool enough
to hang out with. Duane quickly conforms
Cooksie to the cool cat image. Another
bathroom miracle conceived.
On our way back into town we run into
two female tour guides, Dirt Bag Flag and
Gilda. They take us to a prep bar called
"Clicks" (clicks for dicks). I forgot to wear
my Jordache jeans though, so we were
refused entry. Carlos forgot his ruffled
dress shirt also. So we ended up at a full-
on biker bar called "Mother Blues." Home
of Mondo the Maniac. The Flag and Gilda
couldn't get in for being teeny boppers,
but Duane talked the Ted Nugent clone at
the door into letting us slide. The heavy
metal cover band playing, instantly
bummed my life. I decided, with the rest
of the guys, to just booze it some more.
Mondo spots us punk rock freaks and
asks me if I would like to wear his pool
cue across my face. I replied with a quick
and courteous "No, thank you," and took
advantage of my expansive vocabulary in
order to make friends. He mellowed out
for the moment.
We drank our fill until the bar closed at
2 a.m. and then packed back into the z-28
for a quick tool stop at 7-11 for some
Tickle Pink which somehow finds its way
into Duane's possession.
The first light we stop at, Mondo and his
cowboy chauffeur pull up next to us.
Duane casually flips a bottle cap at
their truck while Carlos hands them a
THRASHER. While I'm exchanging
greetings with my new bro, Mondo, he
goes into a fitful rage of violence over
Duane's accuracy. Jumping out of his
truck at the red light, he ran toward
Duane's side of the car. He reached
inside the window (which never was and
still isn't there) and tried to pull Duane out.
He shocked Duane, who was casually
sipping his Tickle Pink. After losing a
button on my favorite Cholo pendleton, he
yelled for Carlos to punch it through the
red. Carlos reacted immediately in the
typical Rockford fashion. Looking back at
the next red light, we see the truck
punching it right up next to us again.
Instantly, Mondo is out of the car and at
Duane's throat. This time Carlos decides
to get a bit more serious. So he screech
es up about five feet and when Mondo
ran behind the car to get back to the
truck, Carlos slammed it into reverse
and gave Mondo a quick slam. We
then ran the red once again.
Looking back as we fly through
the streets of Dallas at 90 mph,
we see the maniacs right on
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