"DRINK THAT
MASH
AND
TALK THAT
TRASH"
"Where's the freeway?"
"Freeway?"
"Never mind."
"Where we're going is over there. In a
straight line it's only three miles, but we
gotta follow the road, so it's more like eight."
There are a lot of narrow roadways with
luscious greenery on the sides. An occa-
sional Rambler or Studebaker driven by
redneck, red-eared (wearing baseball
styled caps adorned with Peterbilt or Mack
truck patches) drivers passed by in the on-
coming lanes.
Roskopp
(L to R) Bowers, Bat Mite and Walker
"What do you mean you're underpaid and
underprivileged? You get to go places and
fly on jet airliners and fly to exotic, far away
places. As a matter of fact, here's your tick-
ets for your next assignment."
"Where am I going, why am I going and
when do I leave?"
"Tennessee. A M.E.S.S. contest. Mid-
night this Friday with two transfers, a one-
hour layover in St. Louis, a three-hour
layover in Washington, D.C., and you'll land
in Tennessee at about 4 o'clock the next
afternoon. Ha-ha-ha-hal
201
BEYOND
THIS POINT
ITENNESSEE
What can I say? I went, I did things and
I left. What did I see? For one thing, the
place is really green and really humid. Cap-
ital "H" humid. Twenty minutes in Tennessee
and already I was sweating like a dog. I
wonder why I always sweat like a dog? I
go from being dry, skip right over perspiring
and into sweating like a dog (sometimes a
fevered pig). Not to mention the unfortunate
fact that virtually every type of food gives
me gas. Hey, I can't help it. I'm cursed. (But
let's not go into that right now, there are
other things to be said.)
or
"YONDER STANDS
MARGIE."
By Jimi-Joe Jake Johnson Jr.
My main goals on this trip are simply
stated, or easier said than done. Number
one: I was to enter this state and then leave
with a reasonable facsimile of the events
occurring during the operations scheduled
(and non-scheduled). Number two: to learn
the basic laws (like jaywalking, spitting on
the sidewalk and drinking in public) so I
wouldn't end up in some lock-up in a one-
sheriff town. And number three: to come
out of the whole ordeal in one piece without
acquiring the "Twang" of the South in my
vocabulary. Too many people have been
lost to that other language. Not that I'm
putting down the "twang." It's a phenome-
non in itself. But some people lose them-
selves when coming into these regions and
come out talking like a local. The weak-
brained-imbeciles-with-no-grasp-on-self-
reality. One should leave the locals talking
like thou. Enough about tongues, let's see
what really happened down there:
Well first things first. I got picked up by
a few crazied-out skate types who were
easy to spot at the airport. They were the
Hick, the Outlaw (Gregg Outlaw), and the
misplaced soul from California with a big
blastbox. Three blocks away from the air-
port, and we're practically swallowed by wil-
derness.
McG
"Sorry we don't have much of a town to
show ya. I know you're from a big city and
all," Hick said.
"Don't worry about it. Where are the
girls?" I countered.
Oh, y'all like girls?" one of them said.
"How about an educational knuckle.
sandwich? said in a very West Coast
dialect.
"Sorry. I just thought that all San Francis-
cans, well, aren't there a lot of you-know-
whats in that there town?"
"Exactly how long do you expect to live,
son?" I said just before a serious gas-blast
escaped from someone's lower regions,
thus immediately changing the subject.
"Hey, we got some of those burrito stands
here in town. Do you still like those bur-
ritos?"
"What? I ain't eating no white man bur-
ritos," I fashionably retorted.
"No, we got some Mexicans out here in
Tennessee, and they know how to make
real Mexican food."
"Yup. Y'all is gonna like this food. There's
even a Mexican- styled Italian restaurant
in THE MALL, a voice gingerly offered from
the back seat.
Bat Mile
We drove over to where the contest was
to be held. A halfpipe situated behind a
combination drive-thru liquor store/CB
shop. It's owned by Mr. Outlaw, a young,
older gentleman with a heart set for youth-
ful endeavors, which he accomplished with
the vigor of a person half his age. Upon
arriving at the ramp, it was evident, by the
scarcity of bodies, that there was no one
riding. It was decided to venture elsewhere,
namely a tour of the town. An adventure
that elapsed into a whole three or four mi-
nutes of visuals. This town, Johnson City,
is not very big.
THE MALL," which seemed to be the
center of activity in this town, was the next
stop. It's where they say all the chicks hang
out. We went in and there were none to
speak of.
Getting back to the gusto of this trip, I
must try to recollect my thoughts and
memories of the things that were the most
important, and some of the things that I
musn't mention, the things that are better
left not said
Later, towards evening, the skate popula-
tion in Johnson City began to grow. Ses-
sioning at the ramp were skaters from sev-
eral different states. Boys from Ohio,
California, Kentucky, New Jersey, Philadel
phia, Georgia and Alabama. Mike McGill
was in from Florida to judge along with Rob
Roskopp and Mark Rogowski, who slipped
in from California.
As the sun was going down, the session
was getting out of hand. Some locals were
putting down some hard lines on this some-
what less than perfect ramp, this meaning
that it wasn't masonited, and the wall oppo-
site the channel was uneven, resulting in
what was referred to as "the hip." Still, it
was navigable.
Some hard-ripping riders pounced all
about the ramp. From Knoxville was Bat
Mite, who rode the ramp with slamming
authority. Lyle Donoho was terrorizing until
he hurt his ankle or something (damned if
I can remember everything). John De-
ttman, now from California, had stopped
off here via a trip back up north for a family
visit, and was blamming lines across the
ramp and usually landing in a silly way.
John is a silly kind of guy; his drummer is
in another dimension, I'm sure. A general
line-up of the guys inflicting during this ses-
sion reads Jeff Kendall, Kevin Dickman,
Chip Jones, Chris Lenart, Robert Taylor,
Darren Murphy, Mike Hill, Doug Walker, the
Duong Bros., and on and on, several other
chaps.
Mike McGill had a crazed look in his eye.
I asked him what was wrong and he said,
"I need to ride." I could handle that. So,
added to the dusk session was the "high
tech" style of McGill. Then Roskopp saw
that the session was too "expresso" to miss
out on. He slaps on the pads and just
makes the ramp shake. Gator? He didn't
look so good. In fact, he looked terrible.
Does he sleep? Does he eat? Why does
he wear Frankenstein shoes with no
socks? Gator says he doesn't feel so good.
Too many cloves, I think. But I could be
wrong. I usually am. Still, he looked semi-
under the weather.
Sessioning tapers down, a change of
scenery is in order, and Jim Goodrich, who
up until then had been popping in and out
of the picture, approached me with some
words of amazement, "Did you see those
bugs that light up?
I couldn't believe his words and replied
with words to that effect. He turned around
and pointed to the field behind the ramp,
"Look."
21