FUCK SOD RAT
Clockwise from oppo-
site left: Voodoo pipe
and pool master
Screamin' Lord Solba
goes maximum slob in
Norwalk. From the
ashes and ruins of the
Oakland Hills fire,
many a great pool saw
its day in the sun. Dave
Reul, allie to tail off the
love seat. Don't be a
fuckhead, graffiti in
pools is beat. Sacto
stalwart Gary Cross
edges one N-Men style.
Dead frogs boked by
the sun in the bottom
of an empty pond. The
bounty of destruction.
NORMANDY IN NORWALK
The ritual starts as we get close to our destination. Our minds start think-
ing about what could happen and our guts start twisting and turning with
butterflies. As we round the corner, I watch for nosy neighbors looking
out their windows, cruising police vehicles and building inspectors-the
enemy. As we exit out of our cars, we are still searching, looking. The gear
is collected fast-skateboards, safety equipment, brooms, drain covers,
tools for maintenance, video and still cameras, and finally ice cold water.
Four or five skaters loaded down with gear is not too conspicuous. We cross
the street and walk, not run, to the empty abandoned apartment com-
plex, trying hard not to look overtly suspicious. Our minds are still alert for
the enemy, because once we're in; we're in! The trouble is peeping toms
scrutinizing us as we make our move. Neighborhood watch programs per-
secute us to no end, so we have to be very careful. The barbed-wire
fences are breached and over the top we go like troops storming the beach-
es of Normandy. Staying stealth is vital to our mission.
As we climb onto the roof of the parking garages, we still look over our
shoulders. I gaze up into the wild blue yonder, scanning for whirlybirds cir-
cling like buzzards waiting impatiently for something to die, something to
happen. The coast is clear, so far so good. Concrete commandos jump down
off the roof, one by one. Gear is passed on to one another, special atten-
tion going to our recording/documentation devices. Without film positives,
I gaze up into the wild
blue yonder, scanning
for whirlybirds cir-
cling like buzzards
waiting impatiently
for something to die,
something to happen.
our excursions into the
concrete jungle would be
lost. Nobody would believe
us, but pictures don't lie.
Everybody stays put
while I scout the point and
make sure that everything
is kosher. The complex has
long been abandoned like
a lost empire. Now graffiti
lays sprawled against the
stucco walls and broken
glass blankets the cement
surface. Gang affiliations are the norm of the tagging. The windows were
once all boarded up, but now criminals of all persuasions have broken in
and taken up a semi-residence. The complex was just another place when
we found it, clean and deserted; but now it looks like a war zone, or bet-
ter yet, South Central.
I come back to the troops and tell them all is well. We set up shop next
to the empty swimming pool. It is huge and needs to be caressed by a
skater's touch. But first things first.
All the soldiers put down their weapons of choice and start stretching.
warming up. Talk is cheap and action speaks louder than words. Our mus-
cles limber up slowly but surely. The skaters pad up. Velcro fasteners
make their distinctive sound as wrist braces are put on to protect the
innocent. I motion everybody into the bowl to partake in our daily sacra-
ment of KGB. Much like an Indian preparing for the hunt, we never skate
a pool without smoking a fatty, this makes the skate gods happy. Skate
karma is a necessary evil we must contend with. We walk out of the deep
end and adjust our gear. Tool time. We pray for a good session and make
a final sweep of the DMZ. Escape routes are established in case of enemy
infiltration. The enemy can induce stiff taxes for entering private property.
With all of this done, the first man drops in to the deep end of the pool.
Progress Musy WAET.
-Steve Alba
GRIND
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40 THUASHER