once whole and happy homes. They never wanted to move. They
never got enough money for their property. They truly missed their
old neighbors.
Their last discovery of the day is the strangest by far. It sits small
and skinny, with side walls that strongly resemble a cement halfpipe.
sans le flatte bottom. The corners are carvable up to vert, and then
Yeah, yeah. Whine, whine. Snivel, snivel. Too bad for them, they're they turn square. To go that high will necessitate a corner air.
gone.
Now a few skaters prowl about the scene, all seven senses sens-
ing grand possibilities in the vicinity. They turn into the very first alley
they see. It looks good. Every house has a chain link/barbed wire
fence around it, except for one.
Some old dude there is taking out his trash. He's probably the
last guy left on the block, too stubborn to leave until they make him.
He still struggles to keep his trees trimmed and his lawn mowed.
It's a shame the Joneses have long since moved away.
Somewhere, lurking behind the stern whiskers of his haggard old
face, he harbors a heartfelt resentment for the system that crumbled
his neighborhood around him. After all, this was once America. He
had put his very life on the line to save Old Glory in World War II.
H
e looks up just in time to see the two kids walk
by. His eyes pause for a second on their fluores-
cent skateboards, but he doesn't say a word. They
stroll right on past, intent on pools. Thus far, they
haven't seen a one. But lo and behold, right across
from that old man there lies a true blue beaut, and she's dry to boot.
What a shame that instead of water there's a pile of rocks, furniture
and even a dusty old air conditioner standing within her sacred midst.
The backyard scavengers hungrily look her over, drooling dog-
gishly, but they don't stop.
Cutting across the withered grass of a once well-watered lawn,
the illicit visitors notice that the oldster still spies on them from the
masonry wall of his well-tended backyard. Maybe the fuddy-duddy
will call the fuzz. Then again, maybe not. Maybe he doesn't mind
seeing them make the most of what remains.
To their heart's delight, the explorers discover plentiful pools along
a back alley avenue. One sits dry as can be, but sports shiny shards
of sharp glass all around her round booty. Without a broom in sight,
her tile coping, her shapely round figure and her vanilla-smooth
plaster lay as untouchable as one of them models in a girly magazine;
there to appeal, but not for real.
Gawking for not a moment longer, they cross over to the next
house. They find that, like its companion, this one is holding. But
luckily she is still clean and undefiled.
Her walls are tight, vertical and tinted slightly green. Atop them
sits long, thin coping, the kind that protrudes distressingly far from
the chalky blue tile. It's clear that only the most burly grinds are
accepted here.
Both pumpaholics take a few runs, pushing ever closer to cope,
seeking to soothe their souls via the crush of metal on cement.
In turn, each sinks his trucks into the harsh lip. Then both sit in
silence, sensing dry walls and transition all around. It's one of those
white heat summer scorcher days that makes people think twice
about the greenhouse effect.
They pound some Kool-Aid from a jug and ponder venturing forth.
Should we stay or should we go? That's the question. Is it worth
scouting out more backyards in the blistering heat, when you can
hang in the shade on a sure thing? Damn right it is. Like momma
always said, "You'd better shop around."
So off they go, further down the street of desolated dreams, seek-
ing cement satisfaction. Right there, behind a battered and tattered
fence, lurks a six-foot capsule nightmare with absolute zero transi-
tion. Some wall riding fools might think it heaven, but it's surely not
the bowl for our boys.
It doesn't take too many runs for the rolling rogues to conclude
that this is a pool they might like fine if it were the only one in town,
but not when there is such a multitude of beckoning vertical from
which they can choose.
Continuing on, they scour every abandoned backyard in the
neighborhood, until the lazy sun dips its orange sombrero behind
the lights of the city. The lads had hoped to find many more, but
they're happy with what they got. A broom, some buckets and a few
extra pairs of helping hands will be welcome additions on the next
venture.
Needless to say, the buddies our intrepid interlopers bring the
following day are amazed at the backyard skatepark they have found.
It's a regular skateboard smorgasbord.
To their surprise, the searchers discover that they missed another
fine find just a few houses down. Although this particular pup is dam
near square, it holds two love seats and burloid coping, whose
menacing glare instills fear deep into their shivering hearts.
At least once in every skater's life, it all boils down to man against
cope, mind over 'crete, a question of will. Victory belongs to the unin-
timidated, whosoever can stand up and take command. The lines
are tight and harsh; the walls are strange and tall: the coping is tough
and mean. But everyone gives it their utmost and, after a few runs,
it clicks like a seatbelt.
Steven slaps rough and rowdy grinders side to side. Jesse works
the face like a true contender. Collin shoots smooth surf-style around
the bowl, and Shane exceeds in speed. Meanwhile, Bo takes flight
from a corner love seat and airs backside into grind, smiling.
Likewise, madman Rex rolls forth with feeling and taps insane
rock and roll fakies on the side walls. Ramp master Eric the Rad
proves his pool mettle and grinds frontside grooves into the edge
of the love seat.
All frolic wholly and heartily for quite a long while, until Rex lets
on that there's yet another pool just down the road apiece, at the
sight of a deserted mobile home park....
Within moments of hearing the news, the crew arrives. They find
that Rex tells no lies. This pool is clean and square. Weighing in
at six feet, it carries carvable corners, mellow coping, good side walls
and a rideable shallow.
A
fter a few runs, the general consensus is thumbs
up. The assemblage chooses to ignore that the tran-
sitions are just a trifle slam. After all, cement can't
be re-bent. Instead of fretting, they just get down
to business and tear the bowl as a whole. Eric cuts a
particularly sharp line that slices through the corner and over the
light. Steven grinds everything in sight. Bo and Rex draw side wall
lines up over the death box on one side and then shoot over the
stairs on the other. All skate long and hard, hoping their session will
never end.
But time waits for no one, and neither does the sun. Soon enough.
a blanket of darkness sends them home to rest, bathe and grub.
The next day, the prospectors will return to work, helpless wage
slaves at the mercy of their employers.
The following morning, while they fight the snail pace of traffic.
each skater remembers the gunite gifts the Department of Transpor-
tation bestowed upon them. They reflect on bygone neighborhoods,
possibly sitting beneath the roads now in use, and pause to wonder
which houses will fall next in the battle of the blade.
FLORAL BOUQUET
Lp
and
Cassette
$10.00
BEWARE
A New Album By
Skatemaster Tate
and his
Concrete Crew
Price includes postage CA residenta add 6.5% sales tax.
Send check (personal checks allow 4 weeks delivery!
02 money order to DELUXE
BEWARE Racords are manufactured and distributed
by DELUXE, PO Box 883311 San Francisco, CA 94188.
Send a self-addressed stamped envelope for the complete Deluxe catalog.
LIF
RNI
STICKER EXPRESS
SKATE
THIS!
LEGALIZIE
SKATE
TRACKER
Local W
Motion
BONED
BONES
VISION
STREET
WEAR
Local Motion ZORLA
THE LAME
ALSO AVAILABLE: LET US PICK THE NEWEST STICKERS FROM THE ABOVE LISTED COMPANIES
(ASST. ONLY JUST WRITE YOUR PICKI
TO ORDER: Send $5 for any seven (7) stickers of your choice. Single sticker -$1, U.S. FUNDS
ONLY Circle your choices or list on a separate sheet of paper. Be sure to include your name
and address 25g for shipping handling.
MAIL TO: STICKER EXPRESS, 4629 N Blythe Fresno CA 93722
the latest by
SUCIDAL TENDENCIES
FREE
WHEN YOU SUBSCRIBE TO
THRASHER
MAGAZINE
1 YEAR SUBSCRIPTION U.S. $16.50 (2 YEARS $26.00)
1 YEAR CANADA $24.00, FOREIGN $3000 (US Funds Only)
SEND CHECK OR MONEY ORDER PAYABLE TO:
THRASHER/DEPT. R
P.O. BOX 884570
SAN FRANCISCO, CA 94188-4570
Birth Date (Mo./Yr.)
State
Zip
Name (please print)
Address
City
Amt. Encl.
CHECK
MONEY CADER
VISA
MASTERCARD
Credit Card No.
Signature as it appears on card.
You Have To Use This Coupon
(Allow 6-8 weeks processing)
100 Cassettes Courtesy of Epic Records
Exp Date
Offer limited to first 100 subscribers with this coupon only
A.GK-1
84