BLOW BY BLOW at one end and Jermania rolled
(From page 50) together combos like
the stalefish 180 over the platform
spine to high speed half-Cab over
the hip Noah refined his wild snow
board style and served up the fat
barrage for a deserved third. The
Danny and Omar show was worth
the five-dollar cover charge at the
gate Way started his runs with a
giant 360 indy grab, while travelling
diagonally over the eight-foot plat-
form. He continued with 360° ollies
aver the hips going both ways (his
feet came all the way off on one).
ollie off the pump bump-to-backside
lipslides off the bannister, ollies-to-
fakies in the bowls, frontside allie
blunt, and then the 360 varial miss,
but not by much.
When it came down to Omar's
second run, the final run of the con-
test, it was basically his to lose.
Tension mounted when Omar piled
his opening ollie-to-mute catch over
the platform into a swivelnecked
spectator who was lounging in the
landing area. Omar had to endure
double pressure as he climbed
back to the lip of the bowl for a re-
bate bowl. Make that first trick and
the rest is easy. It was. Omar per-
formed stalefish-to-disasters, mega
tail grabs over the gap, melons-to-
fakie into backward carves through
the bowl, nose-boned tail grabs and
frontside ollie-to-pivot slaps. But it
wasn't over. On a frontside ollie off
the pump bump to 5-0 grind on the
rail, which Omar had landed flaw-
lessly all weekend, he missed the
axle touchdown and landed on one
wheel, then the tail and then hit all
four wheels on the tarmac and
miraculously pulled the incredible
from a sketch.
The capacity crowd went off,
young girls swooned, parents
beamed, the San Francisco Fair
people smiled, the NSA staff went
to the bar, the cops patted their
guns, somebody struck up the last
band of the day and everything was
right with the world.
HEADCHEESE
(From page 57) dizzy for the wear and
stumbled toward the Zipper, a
nightmare machine with cars that
spin full circle as the elliptical track
swings through snaking latitudes.
The poor souls who stepped on this
ride would never be the same
again. Against their better judge
ment, Jerrashus and Larranoid got
Zipped and lost all their stickers and
change in the process. The two
walked sideways from Zipland.
Even in their twisted condition, it
was time to check the course.
The sight was too good to be
true: the ramps were fully assem-
bled and there wasn't a security
guard in sight. Larr-Larr dropped in
from one of the two bowled comers
82 Thrasher Magazine
down the bank ramp at the other,
Wet paint splattered their decks and
they left trails of muck across the
plywood canvas. Alas, Larrito had
barely launched into an ollie nose
bonk on the file cabinet when a se-
curity guard jumped over the rail to
interrupt the terrible twosome's
barge scene. They were gone be-
fore the man with the walkie-talkie
knew where they went.
Later that day, a bunch of mal-
contents gathered at Thatcher's flat
for cocktails on the veranda. High-
balls were had on the roundabout
and cigarettes smoldered in the
carpet as a few golfers putted on
KTS nine-hole indoor course. The
number of vociferous skaters
steadily grew and the moonlit
evening rose to a boil. When a riot
seemed imminent, KT finally kicked
everybody out, and plans were
made to reconvene at the disco
ramp scene of Townsend nightclub.
Reports of bunk ramp conditions
greeted a throng of guests outside
Townsend's heavily guarded en
trance. Inside, the bass boomed
and lights flashed as a floor full of
party bumpkins bopped to the hip
hop beat. The ramp itself was only
six-feet wide and it was just as wel
that the skating was over before it
ever began.
The next day, a pool session con-
vened about thirty minutes east of
town. According to the cops, there
were twenty-eight people skating
the pleasant egg bowl on the hill.
They must have missed the ones
hiding in the bushes. Among the
culprits: Eddie Reategui atomized.
shallow-end sweepers, frontside
pivots-to-tail grab re-entry and pin-
point backside airs-to-tail stall.
Dave Warne was another trouble-
maker who rode with anarchic au-
thority, blasting bodacious backside
ollies, nose grinds, tailgrabs, lay-
backs and other full-power moves
across the classic round cement
coping. Doug Smith worked the lux-
urious pool with a clean carving surf
style, going out and off with lofty
ollie lines. Dave Duncan, a modem
sage of rage, savored the sweet-
ness of the pool, thrusting grinders
in slash-o-matic mode. Steve
Schneer bruised the bowl with a
brash, foreboding style, tipping tall
frontside airs and solid frontside
grinders.
A multitude of chicks and dudes
kicked back on the deck, sipping
sodas and getting tan as high
drama unfolded before their reflec
tive sunglasses. Someone caught a
glimpse of two men in blue suits
sneaking and peeking around the
trees. A network of whispers circuit
ed through the gathering before el
ther cop took another step. The
snaking in the shallow end and the
power in the deep end grew in in-
tensity, but a mannered session still
pervaded the pool. Schneer and
Larriot were racing through a "cops
are here final run when a pork rind
threw a bottle in the middle of the
bowl to break up the session. He
then proceeded to lecture on the
penalties of trespassing and made
everyone break a bottle in the pool
to deter any future rides. Because
of the large crowd, he said, no ar-
rests were made.
Heading back to San Francisco
from the East Bay, the mystical city
loomed behind a silken shroud of
fog. Larmo and Jerroldo rode with
the Glug gang across the thick steel
monument of the Bay Bridge and to
the haven of the city.
That night, Thrasher and Rad
Leather got together to sponsor a
night of skate rock at the I-Beam,
on Haight Street. Slang ignited a
nuclear fusion bass assault to the
outer limits of funk and primal punk.
Proudflesh, featuring Sothira of
Crucifix, powered down in quadru
ple Marshall mode for a set with
definite Motörhead overtones. Hemi
sanded the edges with a full-scale
meltdown of hard rocking energy,
closing out a night of fully intense
skate rockola.
For once, on that Sunday morn-
ing before the finals, skate harras-
ment was a foreign word as a group
of stoked youngsters skated undis-
turbed in front of Larkin Hall. They
spun shove-its and ollie kickflips on
a marble block sidewalk as hordes
of bacon congregated near the
gates. Once again, Jerrese and
Larroba wasted no time and barged
immediately toward the practice ac-
tion for Sunday's qualifying runs.
Yells of "Stand-Up!"/"Sit Down!"
echoed in the stands during Sun-
day's qualifying. Two old ladies
watched their first pro skateboard-
ing event. "Oooh, doesn't he hurt
himself? one asked as Ray Barbee
fumbled a shove-it. That must be
fun, they all try it," said the other, as
the umpteenth rider bailed a kickflip
over the hump bump.
When the sun set on Sunday's
qualifications, a group of skaters
gathered near the doors of Studio
43. San Franciscan port lights
burned a steady fluorescent grill as
skaters and skate fans arrived faith-
fully for a warehouse party next
door. But as the hour grew later,
chances for a studio session drew
slimmer. When the clock struck
nine, hopes of vert rides were
abandoned and a down-home
ghoul garage party raged inside the
Splat Cave, sponsored by the kind
hearts of J'Lofty. Eight Ball Scratch
shook the corrugated walls and an
all-pro slam pit ensued including the
likes of Omar Hassan, Salman
Agah, Remy Stratton. Pat Black,
Steve Scheer and Julien Stranger.
Meanwhile, outside the ware-
house, a punk boot camp interroga-
tion went down as lieutenant J.J.
Rogers and staff sergeant Todd
Prince drilled corporal Jeff Grosso
in the middle of the street. Corporal
Grosso was forced to perform de-
grading troop movements and an-
swer every question with a staunch
"Sir, yes sir!"
Laughter escaped from the Glug
bus as Jerraxi and Larmoto head-
ed back inside, lured by the strains
of a dischordant version of "Louie,
Louie. The choral extended punk
mix stretched for what seemed like
hours. Things only got crazier when
Hemi hit the stage.
A few miles away at Slim's, the
brick roadhouse owned by Boz Sk-
aggs, one of the greatest bands of
all time stepped behind their instru
ments. The house was packed for
Booker T. & the MGs. Up front, a
few of the spraycan artists who
adorned the contest ramps slob
bered on each other in expectations
of the event at hand. They yelled at
bassist Donald Duck Dunn,
"Heeyyyy! Duckee!" and screamed
to get Booker's attention. Their
shouts and hoots continued through
"Green Onions." "Hang 'em High
and even the soft dynamics of
"Summertime." By the time the
MGs, closed the set with "Sitting On
The Dock Of The Bay," one of the
skaters had passed out on the floor.
The next afternoon hosted the
final challenge at the fountains, but
the following night brought a much-
awaited final skate party at Studio
43. A crowd gathered around the
warehouse doors as the sun sank
behind the houses. Many had
heard of the supposed 900' contest
between Sluggo and Danny Way,
with a $2.000 purse up in the air.
The duckets were to be donated
equally by Mike Ternasky and Jeff
Klindt, and it would have been quite
a blowout, if Way had found his way
to the warehouse. Nonetheless, the
pack of hungry vert hounds gath-
ered made sure a righteous session
ensued. Worthy of note were
Omar's overhead frontsides and
unbelievable mute contorts-to-fakie,
not to mention Christian Hosai's
mile-high table top consecutive air
stints involving eight-foot Benihanas
and even taller backside tail grab to
tail slaps
At 11:17, Bryce Kanights thanked
everyone for coming and said it
was time to get in those last few
grinds. Tired, sweaty, and still sun-
baked from the contest, most of the
skaters conceded. But when the
lights went out twelve minutes later,
Larrozola was still sessioning the
trannies of the big ramp. He didn't
stop rolling until the last person
beckoned from the door.
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