love to ride. But then you've got those new
ramp mutants like Danny Way, probably the
hottest property in skating to come down the
pike in years. Then you got your Ben.
Schroeder who can skate this kind of course
barefooted."
"It is a good course."
"Yup. They put in the bent spine, a flat wall
and a dual ramp end with a twelve-foot gap
from one edge to the other."
B. Neck was pinkening in the Hawaiian
rays, so a retreat was the next command.
Poison Drinks Without Umbrellas-The
New NSA-Let's Go Toe To Toe.
Located on the edge of picturesque
Honolulu, the unassuming arena lay in wait.
for the typhoon that was to take place within
its walls. A modest security force of about
twelve three-hundred-pound phone book
tearing born-and-raised-here types in blue
uniforms with badges were present and
friendly on certain terms. Again, I give nod
to the tattoo gods for blessing me with the
foresight to design a tribal chest piece which
coincidentally resembled the logo of the
heaviest island Mafia force. Thus, my
associates, who soon became MY en-
tourage, were under the protective wing of
those bigger-than-legal types who adopted
us all and called us a word that is short for
brassiere.
Inside, a session was raging madly as the
riders practiced in heats. The competitors in
attendance included Malba, Hosoi, Miller,
Folmer, Caballero, Dressen, Guerrero, Nash,
Simpson, Ventura, Partain, Swank, Kendall,
McGill, Hawk, Losi, Phillips, Murph,
Reategui, Nolder, Gonz, Lance, M. Anthony,
Groucho, Harpo, Oliver, Curley, Professor
Erwin Corey, Justine Bateman, Sean Penn
and Emmanuel Lewis. In fact, there were
rumors from some sources that Justine and
Sean were eyeing each other from across the
ramp, causing quite a stir. Also there was the
other unconfirmed rumor that there was a
certain not-so-pretty phone call from George
Hamilton's stateside penthouse suite from
some irate pin-cushion bimbo accusing Mr.
Penn of strange personal acts.
It was Swivelneck's turn to drive the Silver
Cloud. We had the new Roy Orbison tape
in the Blaupunkt cranked up to 115, blowing
the leaves off palm trees as we drove by. The
Rolls proved to be very adaptable to off-road
curb thrashing activity. Our now evidently
novice driver had marooned us on the front
lawn of the most expensive beachfront hotel
on the island. Unfortunately, we didn't know
what it was called because the plaque with
the name of the establishment was crushed
beneath our hot rod Rolls. Some big guy with
arms as thick as redwoods came up and
said, "Hey brah. None too cool brah." A
quick flowing of about four one-thousand
dollar bills made the security sasquatch
42
forget the incident then direct us to another
establishment that, to his amusement, was
a prime spot for us to repeat said perfor
mance. We did, and we didn't stop there.
At our third mega-rich guy lounge, we ran
into Miss Bateman and went on a quest for
the big guy, Sean Penn. Well, he wasn't at
Hamburger Mary's and Justine said he had
better not be. He wasn't at the Pink Cadillac,
but they're all nubiles there anyway so
there's no physical challenge, although the
pro skaters seemed to have quite a good time
testing the vestal delicacies in that place. So,
off to the Wave, Taco Bell, and the Clam Shop
down in the blue collar part of town. Still no
Sean, the invisible man.
It was 3 a.m. by the time we pulled up to
the Ala Moana. Ringneck flipped the door-
man a stack of Lincolns at least half an inch
thick and said, "Don't take your eyes off the
car or I'm takin' your eyes off you." The
windows were all open, the stereo was
blasting Samhain and we all barely made it
to our rooms.
Morning came about a week too early and
everybody knew it. Whether we liked it or not,
jet lag or no jet lag, there was a job to be
done. At breakfast, the discussion leaned
toward the re-formation of the National
Skateboarding Association. All points raised
were extremely positive and the general con-
sensus was that the 1989 NSA season was
going to be nothing less than a quality pro-
gram, especially with the new crew behind
the wheel-Tom Cozens, mister in charge,
and Don Bostick, other guy in charge. Get-
ting to the details at hand, the apprehension
of the expected spectacle to take place was
like some kind of pre-ejaculative chirrup, or
a distorted fragmentary zeitgeist. Plainly
painful to the un-Visined..
Testiness abounded into wondermental
lurchfullness in the sense that transfruguliz-
ed eyeballs wrenched their consciousness
upon oosterbahn hectic they had never
perceived before-at least not with a hybirdly
strained painful eye. Take the fact that some
"female derogatory statement" slurched her
slanchy body through the arena, wearing ca-
jones (smaller than Ellie May Clampet would
ever blow her nose with) just to evoke male
quasi-perspiration. I didn't even care
because there was some kid named Danny
Way out there on the ramp making nuclear
warheads look like spitwads. Oh, and if you
think you're some piece of hot shit in a
microwave, try saying Ben Schroeder ten
times fast without pissing your boxer shorts
'cause you only wish you could be as harsh,
unbreakable and virtually ball busting as him.
Or try Mike Vallely. He got so insanely out
of skate control he was thrown out of the
whole shebang. Or how about Reese Simp-
son, who got escorted and held in the air by
the neck by one of the (Continued on page 103)
Previous Page: On the grinding edge of modern trick development, Big Ben
Schroeder obliterates the lip. This Page: Exploding into a giant oille, air master Tony
Hawk still placed well even though he had serious knee problems.
Photos by Bryce Kanights.