How do you describe a photo like this? The skater is Mike McGill and the airplane
is a jet. The plane was on a landing course and Mike was just taking off. A
contrast in air. Man-air versus machine air. The tails of both air-objects barely
sedm to touch.
WHEN THE
DALLAS
COWBOYS
PLAY AT
HOME, THE
STREETS
ARE EMPTY.
SHUT UP AND SKATE.
STORY AND PHOTOS BY Mmmmm.
here are so many "Killer Broads" in airports it's unbelievable. Most of the 'Fashion Victims' are all dressed up with a place to go.
Tight skirts, the 'Flashdance' look (what a joke), black fishnet stockings, new wave clothes...it's dangerous to a man's senses.
I took a last, good look around, memorizing the curves of the figures, and headed down the ramp to the awaiting plane. I handed my
boarding pass to the air hostess. "Welcome aboard sir. Your seat is in the second cabin halfway down on the left...", she said. I looked at
her face, caked with makeup, her lipstick cracking when she smiled, "...and enjoy your flight." Shuffling down the aisle of an airplane with
luggage in one hand and a giant camera case in the other is one of the most stupid, clumsy feelings on Earth. Half a step at a time the
line moved, slowly, slower, stop. The cabin was a sea of cowboy hats and I wondered if all flights to Dallas looked like this. Probably. Ah,
two more rows and I can sit down.
The seat next to mine was occupied by a little kid, his little red cap pulled down somewhat over his face in the snooze position. I
secured my stuff in the overhead compartment and sat down, not really paying much attention to the little kid in the red hat. He had the
window seat. I plugged myself into my Walkman and cranked on 'The Proletariats' new album I had recorded the night before. It sounded
good and I went about my business of making sure the barf-bag was in good position for quick use. I inspected the cocktail menu and
checked off all of the drinks I'd never had before. After a few delays, as the plane was beginning to taxi onto the runway, the stewardess
with the thick face came by and told everyone to move their seat to the upright position and fasten their seatbelts.
I looked down and found one part of the belt, but the kid was sitting on the buckle part. "Hey kid, get your butt off my seat belt," I said
as I noticed the familiar letters "S.J." on the front of the cap. "Jesus Christ, it's Steve Caballero," I realized, just before he looked up and
grinned his toothless grin.
It was an hour into the three hour flight before they started serving the cocktails.
"Would you like anything to drink?" cakeface said.
"I'll have a bloody mary and a whisky sour."
That's an unusual combination."
"You have an unusual face." My first mistake. She served the drinks with lots of love, mostly on my lap. Caballero was overtaken by
a desire to collect the empty mini-liquor bottles, so I obliged to emptying many different kinds, so I could provide an impressive variety for
his collection.
Flying over the Tahoe area revealed a giant white blanket of snow that covered everything in sight.
When we debarked, we were met by Jeff Newtron and Dana Buck. Jeff lives in Dallas and Dana is from Mississippi. In the back of
Dana's little compact car were gigantic speakers. Caballero donated a cassette, so we were bombarded with "The Factions" new album
"No Hidden Messages."
"Are there many liquor stores here in Dallas? I'm on vacation-let's buy a sixpack," I wondered out loud. Newtron turned to Dana,
"See, I told you."
The cops are coming after me/their sons are B.M.X.ers/they always try to stop me/but urethane is faster than boots...." blared Gavin
O'Brien through the speakers.
The drive was short, about half an hour. We were still in Dallas. In the Los Angeles area, it's 45 minutes from one place to another, and,
as I would soon find out, in Dallas, it'll always be half an hour from one place to another.
At this point it was pretty dark outside, and since wrist watches
disagree with my wrist, I didn't know what time it was. The
surrounding landscape lay invisible in the darkness, refusing to
surrender any clues. I knew what was out there though. There
were lots of cowboys out there hiding; I had seen them in all of
the westerns. Cowboys and lots of horses. There weren't any
signs of Indians though. Dana turned on to an insignificant
looking roadway and pushed onward. There were more lights
around us now. So this is Dallas? Some of the signs, the names
were really insignificant, but the common focal point of most of
them was that they were topless and bottomless lounges. Strip
joints or whatever you wanted to call them. I made a note to
investigate later. It looked pretty weird to see a bunch of places
like that all on one street. There was something wrong here. A
jet flew overhead and things didn't look right. Why would they all
gather here? There must be a market for 'tit-loving' beer
drinkers. Why? We turned left at a Del Taco and drove behind it.
Why? I don't know. 'Del Taco' is a landmark itself in any given
city. With a skate ramp competition happening in its backyard, it
became a good provider of food this weekend. Plus, they were
instrumental in the support of the contest.
The halfpipe was situated there in the back. We pulled up and
there were a few people still riding about even though it was cold
out. Lance Mountain came up. He'd been there for awhile
already and was all bundled up in sweats.
The ramp looked kind of strange, painted several weird colors.
Jeff said it used to be a giant pinball game built by some guy in
Florida. The property that the ramp sat on was that of Melvin
Milton. He ran a little roller skate rental shop there which
provided the nearby "Bachman Lake' recreation path with an
avid supply of wheels for those warm weekend rolls around the
lake. It was too dark, and the lake was invisible too.
"Somebody stole my wallet," were Lance's first words. The
reflection of a low flying jet glistened in his hungry eyes. After
standing around for ten minutes watching someone skate (I
couldn't tell who it was because of all of the extra clothing), we
bunched into Newtron's truck and headed for the "Safeway."
There I instructed these elementary bachelors onto the right
track. First stop, the frozen food section and the little comer
marked, "Stouffers.' Here are some finely prepared, well
balanced meals provided by modern technology. If you're on a
diet you can try "Lean Cuisine," but the Stouffers' selection tops
them all. It gives us vagabond jetset slime a chance to eat like.
high class business social schmucks.
After this stop we all scattered, heading to our respective
aisles. I managed to find some eggs and a couple dozen com
tortillas for a primitive, Mexican style breakfast called 'Meegas."
After boiling a magnificent feast, we wondered what to do next.
Steve and Lance lay on the floor and began drawing pictures.
They warmed up by tracing Pushead drawings. After two hours
of watching them do this and trying to figure out their motives, I
derailed my train of thought to more entertaining points of
destination. Like someone's house who was having a party. A
big party. Well, instead we settled for driving back into the
darkness to some non-descript apartment house. After climbing
the first floor, some loud music was heard. Instinctively I headed
that way not knowing that it was the right direction. Somehow I
just figured that if there was loud music anywhere near where
there were supposed to be skaters, that the skaters would for
sure be there. Or something like that. After approaching the
door, my senses assured me that this was the place when two.
Rector clad local-boys rolled out the door, oblivious to life on
Earth.
Inside, the music was loud. It was a "999" album. I remember
them. On the counter was a chopped up magazine with a razor
sharp butcher's cleaver stuck into it. John Gibson and Craig
Johnson were glaring over it, alternately taking whacks at it after
hurling a quick insult or two. John stopped upon my entering and
held the weapon out to me saying, "Hey, ya'll wanta try?"
"Uh, no, that's OK. I'm on vacation. I'll have a beer though."
Then this wild looking guy with crazy eyes ran up and said, "Hi,
I'm Scarecrow. They call me that 'cause mah hair looks like this
and I'm real skinny. I know who you are. Do you have any money
to pitch in for beer?"
After he left for the beer, Tony Hawk, Lester Kasai, and Mike
McGill rolled in the door, laid on the floor and began watching TV.
I yelled out, "Garlic, Red Wine," and McGill's head popped up
and looked around. One good ole boy asked if I was gonna write
an article on this contest, then a guy asked if the article would
include any skating in it. Now that was a good question, but I
couldn't figure out a good answer. It was just too early to tell.
So far, no.
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