post a quick once-over before situat-
ing his surveillance. Two hours into his
shift he looked at his watch. Noticing
that it was nearly dawn, he checked in
with the rest of the guards on the
same post. A slight Mediterranean
breeze stirred, softly nibbling at the
Marine's exposed cheeks.
A few hundred yards away, down
the airport access road, he heard the
diesel sounds of a truck passing
through the Lebanese army check-
point. With his ears, he followed the
sound until a light blue Mercedes truck
appeared, turning into the adjacent
public parking area, most often used
by air-freight vehicles. Peering over
the sand bags at the post, he mo-
tioned his fellow guards to the motion-
The sentries were hurdled several
yards back as debris fell all around,
chunks of cement, splinters of furni-
ture...an arm. Moments later came
the cries. Cries for help. All it took was
one driver, one truck, one hand, one
mind, one life to push several hundred
human beings into hell in one fell
swoop. One moment in a multitude of
lifetimes. Small fires in the debris
began to set off stored ammunition,
but still the cries for help could be
heard.
ALHAMBRA
So there I stood in Lance's drive
way, my camera bag in one hand and
a small satchel containing my Levis,
socks and toothpaste at my feet, wav
of the mayor of Munich and U.S. Civil
War uniforms, just to name a few.
Looking at the uniforms, some of
them allies in times of war and ene-
mies in other times, I wondered what
the men who lived and died in them.
were like. How they lived and how
they died. Fighting at times in what i
was termed to be the war to end all
wars.
Lance and Caballero took off to
form a band that shouldn't be called
The Republic. Mr. Mountain and I
watched a World at War' video about
the Nazis rise and fall. What some
people/nations will do in hard times!
The phone rang and it was for me,
which was odd, because I didn't even
know I was gonna be here. It was
Friedman of the Glen E. He clued me
to a non-bust backyard kidney pool.
Immediately I drew up plans for the
next day's activities.
Next morning after a good shower
and repeated abuses to Steve who
marathoned a phone call to his dear-
est, we all sat down to french toast
courtesy of Mrs. Mountain. As we ate,
the television, which had up to then
been droning with the usual early
morning Sunday stuff, was interrupted
with a special bulletin which immedi
ately grabbed and shocked my ears.
"ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-
FIVE U.S. MARINES PERISHED
EARLY THIS MORNING IN WHAT
HAS BEEN INDICATED BY EARLY
REPORTS AS A TRUCK LADEN
Steve Caballero sums up the edginess and
precariousness of the weekend in this frozen
moment over the steps. Notice: no truck
protection of any kind
Lance Mountain flushes this high-speed backside grinder over the "Death Box" and
local Steve grinds over it frontside
less truck sitting beyond the 20-foot
deep field of barbed wire. The truck
began to move in a slow circle as the
sentries kept but a curious eye upon it.
Suddenly, the driver began revving
the engine and sent the truck crashing
through the barbed wire, straight to
wards the guard post which was in di-
rect line with the USMC Command
Center. Reacting quickly the sentries
loaded their weapons and instigated a
plan of interception. As the truck ad-
vanced through their line of defense,
one of the guards, threw himself into
the path of the truck, only to see it
swerve, the driver grinning a big shit
eating grin. As it passed, the sentries
emptied several rounds into the pass-
ing vehicle, guessing at its deadly
cargo. There was a deafening explo-
sion, then the four story structure
came crashing down to the ground.
24
ing goodbye to the Mind Brothers, as
they ditched me to go to Hollywood.
"We'll pick you and Caballero up to-
morrow at 6 pm Ha-Ha-Ha," they said.
Returning to the house, I announced
my situation. Luckily, they must've felt
sorry for me, so I had a roof for the
night. Observing my surroundings, I
casually noticed that part of the house
served as a military museum. Appar-
ently, Mr. Mountain (a World War II
veteran of Her Majesty's Military) has
been collecting things since way back
when he was assisting survivors of
Dunkirk and a soldier handed him two
bullets taken from the beach there.
One German, one British. Since then,
he says he's just been acquiring the
stuff. Pieces in his collection included:
a sword from the battle of Waterloo;
shrapnel from his backyard in Eng-
land; a swastika pennant from the car
WITH EXPLOSIVES DRIVEN ON A
SUICIDE MISSION, INTO THE UNIT-
ED STATES MARINE HEADQUAR-
TERS IN BEIRUT. THE BUILDING
HOUSED THE BATTALION LAND-
ING TEAM RESPONSIBLE FOR
COMBAT OPERATIONS AND COM
MUNICATIONS AS WELL AS OTH-
ER SENSITIVE FUNCTIONS. RES-
CUE CREWS ARE FEVERISHLY
DIGGING THEIR WAY TO CRIES
UNDER THE HUNDREDS OF TONS
OF RUBBLE. ALSO TWO MILES
AWAY, IN A SEPARATE ATTACK
WITHIN SECONDS OF THE FIRST,
ANOTHER BOMB-LADEN TRUCK
SLAMMED INTO A FRENCH PARA-
TROOP BARRACK KILLING AT
LEAST 31 FRENCH PARATROOP.
ERS AND WOUNDING 12...PRESI-
DENT REAGAN...
I was stunned, That many lives
snuffed at once. It hurt inside. I might
have known some of those guys.
Some of them might have once been
one of my friends. All of those lives,
gone at once, not even knowing what
happened. Dying in one's sleep. Clos-
ing the eyes thinking of tomorrow and
dreaming of yesterdays, all in peace,
only to never awaken. The young fa-
thers never to see their children. The
mothers, brothers, sisters and fathers
never to see brothers or sons again
because of a man in a truck full of ex-
plosives in a far away land for a rea-
son unknown.
Incidents like this shudder human-
ity. What price is life? What would
every mother's answer be if their
young sons were to ask them "Mom-
my, would you ever want me to die
doing what those men were doing?"
Every mother cherishes their sons. If
they don't, they don't deserve to be
mothers.
As time went on that day, the death
toll rose. Soon it was over 150. Lance,
Caballero and I took off to try and live
a little bit today, because sometimes
you just don't know what will happen.
First off we hit up a few of the trendy
stores
along Melrose sticking
THRASHER stickers on almost every
store window. Next we went in search
of the La Brea tarpits. We got lost for
awhile, picked up a hitchhiking man
who was about 92 or 93 years old. He
said he knew the way but we found out
that that was all he knew how to say
and he didn't know what state he was
in.
I told Lance to pull over. When we
stopped I opened the door, got out
and told Steve to kick the old man out.
We then resumed our search. Finally
we found it. It sucked. Nothing spec-
tacular. It just smelled like a newly
paved street and looked like a black
pond. But a block away in front of the
Museum of Art, was a small brick lip
that circled a giant sculpture fountain.
Lance and Steve did some cool tricks
and attracted a tight jeaned brunette
who was about 30 years old but
looked 20. Lance and Steve really
began to sweat. I took about a roll and
a half, instructing the skaters in my
best French which sounded like
butchered Spanish. Still, she was im-
pressed. The smog does that to
people.
Next, the mega search for the Kid-
ney pool. Fortunately, Friedman
blazed on the directions and we actu-
ally found it with ease.
Approaching with caution, we en-
countered a few of the locals ripping it
up. We asked to session through and
they obliged. They said this pool has
been sessioned for five years, the guy
who owns it surfs and is cool.
After a few moments I persuaded
my subjects to ride or else, because
we were loosing valuable light and it
was almost time to meet the Mind
Bros. back at the manor.
As if by command they wired the
pool in a few runs and skated it like it
has never been skated before. Steve
was grinding frontside over the 'death
box' and over the stairs. Lance blast-
ed some furious lapover grinders on
the face wall and some high frontside
airs all over the place. A local showed
up and joined in the session. His
name was Steve too. He was blasting
some well honed, mid-blowing lines
like only locals can do at places like
this. Lance and Steven were equally
impressed with him. Soon the light
went away and we had to shoot back
for our rendezvous. We said goodbye
to the locals and I gave them about a
hundred THRASHER and "Skate
and Destroy" stickers. Before crawling
through the hole in the fence I asked,
"What should we call this pool?"
The Shit Bowl one replied.
"Yeah?"
Upon leaving the Mountain Manor,
we thanked the Mountains for hosting
this historic skate event at their house.
Everything went off so smoothly and
everyone was satisfied. When the
plane touched down at SFO, I reflect-
ed on how this weekend was a real
workout on the senses. Then I thought
of the poor families of all of those poor
Marines.
OFF THE COAST OF GRENADA...?
Somebody stop these crazy people
from making life so miserable. Who
holds the answers? What does it
take? Nothing seems to ever work.
Peace through Intelligence.
Photos and words by Mo