THE WAVE
The Wave was a bar that included live
entertainment, i.e. a bar band that played
top 40 and posed real good. We had snuck
in a couple of ice-cold St. Pauli Girls. The
Chef pulled one from his shirt, in the
darkness of a dimly lit comer. Calmly and
cordially he held the sleek bottle out before
him, addressing it, "O.k. baby, I love you. I
love to behold you with my eyes. I love
admiring the sleek glistening wetness of
your skin, your moist label and the way it
tears beneath my gentle touch." He
reached into his pocket, pulling out a bottle
opener. "I love wrapping my fist around
your slender and sleek neck, all aglisten
with condensation. I love prying off the cap
that covers your mouth, witnessing a slight
ooze of foam rise and drip across your lips.
Then I'll put your lips to mine and suck your
insides out, casting you away when I'm
finished. But I still love you and respect
you."
We watched the mimic-rockers for a bit,
until the chef quickly pointed out the
presence of some writhing, vacationing
co-eds, all squirming, sometimes even in t
rhythm. Kinda like a person who learned to
dance by mail-order, or by pictures. We
moved over and stood right behind them
as they danced and their sweat progres-
sively stained their clothes.
After awhile, we began to notice thè
presence of skateboarders. The tell-tale
skate t-shirts began appearing from one
spot to another corner. A skate tattoo here,
Bat-Mite there, more skate entourage, Cat
Woman's fiancé and his skateboard. We
walked outside (they allowed "in's and
out's") for a bit of fresh air, only to be
accosted with the sight of many skaters
sessioning hard-core streetstyle. A guy
took a running start, board in hand, at the
wall of the club. Ran three steps up it,
pushing away and landing on his board.
There were pole plants and a no- hands,
headstand plant. Hot-dogging has finally
come of age. These were skaters from all
over the damn country, mainly skate rats.
Hard-core skate rats. They tried insane
tricks, but went too slow and harmlessly
bailed. The Chef sensed trouble, we went
inside, the cops came, broke it up. Shame,
an instant, maybe fifteen minutes, of highly
inspired, spontaneous skate combustion.
We sure as hell were lucky to be there to
catch it.
OH YEAH
We joined up with some Tennesseeans
who's motels were in the same direction as
ours. On foot, we strolled along the path
that ran parallel between the beach and a
never ending row of hotels. We came upon
a sundial-thing between the distance of
two motels. There seemed to be an
absolute, full skate session going on, of
about eight skaters, one of them a female.
We told them a tale of bizarre street i
stylers, like Mark Gonzales, Jesse Mar-
tinez, Tommy Guerrero and Natas Kaupas.
T.K. was there, he's an exceptional
character who needs to be met to be
believed. I have simply nothing bad to say
about the guy. He's known throughout the
land as the guy with the Ramp Ranch in
Georgia. The sight of many a burly grind.
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Look at all of those people. There's the Chef, the thirty seventh one from the
left, six rows back.
ITH
цер
Jeff Phillips
A BUNCH OF HOURS AFTER THE NEXT
TIME THE SUN CAME UP
Inside the cage again, behind the fence.
The sun was bright, the grass was green,
the crowd was big and the pro skaters
were mean. The vicious poising and
preparation began as the competitive
skaters loosened up for a battle of guts and
whatever else it takes. Various team
representatives were pushing their riders,
telling them to go higher, higher, farther,
faster-faster!
After the initial fallout of the qualifying
runs, the finalists for the final jam were
chosen and decided. They were, Billy Ruff,
Lester Kasai, Jeff Phillips, Caballero, Alan
Losi, Mike McGill, Tony Hawk and Lance
Mountain. There was a pause of breath
before the modified jam was to begin.
It was about then that the Chef noticed
something odd. We were standing behind
the ramp, in the shade, listening to Mr.
Hawk, the president of the NSA, announce
the upcoming proceedings. In between
every other few words, there was a
snap-crackling sound over the P.A. We
were beginning to get suspicious, trying to
figure out what or where it was coming
from. We had pinned it down to being the
announcer's needing a glass of water,
parched, dry weather probably being the
cause, when Neil Blender came speeding
around the corner of the ramp, screaming.
"What in the hell is that noise?!! Drink
SOME WATER!!!
Well, the half hour JAM started with
those previously mentioned, participating
in a very controlled manner. The crowd
was very receptive, loving every minute of
this spectacle, rare to these parts.
During the half hour, some unbelievable
heights were to be reached. Billy Ruff was
definitely on top of things, putting in some
unbelievable runs. Alan Losi, a long time
skate veteran, seems to be getting even
better still. Nowadays, he continues to
escalate his repetoire, doing higher airs,
maintaining his momentum, barely slowing
down. Caballero, hell, Caballero, under
instructions from his instructors, went for
the most incredibly high airs, sometimes
so high he had to bail. It was reported that
the judges, during the JAM, didn't deduct
points for falls, but, the NSA officials did
their own deducting after the scores were
entered, something that, apparently wasn't
clarified until after the contest. So there-
fore, here's these guys flying high, pushing
the limits and not even realizing they're
being docked.
Regardless, the JAM was intense. The
chef was in the wings, standing there with
his mouth agape. His eyes were glassed
as if he was having a serious flashback, a
vicious fire fight from the past perhaps. He
watched Lance Mountain release an
impressive assortment of tricks. Harsh,
harsh, harsh. Lance is a perceptive skater,
lashing in a style all his own. The Chef
came up on the deck where I was observ-
ing and shooting then asked me what a
particular move was that Lance had
impressed him with.
"A channel sadvert, I guess. Heck, I'm
not sure." I answered.
After that, the Chef gazed into the
crowd, comprised 67% by young vacation-
ing females of the local variety. He began
to sing above the mad uproarious stam-
mer-hammering of the ongoing JAM:
Thank heaven for little girls, for little girls
get bigger everyday." Then as Tony Hawk
pierced the crystaline perfume scented
atmosphere, into a massive (what had to
be 7ft.) backside contorted air,, the chef
approached me and said, "How come
most of them other photographers hold
their cameras out, extended away from
their bodies to take a photograph, and you
don't, ever? You always have yours up to
your face, your eye."
"Listen Cheffie, I like to see what I'm
taking pictures of; I like to compose my
photographs."
Then an announcement came out, "This
is their last big run, let's hear it for these
guys, they worked hard." Then the pro's
tried to go ultra aggro-rad-high n'shit,
many bailing by their second trick, and
when they were all done, there was still
nearly five minutes left in the Jam, but no
one seemed to be that concerned about it.
Most were just glad it was over.
"Thank heaven for little girls, for little...".
the Chef continued his serenade to the
masses.
After a brief few moments of calcualtion,
mainly the deduction of points for falls, the
winners were announced:
1. Tony Hawk
2. Jeff Phillips
3. Bill Ruff
4. Mike McGill
5. Lance Mountain
6. Lester Kasal
7. Steve Caballero
8. Alan Losi
HOURS LATER
After swimming for a bit in the Atlantic
and peeing in the motel indoor swimming
pool, the Chef and I met up with Claus
Grabke, visiting from Germany. Claus got
pissed at the Chef because he kept
making joke remarks about the Nazis. I
had to tell Claus the Chef was kidding and
told him to use a heavy German accent
when he talked to the women here and
they'd melt, (which he later found out to be
true when he got an extra good deal on a t-
shirt for his girlfriend back in the Father-
land).
We ended up going to a high school
graduation party somewhere in the vicinity.
Almost all the pros were there, revelling in
the attention they were getting in the form
of this amazing hospitality. The house of
the party had a pig B.B.Q. in the backyard,
Gator initiated a product toss, had 50 kids
chasing him down the street and got
banned from the party. The Chef headed
off in the direction of some beautiful
gooeys eventually was apprehended by
the local P.D. after he dove into some
bushes when he spotted guns, later
escaped and is still at large. Neil Blender
told me that there was some killer Mom
Betty looking for me just a little while ago.
I'd just missed her. Now, where's the Chef?
Neil, blending in.
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