O
John Gibson, Reigning master of the Dallas romp. Photo: Cod
our tail. We decide to go for some corner
slides through residential areas to shake
these guys. This could be the only way
after trying to beat them on the straights
proved to no avail. We also were getting
bio air head slams over the dips on
straights and not digging it. Finally we
started to lose them on the corners, until
we hit a patch of water and sketched out.
Carlos pulled it off though, after a quick
180° and we punched it around a few
more turns leaving the Truck Ducks in the
dust. We laughed and yelled about the
chase and all agreed we were lucky to
lose them even though we were kind of
lost. We trial-and-error, creepy crawled
back to Fig's house. Like a good mother
he was patiently waiting for us. We
quickly explained our adventures and
then sacked out on the floor. Welcome to
Texas! All in good fun, yeeaahh-hoo.
Sure, right!
Tuesday: Slept in until 12:00 noon, and
then headed straight for the Zorlac ramp
in front of Donel Distributors factory. A
killer ramp with fiberglass molded
transition, 16 feet wide, 16 feet of flat, 11
feet high, including a foot of wooden tile
extensions and thick steel coping (tooled
from local high school goal posts, it is
rumored) with 3-4 feet of rollout platform.
Sounds pretty hot, huh? It's definitely a
fun ramp. Soon after arriving, locals Craig
Johnston and Dan "Bonehead" Wilkes
showed up for a levis and no pads thrash
session with the boys. Jeff "Bio" Phillips
came to show the boyz his routine of
mechanical moves. One thing we all
agreed on though, he had the fuckin'
ramp wired. Finally somebody with herb
showed up. Then, "Scarecrow" Barrows
showed his stuff and powered it, yeah!
Thanx, "Money can buy you love," as the
locals would say. Even a few local Sheilas
strutted their stuff. Allison, aka "slack jaw,"
arrived casually in her convertible cougar
and we were quite impressed with the
shape of things.
That night Dirt Bag Flag and Tanya
took us out to a 10-cent drink fag bar in
Dallas. It happened not to be open that
night. Duane gave Flag a bunch of shit.
So Tanya, Flag and some fag gave us a
ride to good ole Mother Blues. Luckily
drinks were 10 cents a piece for the girls
there that night. So I had them purchase
my drinks for me. The fag paid for our
drinks and he also left us stranded without
a ride home. The dirt bags leeched a ride
home with some bikers. I talked to Liza
Lou long distance a la credit. Not before
giving Kiwi a call at Fig's pad for a ride to
the Cleaver pad. I had a long and intimate
conversation with my baby.
Meanwhile, the local law enforcement
officers cruised in full force around Mother
Blues. I have no idea why they didn't
hassle me, I didn't exactly look like I
belonged around this or any other place,
or even in Texas. For some odd reason
though, they didn't even look at me, now
this wasn't the case with the local long
hairs. They were being chased, thrashed
and busted in every direction by The Boyz
(a name for cops in So. Cal.). They were
swarming like white tip sharks on a bloody
carcass. Well, by now I was getting a bit
paranoid about what Kiwi was really
doing. I called Fig back and he informed
me he had left 45 minutes ago. So, in
other words, the Kiwi was lost. I decided
to relocate my position to the front of the
club so Kiwi wouldn't miss me. Fig told
me to call back if he didn't make it. Sure
enough, 15 minutes and 10 police cars
later, Kiwi showed up whipping a "U-le" on
Lemmon Drive. Just in time, Kiwi bro!
Rumor has it that within the next hour a
brutal murder occurred within the perimeter
of my favorite bar and club, Mother Blues.
Thanx, Kiwi, you're a life-saver. We were
now presented with a serious problem.
Where were we? Our sixth sense took
over and we drove at random straight to
the Cleaver pad. Who knows how? I don't.
But we made it, no problem. Just in time
too. D.P. had to take a 3:00 a.m. drive.
Wednesday: Another late morning
snooze. Fig seemed to be in a bit of a
rush today. He had a lot to do. Der put a
change to that schedule. He took a brisk
morning walk in his bath towel to the car
with Carlos' keys. This started an instant
lost key scandal. For the next few hours.
everyone walked around in circles looking
stupid. (Now I've got a gun. You better get
out of my way. I think I've had a bad day.
Another story, another time. Dicks-Hate
Police.) To make a long story short, the
keys were found in the trunk of the car.
Thanks to a $10 locksmith charge and
Carlos' patience. Duane: "I know the
fuggin' keys aren't in the trunk." D.P.,
you're a ripper!
Thursday: The skating this day got
considerably more aggressive. We started
to gain confidence and get the driving
kinks out. Backside airs just float on this
ramp. We sessioned all day and then
retired to our new hotel for a "TV party
tonight." (Some other Texan boys showed
up at the hotel for an evening check-in.)
Tex Mex, the BMXer, and Bugger, a Sims
rider, showed up to rage with us. We went
to the Continental Hotel that night after
hours. We weren't admitted to the gay bar
again so we went back to dry country
where our hotel was. We got pretty shit-
faced and Duane and Flag went at it
again. Flag socked D.P. in the face, so he
kicked her in her flabby ass. This started
a full-on scene. Tanya tried to act tough,
too, but she wasn't very good at it. They
ran, screaming obscenities at us through
the parking lot. We bombarded them with
a few beer bottle grenades, which made
them scream even louder. This brought
the attention of one of our neighbors to
the predicament. One asshole that
boasted of killing someone and fighting
bouncers decided he wanted to kick
Duane's ass for Flag the Dirt Bag. So I
went to make sure Duane didn't get
jumped. The guy said he had a room full
of friends (although we never saw them).
When the guy saw me, he decided I was
the one to fight instead. Well, that started
it. A few blows were exchanged, the guy
got one pretty good shot on me, but I was
too drunk to feel pain. Kiwi flew in from
the top of the stairs to lend a hand and
then it was over. The last thing I remember
this psycho idiot saying was, "Oh, hey
man, you're T.A., wow let's smoke a joint,
man!" I looked at the guy like he was
crazy, Duane yelled and slammed the
door on his face. Duane and Gilda blazed.
I fell asleep with all of my clothes on.
The next day was raining all day so we
just kicked back, smoked rastas and
slept. Took a couple of drives in the Gilda
mobile. Just about floated down one
street during a lightweight Texas rain.
Went and cruised some monstrous
Texas malls. Definitely shocked some
people with our looks or images, whichever
you prefer. Checked out the tobacco
shops for Jakartas and the ice rinks for
six-year-old ballerinas. We found one that
blew our mind while we sipped Coke and
smoked Jaks. Tonight will also be a
kickback evening. We consumed loads of
beer. (Newton was trying to rig up night
lights for the ramp, but the weather was
going to be a definite factor. Some fools
tried to do a demo in the rain.) Our hotel
room was rented under Gilda's name,
luckily Duane and I scammed that little
detail. This means we could rage our
room with no consequences. Gilda gets
the bill. Great fun.
Friday: Kurt, the hatchet murderer's
friend, filled us in on his psycho tenden-
cies. The guy was flipped out on shooting
up crank and belonged to a family of
maniacs. He was the youngest of this
family. I figured we should keep our
distance, considering I didn't want to meet
the rest of the family under these cir-
cumstances. Kurt turned out to be really
cool so we told him he could room with us
since he was trying to get rid of this
maniac. He bought us some beer for
skating on Friday. Scarecrow had some
brews too. It was a humid day so it was
perfect for beers and sporadic skating.
Kiwi and Duane were starting to fire off
consecutive radical moves with a heavy
California-style influence. The most
intense were Kiwi's frontside rock & rolls
and Duane's frontside sweepers along
with a few hectic reverts, out of most any
trick he can do, the "Master of Disaster
would eventually dominate!
After skating pretty much all day, we
met Big Bad Bob Dick, and his bro,
Maddog, at the hotel. Bob Dick, who was
definitely Duane's and my favorite Texas
celebrity, was a dead ringer for Joe
Strummer. He was also a raging partier.
We had all decided we were going to a
beer party where the "Butthole Surfers"
were going to play. A bunch of the Texans.
said they were into it also. Tex Gibson
had arrived earlier that day and Gator
Rogowski also flew in, so they were
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