Rob Roskopp
SAN FRANCISCO STREET STYLE
THRASHER
Dishing out the biggest upset in skateboard
history, Tommy Guerrero flies off the triangle
ramp.
Story & Photos by MoFo
INVASION:
THE SKATEBOARDERS
FROM OUR OF TOWN
Her hair? Well, I'll tell you about her hair.
Long, silky blonde, with a streak of aqua-marine
down one side. It draped delicately across her
naked shoulders, chest and back. Very cliche.
My body, tanned as it is, contrasted very
much with hers. So did my hair.
I reached for my wine glass and took a healthy
sip. Pinot Noir, Vintage 1976, the best Dave's
Market had to offer. It slithered down my throat
like a squished worm, just like it should. Then
came the tell-tale tightening of my lower cheeks.
I must remember to compliment Dave.
She sat there reclining on the black leather
sofa. The cheeks began to pucker again and this
time it wasn't the wine. I must remember to
compliment myself when there is time.
Arising, I walked across the mirrored room.
her eyes following my every step. I flipped on the
music console and put on something nice. Not
too trendy, not to hardcore. Just sort of, uh,
middle of the core, with a good driving beat.
I looked over my shoulder for her approval
and she responded by pursing her lips and
exhaling with a delicate hiss.
"Is this ok.?" I queried, straining against
active cheek muscles.
"Yes, anything, as long as it isn't that
programmed New Wave Romantic stuff. I
despise the basic electronic drum beat number
four, the basic bass riff number seven, guitarists
who know how to play well but play everyone
else's licks, and vocalists who either have tight
shorts, tight lips and a nasal problem, or think
they're the male answer to Brooke Shields.
"I'm hip."
I loosened the knot on my smoking jacket and
manuevered my way back across the room. She
rose, and her loosened gown slid past her waist
onto the floor where it settled into a neatly
crumpled pile. We closed in on each other, lips
looking for a match. We embraced, my arms
enveloping her in all of her loveliness and
beauty. I looked around to see if anyone was.
watching. A habit, although we were alone. I
could feel her hands gliding down my back to my
waist, then slowly and deliberately they slid
around....I sat up in a start, my eyes aching
from the activities of the previous night
Glancing at the blaring alarm clock, it was 7:10
a.m. I gave it a healthy backhand to cease it's
song. Looking around, there was no naked
bombshell. Nothing, just all of my dirty Levi's
and t-shirts. I stood up, scratched my pits, head,
and just about everything else. An impass had
accumulated in my throat. I coughed and spit out
the sickness into my sink. Best damn dream I've
had in a long time.
When my eyes cleared, I saw the note.
Pick up Jay Adams at the airport, arriving at
8:05 a.m., PSA flight 666."
Flight 666? That's the worst number in the
world, besides it's the mark of the beast. Omens
like this, I didn't need. Some people say that in
his younger days Jay Adams was the definitive