Micke "gutsed out" continual frontside thrusters
during this photo session. He just kept going
higher and higher with strong confident thrusts.
what seemed to be the same personalities from countless other
trips. The same personalities behind different faces. Even the
sames senses of humor. The fact is, there are parallel roles in every
skate villa.
Inside there was a blastbox in the corner. A guy with blond hair
cued up a tape that had a bunch of Venom on it.
Laughing, pushing, shoving, more laughing, loud talking, more
music, and then Tony Alva and Mondo walk in the door. Micke fell
asleep on a chair and a bunch of guys were locked in the bathroom,
laughing.
We ended up crashing on Brian Branon's floor. Brian has a dog.
it's some kind of terrier or something, with its fur all bunched up like
pubic hair. Our worst fears of the night were to have our heads
pissed or crapped on. No such luck. Good thing.
Brian woke me up at 9:00 a.m.
"Are you ready to go?" he said.
"What?"
"Remember, you're supposed to meet Lester Kasai at the airport
at 9:30."
"That's right."
We looked awful, still half asleep and our eyes stuck together.
Lester came off the plane holding a bag, his board and a Bible.
"Flight that bad?" asked Brian.
"What do you mean?"
"The book," Brian pointed.
"It's homework. Can you believe it, they make me study this book
in school."
"I hear there's some good stories in there," I said.
"Yeah. Some guy said that Jesus was the first punk."
Neither I nor Lester could top that statement, so we just walked
to the car.
On the highway back, we came across a trading post.
"There's where you go to pick up authentic Arizona souvenirs and
genuine Indian artifacts," motioned Brian.
"What are we waiting for? Let's be tourists," I said.
"But those guys are waiting for us back at my apartment," Brian
reminded us.
"I won't tell if you won't. Besides those guys are still asleep."
Everything, almost everything in this place looked like it was
constructed in Taiwan or Korea. One table was covered with pelts.
Black, gray, white. Close inspection revealed it to be rabbit fur. I
grabbed a white one for only four bucks and tied it to the back of my
leather jacket, so I'd know where it was. Little did I know that in
American society there is an obscure hereditary law that somehow
urges the hearts of women to verbally acknowledge men with white
rabbit fur tied to the back of their leather jackets. As far as I know,
I'm the only one. But I could be wrong.
After about two more hours of hee-hawing around and arranging
for more transpo we finally hit the road for the unknown. Brian said
there'd be ditches galore. Lester, Roskopp and Micke rode with
Brian, while Steve and I rode with a guy, Jon (whom the boys would
come to call "STUNT MAN").
We got to the first spot, it was situated right alongside a main
thoroughfare, acting as part of a pedestrian walkway, continuining
underneath a bridge, with a double-banked side-to-side action type
of scene. Only thing is, there was a little rain water in the middle of
it. Nothing that would stop these skaters though. Tony Alva, Mondo,
Roskopp, Steve Alba, Micke Alba, the Stuntman (who was soon to
earn his name), Lester Kasai, Brian Branon and a few others
comprised the group assembled to session.
The events that followed throughout the course of the day fringed
upon the bizarre. First off, the boys started sessioning hard. Lester
was pulling some professional style frontside ollies on the right hand
wailing wall. Yeah, real hard sessioning.
Salba rode up and ground the shit out of the wall. Neither he or
his brother uses grindmasters on their boards, just bare and pure.
No gimmicks, just riding hard. Roskopp had to hit this wall backside,
so he was doing these really edgy two-wheeled, edger carves.
I got the camera equipment and set up to take some potentially
killer action photos. Lester flew up and click. Cool, right in the frame.
The tones looked great in the lens, those 15mm fisheyes distort
everything just about right. Here came Brian doing a backside air
onto an axle stall. I pushed the shutter release button and nothing
happened. All the problems of arranging everything, the hassles of
postponements, almost missing the flight, all the complimentary
drinks on the plane, all the weird looks in the Phoenix airport, all the
hassles this morning, all of the money spent to get to Arizona for a
full coverage whatever finally I get to start taking pictures and the
fucking camera stops working on the second shot. I tried to figure
out what happened while guys are just blazing the full photogenic
session around me.
Alva blazed past me and down beneath the bridge. I heard him
grinding, his board clattering, the sounds of stumbling and laughter.
Shit, what do I know about a 35mm SLR? All I know is that you're
supposed to put film in it, move a couple of dials, focus and shoot
the damn thing.
I had to leave to find a camera store for some camera aid. My only
hope was that it was something like the battery. If the battery goes
dead, the whole camera refuses to function. Anyway, I cruise with
the Stuntman's girlfriend to find a camera shop. She didn't know
where one was, and I was in strange territory. The way I figured it,
we were as good as lost. An hour and a half later we returned to the
spot of skating, but not without checking out every camera store in
town, surviving a traffic jam and getting rear-ended by some
business lady who had her mind on what was in the passenger seat.
The blazing session had slowed down, no, whithered down to
nothing by the time we got back. I got the camera operating with a
fresh batt., and was ready to go. Salba and Malba were raving about
the Stuntman and how he got his name. Apparently he pulled a full
stunt-man-bail maneuver, flying through the air, landing in the water
on all fours and sliding for 12 feet or more.
Tony Alva, Mondo and a small group left for a place called the "Air
Bowl. We'd meet up there later, but now was time for fotos.
The boys resumed with a renewed vigor while the Stuntman tore
this place up like a local should. I laid down with my ear to the
ground to get a better perspective, the camera lens poised about
two inches from the lip. Brian approached with good speed, and
launched one of his backside airs into an axle stall, landing with his
weight just a little too far back, and shooting his board out, right into
my face. Luckily the camera took most of the blow, and I got away
with minor mouth damage. Great. What could go wrong next?
I grabbed a few more shots, and told Brian he was on the top of
my shit list. Then I moved down under the bridge to shoot these
banks. Malba wreeked by, grinding a considerable ways down the
wall. Then came Brian, closely followed by Salba for some double
grinds. I decided to get below them for a better perspective. When
they came by again, with Brian leading the way, I was ready, But
Brian's trucks ground to a halt and he went flying, as did Salba when
he rode into the abandoned deck. Salba flew down the bank on auto
pilot and did a kneeslide without kneepads. Serious flesh removal
move. Another injury. What could go wrong next?
It was decided to remove ourselves from the premises and join
the rest of the guys over at the Air Bowl, before something tragic
happened.
There's about one freeway in and around this area. It's on the
other side of town and it takes an hour to get to. Worthless
roadways. Within a half hour we were standing around the Air-Bowl,
where some sharp sessioning was gaining steam. There was a
local guy claiming to be one of the Radsters. He looked older but
ripped nonetheless. Our gang donned a few pads and began to
ride. The coping was great. What was left of it, that is. Brian said
that some kids yanked the coping for their ramps. That's sad.
Curved coping for a flat wall ramp? I swear, some skaters are really
shy in the brain department.
A grinding session over the death box commenced, with
everyone taking their turn bashing that sacred obstacle, Everyone
possessed the ability to grind in an agressive way. You could hear
the loud barks of metal from everyone. Well except for Lester. He
had truck protectors.
Mondo executed the ultra below-the-board backside edgers. The
Mondo riding style. Tony cranked the whipper snapper, body
torquer frontside thruster grinds.
Micke and Roskopp were doing rock 'n rolls over to the right of
the box. Then Micke started doing hand plants and backside airs.
Brian grooled some solid double-grind carves over the death box
and Salba kept kicking out, shooting his voodoo board out into
oblivion. Sessioning continued, as I reeled through about three or
four rolls of film. Roskopp rolled around, grinding, etc.
Don Pendleton proved to be a very versatile skater,
as well as an accomplished guitarist in the band,
J.F.A. Here he gives a prime example of being on
"Intimate terms" with this terrain.
I turned around to reload my camera and heard everyone
scream, "Look out, Rob!" Then I heard a double thud and a board
clattering to the bottom of the pool. I turned and saw Rob stagger a
bit, then kneel on one knee, grabbing his head. Within seconds,
blood rushed through his fingers and began splattering to the
ground. Not again. Another casualty. I walked over and took an
up-close photo, because that's just what I like to do. Somebody
grabbed a T-shirt and slapped it on Rob's head. Tony said Rob
bailed his board into the air, and as he was running it off, he ran right
underneath it and boom-boom, the nose and then the tail hit him
dead center on top of the head. A quick examination deduced that
Rob needed stitches, so we decided to call it a day. I hopped a ride
with T.A. and Mondo because I didn't dig hanging out in emergency
rooms.
We cruised in the 'Heavy Metaler's' 4-wheeler along with
Bam-Bam, the J.F.A. drummer who sometimes thought he was
Pee-Wee Herman..
We ended up at another ditch and Mondo realized that he had lost
his board, or left it at the pool. The banks were gigantic with a
smooth surface and a mellow transition. Mondo was bumming hard.
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