IN UPLAND!
The digital clock radio sat right on the edge of the night stand,
guess you could say it was 5:30 a.m., but one can't be sure. My
eyes refuse to focus until after 7:00 a.m. (weekdays, P.S.T.). As
the alarm mechanism engaged, the previously tuned "Slag Metal"
station (maximum annoyance) blared out its incessant roodles
from poodleheads."
It's times like this that I look back seven or eight years and
wonder why I ever set my heart and feet onto a skateboard. The
question cries loudest from the lower back, knees and head
regions.
A commercial came on. Some idiot trying to push every modern
appliance in his store before Christmas:
"Hi kids, come on down to my store, where everything is made
by Americans for Americans. We will give credit to anyone, you
must be eighteen or over, and be an American citizen. We don't
care if you're old. Remember only four shopping days left till
Christmas: Bye kids!"
One quick fumbling snap of the wrist puts a silence to the gibber
from the modern appliance.
My armpit began to itch. I scratched it quickly as I made my way
towards the door to fetch the morning edition. I could hear the rain
as it fell all over the streets below. It was raining late last night
when I went to get my last load of wash. Some things take time.
I'm due to fly out of S.F. International, at 8:00 a.m., to Southern
California for a big contest at the Upland Pipeline, and I need
some clean socks. The bare facts of life.
Mike McGill skated strong and hard to earn himself the first place spot. Here
in a mid-lakie handplant, Mike cranks hard in his final run of the day.
It probably has been raining all night. Down below, I could hear
Hyram, the garbage man, singing White Christmas in his heavy
Hebrew accent. I picked up the paper and dashed in out of the wet
cold and headed for the bathroom. I sat there a bit and con-
templated life as I read "TOP OF THE NEWS." Jack Webb,
Hollywood dude-remember Dragnet?-was sick as hell and was
gonna die. Every other time I go down south, someone croaks. I
think of Vic Morrow, it shakes my heart. At least we still have Rob
Mitchum.
Bigotry and the KKK, any hate group pitting race against race,
religion against religion, must be refuted. Seems like interesting
stuff.
More Marines may be sent to Lebanon.
It says that the Israelis are trying to schedule an agreement for
a withdrawal. At the same time, the feuding local factions are
blowing each other's brains away left and right. I wonder how our
guys are doing over there? I wonder how their Christmas is gonna
be?
My sinuses were at it again as they always are around this time
of the year. The snowboarding trip day before yesterday was no
help. I was definitely coming down with something. I exhale and
an inflating bubble appears at the end of my nose.
But duty calls once again and another contest had to be
covered. I'd have to be dead to get out of this, the editor was at
the printer with the January issue and to get the types down south
to cover a contest...well, you know. At least I can make deadlines.
MOFOTO
I cleared my throat of excess phlegm. Nearly choked. The clock
radio went off again, the DJ said it was 6:15, I had five minutes
before Gnit (my obnoxious conscience) would be by for the ride to
the airport. I looked up from the sink into the medicine cabinet
mirror. My face was red, my eyes red and languid pools. From my
nose dripped a five-inch hanger. I tried to convince myself that I
was fired up and ready to go. It didn't work. The radio stressed a
Merry Christmas, Peace on Earth, good will towards men, cliche,
cliche, hype, hype, etc. How heavily this must be on Johnny's
mind over in Lebanon. He wishes he were home in bed for sure,
planning dinner at the folks, turkey, yams and apple pie. No such
luck. For some people, there just is no peace. That's too bad.
I grabbed my bags and camera, put on my new WALKMAN and
programmed myself for the day. CRASS new recording, Christ:
The Album.
The volume knob on Gnit's vocal chords was stuck on about 8.
I'm afraid it was a permanent condition to last the rest of the
holiday season. Free entertainment.
Gnit says that it was 80 in L.A. yesterday. Great, sunshine. Got
to get away from this dismal NorCal rain. Got to clear my head.
After dealing with the Christmas airport scene, Gnit's repeated
barking for coffee, a take-off delay, etc., etc., we finally made it to
LAX.
By this time everyone in the airport was kinda bummed because
Jack Webb had finally died.
The rental car Hertz gave us was a dog Ford compact. Luckily,
an attendant there who was taking the car to be washed backed
up without looking and got hit by one of their shuttle buses. Much
confusion. The voice on the headphones said, "We can win. We
can win. I want you to SENSE your own strength." Then the
batteries were too low to proceed.
They brought us another sardine can, same make, different
color. The radio was tuned to the once hip KROQ, but that was
long ago. Now (for them), the hip thing to do is to pretend to be
surfers and listen to New Wave, or Fake bands; as The Dicks
would say. They have contests: try to guess who almost won the
surf nationals (or whatever they label their competition) three
years in a row, the Greater L.A. (listening audience) knows all
FLEX
During a practice session, a picture perfect Lance Mountain grabs the inside
rail beneath a brooding sky the evening the rain came.
Blasting some of the highest aims of the contest, Micke Alba tests the
atmosphere above the 12 footer
about it. Sure. I punched the button and zeroed in on Patsy Cline.
Sometimes passé is good.
The clouds were hanging low. There was no sign of any 80"
weather. I sneezed and ruined the shine on the plastic dash.
Once at the park, we met up with dandy Don Hoffman. He
looked bummed. I made an expression on my face that says
"What's wrong?" He looked at the sky, sniffed the air, and said,
"It's gonna rain."
That's too bad. Not good for skate contests. Ignoring the
impending lurking of storm clouds were a couple defiant pros
practicing in the pool. Gator Rogowski, the ultra-rad from "Esco-
Viejo," was giving the pool a bad time. Gator is one of the most
ballsy skaters around these days. This is a good sign.
Steve Caballero was there pounding life into the full throttle
session. He was incorporating some Gary Scott Davis moves into
the competitive world.
Rad guy, Lance Mountain, arrived onto the scene with some
fox. I could tell he was gonna do some special sessioning; he's
never one to disappoint with bad riding.
Mike McGill, the movie star, was flowing impressions of vert
prowess. He's been at this business for some time now. He's
gonna be tough to beat here. But Micke Alba certainly is no slouch
either. His home park, a new, rich girlfriend, how could he go
wrong?
Christian Hosoi appeared later in the day for some extra added
insanity. It looks like Christian is gonna be around for a long time.
He just keeps getting better."
Tony Hawk, one of the festest rising stars on the scene today,
had the unfortunate mishap of hanging up on a move and bailing
into a king size hipper. Tony will sit this one out, although he
managed to butt-board his way around the park premises his
whole time there.
Besides having the pool competition in this contest, there was
to be a banked slalom comp. Present at the moment and meaning
to enter was the big guy Don Bostik from Sacto. Ca. He was in the
vicinity because his band happened to be playing in town at some
"three-piecer joint." Also planning on entering slalom were Steve
Caballero, Alba, Gator, Chnstian Hosoi, Neil Blender...almost.
every pro pool rider.
It was cold outside, so I went in the pro shop and almost fell back
when I scanned the two teenage baby-dolls behind the counter. I
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