1-%
STEEP
SLOPES
MOTHER: "I don't know what I'm EVER
going to do with you! Here you are 17 years
old and still riding a skateboard!"
SON: "So what!!!! Leave me alone!!"
MOTHER: "You're going to break your
neck on that thing! And your grades are
dropping! Just what do you plan to do with
your life, young man?!!!
SON: "I don't know and I don't care!
There was a past. There is a present. But
there is no future! I can't deal with people.
I can't talk, so...I'll just skate!"
Somewhere, a lonely widow was
weeping. Face in hands, the contemplative
sadness of her situation was FAR more
than she could bear. For, you see, it had
been years (long ticking moments,
motionless hours, and endless days) since
she had last felt the basic warmth and
comfort of a human embrace. She longed
to cling to her son, as mothers will, to love
him, to guide him, and set him in the right
direction. As a typical mother, she felt the
need to hold her "baby" in her arms, watch
him smile, and kiss his face. But time and
years had gone on to the present, and the
boy had learned, as men will, to hate. The
bright, shining wonder of his simple
childhood turned to rust and the very life of
his zeal had withered away. The child had
grown. The dream was gone.
Somewhere else, a sullen skinhead was
skating, and he was sick of questions by
the time he found this answer. He had
been through all the riddles, all the lies,
and all the whys. And he was sick of the
same old ways. The thrill was gone in rock
'n' roll and all its offshoots and everything it
stood for. Spontaneous aggression was
the only need. And a tailslide ripped
backside on a red painted curb perfectly
fulfilled the need. Coming out of the
tailslide (with momentum) the skinhead
scanned the immediate environment for
the next object of assault. Noticing a
garbage can at the edge of an alley a half
block away, the youth grabbed his board,
by the nose, sprinted down the walk, and
leaped into a lively sweeper-jump up and
over the can, tatting the tip of his tail on the
far edge of the garbage container, and
landing the move effortlessly...finally
skating away. Being the streetegist that he
was, the skater was fully aware that not
one square inch of concrete could be
overlooked, not one little bank left unrid-
den, not one little knoll left unollied.
Flash. The skater spied a slanted curb
across the street at the edge of a parking
lot. Nobody had to tell HIM to go out for the
long pass. Aluminum axles immediately
met asphalt edges in nothing but a flailing
way. No plastic protectors for this kid. He
could never even possibly THINK of
cutting the lip ANY slack by doing some-
thing so debonair as smoothly and quietly
caressing it with a nice, plastic coping
device. This kid simply craved crumbling
lips and delighted in the ferocious bite of a
bare-axle frontside grind!
Several more carve grinders were pulled
by the young skater. He then sought thrills
elsewhere. He left the slurb behind and
re-entered the sidewalk and ghetto arena.
He skated for a few minutes, jumping off
curbs down the blocks, and eventually he
rolled up to a local club and checked the
bill. The Faction was headlining that
evening. Nothing else to say. He was
stoked, so he made a definite date to
show. Walking around to the side of the
building into an alley, the skateboarder
started to ritualistically check the grafitti-
strewn walls for new messages of hope.
After scanning and scrutinizing various
wise words for several minutes, he noticed
three words written almost illegibly small in
black magic marker. The three words
were:Skate or live. He laughed to himself.
Because he understood.
Back to the widow. She WASN'T
laughing. She wasn't stoked. Mommy was
in tears. Mother was in distress, in fact,
because lately, her baby boy hadn't been
eating his vegetables. And the last time
she saw him (2 days ago), he (shudder)
wasn't even standing up straight! I don't
know what's going to become of that child,
she thought. Well, the skinhead himself
knew. Whenever he saw a photograph of a
mushroom cloud in the newspaper, he
knew just fine. Matter of fact, he knew
damned WELL what was going to become
of himself. But despite all of this, he had no
reason to cry. He couldn't cry. For anything.
Because he understood evolution and
overall change. He understood.
Evolution. To evolve. To change. The
changing of the surface of the earth is
constant and sometimes occurs in
sporadic radical bursts. Refer to the kid's
aforementioned newspaper photo of a
hydrogen bomb explosion hanging in his
room. Such man-made global events are
merely among the billions of possible
natural, supernatural, and extra-terrestrial
elements which evoke change and
"destruction" on the planetary surface. The
skater thought of this on a universal basis
and felt no feelings because he realized
that nothing lasts forever. Material objects
are not immortal. He knew there was only
one thing that mattered.
He threw his board down on the ground
and jumped on. Sweat was in his eyes, a
frown was on his face, but fun was in his
heart. He left the club, and it was still
daylight as the evening sun began to ray
filtered red colors through the fractured
mat of clouds in the distance. The skater
was ever moving ahead, twisting berts on
a desolate industrial backroad low in the
breeze. He spontaneously shot up an
embankment on the edge of the walk and
launched into a backside tailslide. He
bailed and his stick flew off down the bank
and into the road. Acting on instinctive
reaction, as skaters will, the youngster
immediately ran down the embankment
and into the road to fish for the one that got
away. He should have looked before he
crossed, and he (probably) knew he
should have, but it was too late. The truck
was moving WELL too fast to stop in time.
Cold metal slammed against warm human
flesh. The skater was knocked for loops to
the other side of the road where his
skateboard was. His cold body lay in a
virtual pool of blood. The truck screeched
to a halt. The driver looked back in horror,
and in a fit of panic and shock, he hauled it
as fast as he could out of there. Hit and run.
Damned shame. It took seventeen years
for the kid to get that far, and it all ended in
a split-second accident of life.
The hours ticked on, and the truck driver
was long gone. The skater's body was
laying there in the cold bloody bath. It was
twilight out, time was seemingly slowing
up, and one young boy around the age of
6, out playing and wandering, was
approaching from the distance. And as he
arrived upon the scene, he stared in total
disbelief. He didn't know what to do. He
circled the corpse several times, eyeing it
intensely with a solemn expression on his
face. He just didn't know what to do.
Eventually, the boy, out of sheer luck,
caught a fleeting glimpse of a wooden
object with wheels laying several feet
away. He left the body behind and walked
over and looked upon the inanimate
object. He finally knew what to do. He then
smiled, as children will, and he picked up
the board and carried on.
-G.S.D.
AT HOME OR AT WORK...
Uncle Wiggley Skateboards is
proud to present the Tony
Magnusson Foam/Kevlar model.
Utilizing the industries first true
composite construction, it weighs
a mere 2.5 pounds, far lighter than
any other pool board on the market.
How did we do it? By replacing
sections of the wood core with
high density foam, while laminating
Kevlar/fiberglass skins to the core.
Wood rails and outer skins protect
the structure. It also helps that
we are one of the only companies
today that actually makes our
own boards.
How well does it work? Ask
Tony and he'll tell you.
For more information on Foam/
Kevlar and Epoxy/Glass boards,
write for our free catalog.
Suggested retail: $60.95
...IT'S A WIGGLEY WORLD
UWS
UNCLE WIGGLEY SKATEBOARDS
PO. BOX 90453
SAN DIEGO, CA. 92109
619/453-5770