RIGHT TO GRIND
slept on the pool table because skating was so
much a part of their lives they didn't have any other
place to live their life for stretches at a time. The
memories laid down in the parking lot alone could
fill volumes. Those were the days. A time before
hotel room destruction. Just a bunch of the bros,
leaning up against the fender of a beat up Chevy
pickup, talkin' some good talk and kissin' Millers. Mental
Memo: Buy a wreath to lay in the Skateranch parking lot.
It is a good feeling to see old faces belonging to old friends
and to think back to the days when the days behind us
were fewer and the days ahead were about five years longer
than they are today. The feeling of being young is never
too far away. It is evident in the crust of the competition
at hand. These new elitists, the future heroes, are now cut-
ting their teeth in friendly battle against their seasoned
and hardened veteran contemporaries, causing many of
those who would have normally placed higher to step aside.
For some of these new guys, it is their very first experience
in professional competition circles. In
the vertical qualifier, six of the
top twenty qualifiers
are first time pros:
Buster Halterman,
Justin Lynch, Steve
Salisian, Omar Has-
san, Todd Congel-
liere and Mike Pro-
senko qualified 3rd,
5th, 7th, 9th, 13th, and 20th respectively, with Jeff Phillips
hittin' the numero uno mark, and Tom Boyle clamping into
second. The street qualifying is more drastic. Almost half
of the top twenty qualifiers are first-time pros. Justin Girard,
George Watanabee, Omar Hassan, Ron Chatman, Jesse
Neuhaus, Barker Barrett, Ed Templeton, Jeremy Klein and
Eric Sanderson qualify 1st, 3rd, 4th, 5th, 6th, 7th, 10th,
14th and 19th, respectively, with second year man Matt
Hensley qualifying second in a sea of rookies. By the time
all of the intricate proceedings have come to pass,
the darkness begins to settle down for the night.
Bustin' Hell Loose When Burritos are Downed
As far as any of our entourage can tell, none
of us can speak French. This is a hell of a good
thing, because who
knows what a bunch
of pinch-faced SoCal types
would do if they were con-
fronted by a bunch of foreign
speaking guys wearing black
leather jackets, who'd just step-
ped out of a car that had just
careened into it's parking spot (it
didn't used to be a parking spot,
but it is now), while blasting Mar-
ches and War Songs out of the
windows at the disrespectful
volume of 11 or 12. The ranks of
the staff car crew has swelled two
more bodies who'd just flown in
from a northerly vicinity. Add Mc and J.D. (and it don't stand
for Jack Daniels) to the list of the hairbrained excursionists.
The Belly Up Saloon was packed beyond gill capacity and
everyone was so distracted by the tardiness of the Jour-
nalistic Icon they hardly even noticed the wicked evil that
had just strolled in the front door. They would find out soon
enough. Mr. Hunter S. Thompson, who'd been scheduled
to come on at 8:00 p.m. sharp, was hiding out in the air-
port cocktail lounge and couldn't face the hordes of the
prissy California, pastel-tinted, self-righteous buttheads,
the kind of peons who'd wait in line six to ten days for Stevie
Nicks tickets. The same kind of
people who don't know the
meaning of being stylishly late.
They don't even know what
barely catching a plane feels
like. Hunter doesn't show until at
The amazingly dextrous Tom Knox
cornered the number two spot in the
street with some inspiring footwork.
Witness this backside ollie-to-pivot-to-
tail sequence. Matt Hensley hooked
up with this backside olie grinder on
the bench on his way to a third place
finish. George Watanabee, fast and
lean speed machine, debuts in the
pro scene with action-packed moves
like this tailslide across the pipe. Tony
Hawk, tops in street today, ollies to
hang-up. Ivnt, V and the legendary
Curtis Hesselgrave discuss the
future of a never-ending pastime.
Danny Way gestures his dissat
isfaction over the wet conditions.
Steve O tries to gather all the
wet stuff in one spot. A de-
jected looking Matt Hensley
sits on an obstacle waiting
for the dry to come. Eric
Nash
shows buns while get-
ting all wrapped up in his
fingerflip Indy air.
A THREAT TO
PRETTY MEN EVERYWHERE
least 10:00, so in the
mean time the NorCal
black leather jacket
crew devour burritos
smuggled in from
Roberto's down the
highway (two chorizo
b-toes, a chick-toe and a
fat quesadilla to be
precise) and assume the
Nor-Sou vibe tactic. In walk
some of the SoCal
friendlies, including the ir-
repressible Nisi, Japanese
quasi-transplant, who is as
assaulting as a pit bull in a
slaughterhouse.
Sometimes Nisi doesn't unders-
tand English too well. He told
Parker, "I don't understand a
word you're saying. TALK
JAPANESE!" People ducked as
Nisi's bottle flew through the air
to punctuate the comment. For
those in the know, this was
good ol' boy, clean harmless
fun. Steve Sherman hung out with the bad selves, trying not to
be visibly associated with us, yet still retaining some degree of
contact. Just enough to not get himself included in the event in
which they'd all get 86'd. H.S.T. finally takes the stage and
roams around like a nervous peccary. Yeah, he is pretty ornry,
dowsing the crowd with an element of vagueness (Continued on page 98)