Johnny Gibson la proof-positive that aggressive akate nature is indeed, alive and well in Texas.
Down from below the balcony of the apartment came the
sound of foreheads, elbows, knees, backs and butts being spun
against cardboard. A few of the boys, namely Neil Blender,
Lance Mountain, Lester Kasai and Caballero were down by the
swimming pool doing a skater's version of break dancing
(accurate description withheld because of confusion). Noticing
an unusually full pocket of change in my pants, I began zinging
twenty-five cent tips, aiming just above their heads.
Craig Johnson was over by "The Scarecrow's" birdcage. He
took a quick look around and reached inside. The bird flapped.
and fliggled about the cage as if Craig had done this before and
the bird sure didn't want to do it again. After two vain attempts,
Craig's hand lunged in and strongly grasped Mr. Feathers. He
pulled it out, stuck its head into his mouth, pulled it out again and
then breathed on it real hard. After it was back in the cage, it was
never the same.
Tomorrow seemed to come immediately as Jeff Newtron
stumbled out of his room, Dana Buck farted and Jeff yawned,
"Who in the hell was that snoring last night?"
For some bizarre reason, the guilty, angry fingers were
pointed at me. "No way, I've never heard myself snore. You guys
are liars!"
At the ramp, it was a clear day. Newtron was scrubbing the
ramp while everyone else watched and waited until they could
skate. You couldn't blame 'em though, Jeff was real good at what
he was doing. Plus it never really occurred to most of the skaters
that maybe they could help too.
Next door to the 'Del Taco' was a pizza joint that served buffet
style pizza. This is where today's breakfast happened. Pizza and
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Coke. Returning to the ramp, Jeff was just finishing up. He had
acquired a little help from Dana and a guy named Gerald Burris.
Someone called him the 'Goat Man,' but I didn't know why.
Soon the skaters were all happily shredding the ramp to bits.
Even Newtron donned his gear and began sailing away on the
ramp, doing some cool lip-lappers and extended laybacks. After
a couple of runs, Jeff walked over and then collapsed onto the
pavement next to me in a heap of exhaustion. Looking down
upon him I asked, "So, when did you start skating?"
"On my twenty-first birthday, when I got a skateboard from my
mom," he said as he wiped the steamy perspiration from his
bifocals. "When I turned an adult, I got a toy."
"So, now you've been doing it for...?"
"Seven years."
"How did you come to be so involved in skateboarding like you
are today? You've taken on all of this responsibility, and all of
these skaters depend on you. Why?"
"Because no one else would."
"So you started Zorlac. Tell me, what's the story behind
Zorlac?"
"I usually don't tell the story unless I've had a bunch of beers."
Just then, Dana walked up with a twelve-pack of 'Buds' and Jeff
continued. "When I was five or so years old, living in Chicago, we
had a sundeck over the garage. My bedroom had a door that
went out to it. Then one night, a space ship landed out there and
some aliens implanted this thing in my head. I didn't know they
did it at the time, but they did it. They were from the planet Zorlac,
and they directed me towards skateboards. I didn't know they
were from the planet Zorlac until a friend of mine told me. Al
Jeff Phillips stunned the senses of all of the visiting Pros with an outrageous display of home turf advantage and ran away with the top notch in the Pro event
Coker, he told me."
Back at the ramp, all of the prps were suiting up and getting
ready to ride. There was a large contingency of riders from all
over, Jeff Phillips was being the flashiest of them all. In fact one
of the locals said he was showing off and was going to burn
himself out. Anyway, he blasted some chilling no-hands air
tricks, his frontside ollies looking as though they were controlled
by strings.
Lance was being his typical, estranged self. On his own
programmed mind command, he would soar through the air,
contorting viciously and sporadically. Lance has a style all of his
own. It's a kind of style that allows him to mimick other riders
particular characteristics.
Neil Blender was in his normally unusual form, with the
perfected 'Donner Party' move. Like always, Neil dwarfs
whatever he rides.
Then it came. You could hear it in the distance. A whir that
steadily pitched into a sirenesque roar. Gigantic jet airliners
descending through a landing path screamed within stone's
throw above the ramp. The riders on top of the ramp, except
Craig Johnson, covered their ears. Craig is an excellent example
of the insanity that these Texans possess. In fact, it is to my belief
that Craig is the forebearer of this crazy illness and it merely
rubbed off on those who have been exposed to him most. This
type of insanity carries him through 'harm's way." Pitching him
into precarious, unfathomable positions. He would thrust himself
upwards with a gigantic blast from his leg, and gain extra height
up into the shower of jet-fuel exhaust that was 'for-surely
descending upon us all.
Goatman was jetting about the ramp, real 'edgy-sketchy' like.
and one miscalculation sent him straight down into the transition
with a hard slam. But it was just the Goatman's style."
The super sessioning went on for hours. Some of the riders
rode periodically but with a resolute confidence. As was the case
with Caballero and Lester Kasai.
At the end of the day, 'Del Taco' served us our dinner and the
search was on for lots of beers and a place to drink them at.
Preferably in a place where loud screams could not be heard.
When we finally reached a destination, there were several weird
types already assembled, contingencies from Houston, Dallas,
Corpus Christi and Mississippi. But good things somehow don't
seem to last very long. Caballero and Lance obtained a loaf of
bread, kicked it out the door, then scarfed it in the back of
Newtron's truck, while screaming about 'The Duck." Well,
because of certain things, we had to leave before it was
inevitably necessary.
After that, we went for another half hour drive to an unassum-
ing apartment building, and began looking for Skatexans.
Supposedly something was happening there, but we weren't
sure what or exactly where. We heard what sounded like an
intense family argument a few doors down on one building.
About ten of us listened with ears pressed up to the door.
Whoever they were, they were sure going at it. Then someone
on the inside opened the door. Immediately we pretended that
we were just about to ring the doorbell and ask if we could use
the bathroom. But we didn't have to. This was the place we were
looking for, with smoke pouring out of the door and smelling like
burnt skunk. After a long time of nothing happening, we went
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