SOGGY BRAINS seeped in and out of patchiness, into winning perspective. Actively
(From page 72) of vagueness that im-
presses even the biggest muthas in
the audience. He even impresses the
numb, Busting out, ramshackling the
heaviest of moves, he accelerates
into a tirade of English language,
verging on the cusp of some of the
most brilliantly evasive tactics ever
witnessed by atheists. Mojo Nixon
cruises through the audience,
fielding questions for the dazed and
infused typer-jockey. Thompson
paces the elegantly decorated stage.
alternately testing the microphone by
bapping it on top of his head and
blow-spitting into the business end
of the unit. One wayward woman
describes an incident when she was
in Las Vegas many, many years ago.
She was at a stoplight and a red
Caddy convertible pulled up.
alongside her. At the steering wheel
is this grotesque, dark-complected
man who giggles uncontrollably. In
the passenger seat, passed out, sits
a bespectacled man, blood all over
the place and on his face, a cigarette
lit and dangling from the corner of
his slivered mouth. "Was that you Mr.
Thompson?" "Well, miss, you have
your facts completely wrong. The
Caddy was white," the Doctor
paused with indignation, and I
always drove. Next question. A voice
stabs out of the darknees. "Hey
Hunter, this is Mojo talkin' over here.
I got a hot question for ya!" The night
continues with a succession of in-
quiries about this or that political
situation, cracks about the un-
qualifications of Quayle and Bush
and a little Denver Bronco bashing.
Before the H.ST. show is over, a
whole division of the Pleasure Bat-
talion has decided they've had
enough of this rhetoric and make a
beeline for that other country. Being
in such close proximity to the
US/Mexican border, the thrill-seeking
horde feel the need to infiltrate like
locusts. The H.8.1 episode winds
down to a close and our savages pro-
ceed to make woolies of themselves
by slithering backstage and drinking
Hunter's gin while Mc offs with a
giant plywood sign, hops a fence and
recedes into the night with his mean-
ingless prize. Meanwhile, across the
border, guys in leather jackets are
shooting tequila, kissing velcro and
buying plaster Nazi skull helmets.
To Get to the Truth is a Long Way
Down
All of Friday afternoon was nothing
more than a lot of practice session-
ing and an extended headache for
a lot of the adventuresome interna-
tionalists. Saturday is the day of the
big event.
The Vert Finals. It seemed that the
time would never come. The sky
98
sometimes revealing the clean rays
of the sun, warming the soul and
spirit of the scene. The pros are
caught flatfooted as the new brew of
fresh, pumping, aggressive youths
blasts their way into the hearts of an
audience of action-hungry cannibals.
Not a sane individual in the whole lot
The long-time mainstays of the
ritual-guys like Malba, Philips, Losi,
et al-pull out their iron and shove
some good ol' homeboy skating into
the faces of those who've come to
watch the debacle. McGill cartwheels
some healthy new moves and
thoroughly upside down McTwists,
the kind you don't think anybody
would ever pull out of. Cab, with his
usual calculated ambience, en-
graved smooth-ish runs, this being
the first time he'd skated in some time
due to an injury. Malba, Losi and
Phillips planted the seeds of wisdom
upon the vertical surfaces of this well-
built ramp, which sported approx-
imately nine-foot transitions and a
foot-and-a-half of vert. Those for-
tunate enough to witness this drama
unfold came away with magic mo-
ments etched in their eyeballs. Some
of the new faves, who were expected
to really shine, didn't exactly make
the top of the heap-Danny Way for
instance. He had been sort of on and
off the injured list for most of the
week. And there's Bod, who has
been continually ripping apart most
contests around the globe. But even
his shining star becomes somewhat
dimmer in the advent of these new
bucks. Of the top ten finalists, two
rookies put the pressure on the old
corps. A few of the veterans were
overheard to say they were more than
a little concerned with these young
upstarts. It used to be just a couple
of guys that had to vie for top honors,
but now the names are changing and
many of the older riders are having
to step aside. Some exceptionally
good riding was thrown down by
savage vertical master Steve Sali-
sian, who wound up hamessing the
tenth-place spot. He had the crowd
on the edge of their seats and the
people in the parking lot honking
their horns during his runs. On one
backside air he lost total control at
the apex and uttered a calm, "Oh
shit," just before he decided he was
going to make it. He yanked
everything into order and actually
pulled it off. Then there's Justin
Lynch. Placing sixth, Justin is beside
himself, having his name in the midst
of all the guys he'd admired for years.
He put the pressure on by busting
some giant backside ollies, tough
and tangled airs and a barrel of lip
tricks. The real battle for top honors
is whittled down to two familiar
names: Hosoi and Hawk. Both of
these guys know how to put things
teasing the sky with an abundance
of neon energy and pure gusto is
Christian. The Christ Air Show
crooked many necks as he
powerblasted his way into the skies.
pounding out the nastiest of sketchy
landings and continuing on into one
heavy move after another. But Hawk
had a little bit more tomato sauce on
his spaghetti. Tony is virtually alone
in the field of ultra-fancy footwork and
what used to be called circus tricks
ollie 540%, ollie-to-nose grind while
grabbing the tail. Those last few and
final runs before a beautiful sunset
wrapped up the day before it turned
dark. The results were tallied and the
winners announced. Second going
to Christian, and first to Hawk.
The Poor Get Poorer While the
Rich Smoke Dope
Bright and early Sunday morning.
the masses gathered around the
event site. The skies are pregnant
with moisture, and threatened to take
a royal dump on the streetstyle event.
There was considerable buzz around
the encampment concerning rumors
to the effect that one of the rookie
pros had lost his virginity the night
before on the beach beneath the
silvery moon. The mist of the morn-
ing has begun to coat the streets and
the course. The proceedings are con
tinually stalled in the hopes of clearer
weather. This creates tension among
the young riders who are straining at
the bit, eager to prove themselves.
Some riders have ideal conditions to
perform their craft, a dry grippy sur-
face, while the less fortunate have a
slight downpour in the middle of their
runs, causing them to be overly
cautious on the slick, squirrely sur
faces. The sketchiness is disenheart-
ening as the frustration burns itself
into the foreheads of those con-
cerned. It's like trying to watch the
Ice Capades while the rink melts out
from under the performers. While this
condition hampered the perfor
mance of many, it had little effect on
others. The Z-Crew, for example. The
young Boyz had little difficulty adapt-
ing to fluctuating conditions.
Sterbins, Acosta and Watanabee ride
hard and fast in a style that is unique
to them and common to their region.
It harks back to the days of Adams,
Alva, Peralta, Kubo and Muir. Back
to when they competed on the vary
same property in the mid-seventies.
Some of the hottest tricksters of the
day are in force, slapping out total
vengeance on the mixture of rowboat
looking ramps. Ron Chatman paid
particular attention to the ramp in the
center of the course, which is sort of
a platform deal with a couple sec-
tions of pipe across the top to
facilitate sliders, etc. The Gonz was
pounding out serious out of control
fever airs-to-nose and flying all over
the place. The ramp in the far-
reaching comer of the skate area was
under serious barrage. It was an
embankment-to-park bench sort of
thing, and the boys just wouldn't let.
up on it-popping ollies to axle, nose,
tail-virtually every possible varia-
tion. Christian Hosoi, who had been
shredding the entire course in a big
way, took flight across, up and over
the center ramp. Rookies Jesse
Neuhaus, Jeremy Klein and Ed
Templeton ravaged the course with
quick, impossible footwork and
graceful executions of the newest
tricks in the current skate ora. The
mood fluctuated back and forth as
the finalists wound down to the select
ten and, at the same time, the storm
clouds grew fatter and the cool, wet
stuff threatened to fall. In fact, it was
nearly time to wrap the whole thing
up when the precipitation broke
loose, dousing everybody and the
course. The organizers deemed the
conditions unfit for competition. The
contest is called due to wet, soggy
brains, or until it clears up enough
to continue. Many of the spectators
wrote the whole thing off, figuring
there was no possible way the con-
test could be concluded. Even a few
of the finalists split. Eventually the
wind picked up, the wet stopped be-
ing wet, and the contest continued.
The two or more hour delay was an
obvious detriment to the end result
of the contest. It is mostly an anti-
climactic ending to a long week's
worth of hanging out. One manufac-
turer was heard to complain about
the way comps are set up: "It costs
$500 to take a shit in another town."
It's an interesting way to sum things
up, but it makes sense. The amaz-
ing Tom Knox explodes with his own
brand of fancy footwork, quick mov-
ing, unfaltering and calculated, thus
earning him a second place award
and a wad of cash. Matt Hensley.
who copped third, had his accel-
erator open full-bore, and he didn't
disappoint anyone. The street winner
was Tony Hawk. Another double
dose. Give Tony a couple days to try
anything, and he'll probably master
it in a short while. It seems that not
long ago he entered his first street
event in an awkward attempt. No one
ever really considered him being a
potential threat in this element of
skating. It just goes to show you that
you shouldn't assume anything.
After all the awards are handed
out, the trip back to the airport is the
order. Big T. J.D., Mc and myself find
a place to throw nourishment down
our throats and we attempt to barely
catch our flight home. We did pretty.
good, but not good enough-we
arrived just before they started
boarding. We could have been just
a little later.
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