If you got pain and get through it, it seems
way more punk than all this "Why me?" shit.
Then when someone hangs himself, intention
ally ODS, or pulls a trigger, you might say,
"How rad is that?" That ain't rad, it's just one
last move you gotta do then it's over. Who
knows what's after that, but when you shut off
your own time, I have a feeling if there's any
thing after this, you probably ain't gonna be
too happening over there. It's way better to
get killed by someone else for sure. What's
even worse is to get old, that's fucked. I'm
33 and my body is ruined pretty good, but I'm
taking it to the curb, 'cuz living safe is out.
Who wants to die and go, "Man, that was a
good, safe life?" It's more like shit, boredom,
death. Anyhow, you can't tell me
how something don't work 'cuz
I'm not open-minded enough to
believe anyone, so I usually have
to learn from experience and by
contradicting myself on a regular
basis. That's why I've always been
at home with skating and punk.
Here's some of the shit I've tried...
time
KILLING TIME
STORY HY DUANE PETERS
Arofi
NO FUTURE
Sex
PISTOLS
The Death Loop was good for starters. I ate
shit every possible way imaginable on that
thing. I had to get my knees drained every
other day for a week trying to get over until
someone finally said, "Hey, why not practice
making it with an air bag in it?" So we did and
it was done. During a move to Hollywood, it
fell off a flatbed on the freeway, so it was flex
ing bad. One time I got off-center and it cat
apulted me into a wall about 16 feet up and I
landed on a shopping cart. I broke my collar.
bone when I was teaching Tony Jetton, who
was one of the stars in Skateboard Mania 'cuz
of his prettiness. He was
the "Ghost Rider." Every
time he'd go down the
shoot he'd slam straight
into the facewall. So I'm
there going. "This poor
bastard. Then I started
pounding beers with
the riggers, getting real
cocky, and next thing I
know, people are saying.
"Don't move, 'cuz your
neck is broken." Good
thing for the brews, 'cuz
I was loose, and it was
my collarbone that was
broken, my neck was just
tweaked. The insurance
cancelled me out and they put a track on the
Death Loop, like a roller coaster, and the show
(which was real bed anyway) flopped.
Anyhow, later that year, me and my friends
robbed a bunch of rich houses on the Mesa
Verde golf course for their booze. We put
the bottles out by the trees, hauling them
back to my friend's house on our mopeds. We
loaded half of his room with solid liquor, so we
quit school and drank night and day for two
weeks. On New Year's night I went down a
gnarly flight of brick stairs, bottle in one hand,
PRAGUE CLASH
City +
ROCKER
SKATEROARE
chick in the other, broke my elbow in places,
and didn't care. Then a week later my arm was
a balloon and I was real sick. My pal Barclay
comes over and goes, "Hey, let's go skiing,
tons of girls and lots of snow." So I go. "Fuck
ya!" I'm puking and drinking and skiing with
one pole 'cuz only one arm worked, and I
passed out a lot, so the next day my chest is
getting all swollen and the pain is unreal, so I
beg this fuck to get me back.
When I got home I was a case. They had to
fly some special doc in 'cuz they were gonna
amputate my arm. By this time I was saying.
"Do it, 'cuz this is the worst." Three surgeries
later, this doctor did some weird antibiotic
combo and just when I was goin', "Ya, I still
got my arm!" this clown starts cutting chunks
out of my muscle. He's chopping away, goin',
"This is dead tissue. Two months later, after
constant flushing of the wounds and a lot of
Demerol, they did six skin graft surgeries and
finally one took. My pal Paul brought updated
contest footage on his 16mm, and I studied
tricks while doing mushrooms in hospital ice
cream in my bed on IVs, cold beer in the tub,
and shootin' the shit with the boys. Ten days
out, I entered my first pro contest and got
Clockwise, from top left: "After I volunteered my face
to a pain glass window at a San Jose party around
1990. Watching Tony Alva drop straight into the
shallow end of the Dogbowl at Marina Del Rey gave
Duane the idea for the deep end acid drop seen here
of the Punk Pool in 1982. Duane says he premiered
acid drops and invert reverts of the Hester contest in
Boulder where Eddie Elguera busted the first frontside
rocks and Elguerials, and Darrell Miller invented the
Miller flip. Down on stage with the US Bombs in 1994.
Skoting safe in a backyard pool in 1988. Sweepin'
it up in Upland. Drying out at his mom's in 1979.
Looking in through the sea wall at Ocean Beach in SF.
tenth (at Oasis), arm completely wrapped and
purple squares on my legs from where they
took the skin. A couple of contests and lots
of stitches later (for other reasons), me and
the boys got a huge jar of Quaaludes. The
Cuckoo's Nest is the place to hang, and after
about a week of different guys going down
one way or another on these 714s, we were
the survivors, me and five others. After a gig
we go to the River Jetties to hang out, gowed
on 'ludes and beers. Paul just got a new car
and as we were trying to leave we hit at least
three parked cars on our way out. So we elect
me to drive. I'm going 70 down a 30 mph and
somehow ended up in the parking lane next
to an island I had smashed into four parked
cars and a parking meter that was no longer
there. Barclay went through the windshield
and the rest of us got a good blood bath. The
cops go, "Let's take a test, driver." And I go,
"Open up your door and take me away." I
couldn't walk for shit. So, all these people
want to sue me and I get my first 502 under
the influence of alcohol and narcotics. Lucky
for me I had won Whittier (my first!) the day
before-payment to the courts. I broke my
toe before the finals and it was done in good
pain, and every cent went to the courts.
A lot of car wrecks later, Barclay picked me
up with horns shaved in his head. He looked
like a retard and I got my Nazi war gear in full
force. My band had a gig in some warehouse
and we were late. Barclay played bass, Mike
(guitar) in the passenger seat, Marie Cox in
the middle and me in the back of this old
station wagon. We pulled into a liquor store
to get papers, back then there weren't a lot
of freaks, especially in Newport. Barclay's
doing the fresh out of Fairview routine and
I'm going, "Hello, this is Chris and he needs
some papers." The store guy goes, "Get out
of here now! I say, "You're going to piss him
off and I'll have no choice but to give him the
keys and we don't need that kind of night-
mare at this point, so sell us the papers." He
goes to call the man, I give Barclay the keys
and I find out later that him, Mike and Marie
are all coming onto the acid they took without
me 45 minutes ago. We get in the car, he
floors it across heavy traffic, tries to carve the
curb on the other side and we go straight into
a bank, through the front window, desks,
and slam into a pillar. Marie's leg gets broke,
Mike, who has tons of glass in him from a face
plant in the windshield, gets out and hits the
pillar (breaking his hand), screaming. "Bar-
clay!" My nose was on the side of my face
broke in seven places, three broken fingers.
The funny thing is that nothing happened to
Barclay, physically, but he got fucked in court.
One time me and the Barc were riding the
scooter to the beach and this local pro surfer
kook, Billy Pells, and his goon squad were in
this van with windows all around it, there were
about eight of them total. Inside, the surf
brahs were screaming all this shit at us, so
we told them what they were all about. We
were sitting at a stop light, but ran it when
they all got out to beat the shit out of us.
They chased us through the one-way alleys of
Newport. My scooter had no power at take-
offs, so we had to try to keep going. Side
walks and curbs helped. We got to our friend
Kent's shithole, he's fucking some whore in
the back, and I'm screaming. "Where's your
knife? We're gonna get mobbed!"
Too late, they kicked the door in. They had
already smashed up my scooter by lifting it
over their heads and slamming it over and
over. Two guys grabbed Barclay, two on Kent
(who's naked and has a wood), and the whore
is just laying there watching the other four
kick the living shit out of me, (slamming my
head in the toilet and cracking some ribs).
They split after they totalled Kent's dive.
When we went to parties down there, we
had to get to the booze right away. The scum-
bag hippies didn't like us getting attention
from their chicks, who always seemed inter-
ested in what we were about. We'd always
end up saying, "Well, right now we're about
chugging up your liquor so we can't feel no
pain. We'd get surrounded and have two or
three remarks back to their comments, then
tables and chairs would fly. After years of
watching jocks and you-name-its come in
and out with that same mentality they had
when they were calling everyone "Devo," the
scene got pretty fucked, kind of like now.
I don't remember much of my twenties,
other than most of the time I really needed to
die, and as long as I can remember, I've hated
everyone and everything, including me. I still
do a lot, except I ain't dying as much, Skate-
boarding and punk rock help tons. Fuck, I've
wrecked over twenty cars, most of them
totalled, six motorbikes without a helmet,
twice on the freeway, ODs too many times to
count and DOA two times, fallen from a build-
ing and cliffs, and I've been stabbed in the
head, side, knee, back and then some. A day
always started out with some booze, loud
punk and off to war. Just to walk to a friend's
house meant you were on the front lines.
It's funny these days, when my band's play-
ing, to see how inbred, happy and wholesome
a lot of these kids are. I wonder, are they
there 'cuz of sheer peer pressure, or 'cuz they
got kicked off the team with nowhere else to
go? How about them grungers with their
punk band t-shirts claiming how punk they
were and still are? Fuck you, if you were any
thing you wouldn't be sporting a goatee and
dead worms on your head now! I don't really
know the point in all this jabber except a lot
of friends are killing themselves these days
and I think it affects me a little more now than
back in the so-called old days. Back then I just
got jealous and the world is just as, if not
more, fucked-up than ever. You can either be
about something or just float, and floating is
for suits. I haven't mentioned a lot of the daily
beatings by cops, bikers, jocks, surfers, red-
necks and scumbag hippies, but it's imbedded
a deep hate for these fuckers who come in
and out of skateboarding and punk rock,
'cuz if you weren't there you wouldn't know
about the daily survival of being an individual
and of doing whatever you want, with always,
a major price tag. The road's been paved by
many alive and dead, so fuck off.