RAKIZONA
Left: Desert son Colby Carter
arches a dreamy ollie in the
twilight. Right: Zach grinds
the loveseat at one gnarly pool.
Get some.
stairs as if they are "extremists," or
roller boogie like some modern ver-
sion of '70s-era roller disco.
Last night I saw a drunk guy fall off some speedskating race, jump over
his bicycle. Nothing too extraordi-
nary about that, except this guy was
so drunk that he couldn't even figure
out how to pick it back up again. I
like Arizona. It's got its peculiarities.
Admittedly I'm an outsider, but I
like it that way. However, it must be
stated from the outset that the views.
expressed herein are not those of a
native Arizonian. I moved here a
year and a half ago for
reasons other than
skateboarding,
although I have to
admit that the skating
When I told people I wanted to
write something about AZ, some
said not to make it negative. OK,
negativity gone. Time to plug in real-
ity. Right after I saw the drunk guy
on the bike, I saw another drunk
fucker, middle aged, probably about
rave
STORY AND PHOTOS
BY WEZ LUNDRY
reviews The
Flagstaff park got best
design from Thrasher in '98. More
are sprouting up. The next one's
gonna be the sickest, no doubt about
it. Just you wait and see. Flagstaff is
pretty amazing. The clover is remi-
niscent of a mini turf clover: three
good, smooth bowls with jutting
sure. Some people take matters into
their own hands and build shit, or
they just ride the streets. Fuck, as
long as they're riding.
Speaking of building your own shit,
my roommates and friends built a
doozie. Located near Phoenix in
Tempe and
dubbed "Area
69," the thing is
"GUYS WITH TIGHT PANTS
AND HOLSTERED PISTOLS
ON THEIR HIPS
opportunities in AZ were definitely a
factor in my decision. It can be
easy to bitch and moan about
somewhere you've never
been, or, in my case, only been
for a short period of time.
People think that I bitch about AZ,
and maybe I do, but I like this place.
It's got character.
The skaters here are a mixture of
all sorts, just like anywhere else in
the world. There are clean
guys,
guys,
clueless dwids, posers, hangers-on,
punkers who skate, and skaters who
are punk, not to mention the plain
old scumfucks. I like most of 'em,
except for the dwids and posers. If I
could have a dime for every stinkin'
hippie "gettin' soulful" (read: not
doing anything beyond rolling, and
often not even turning) or 20-year-
olds who ride the same set-up they
did
did eight years ago, claiming "old
school, bro" (read: same ability as
longboarders, including a predispo-
sition toward pushing mongo foot-
ed), I would be rich. But honestly I
would rather have the world full of
those guys than many of the other
types who plague the Phoenix area:
guys with tight pants and holstered
pistols on their hips (it's legal in
AZ-yeehaw cowboy!--but I guess
at least you know who not to fuck
with) riding around on their crotch
rockets; super raved-out "phat
Phreaks" whose "phat" pants cover
their "phresh" shoes; rollerturds who
either roll around like they're in
fresh guys, hesh guys, tech
to drive home to his wife and 2.3.
kids, walking down the middle of the
street with a hobble and a vacant
stare. He was blocking traffic but
totally oblivious.
Well, what the hell do we do, us
skaters here, if all we see are drunks
and freaks? Well, maybe some of us
are drunks and freaks. We sit around
before or after the session. Oné
recent conversation was about being
so drunk that you piss yourself in
bed while you sleep, dreaming that
you're standing in front of a urinal.
The conversation is interrupted,
however, as someone gets a lighter
and lights a fart. Farts were funny
when I was ten years old, and they're
still
I funny today. After the fart light-
ing, the discussion changes to how
to critique a lit fart: longevity, noise,
odor, height, or flame? Was it warm?
Should farts even be judged?
What about girls? Skating is more
than a hobby to us. It's our lives.
Most girls don't understand that.
Someone thinks it's perhaps because
they need a hobby. Maybe they need
something to be a part of-some-
thing to keep them busy.
Parks are going up everywhere,
and AZ is no exception. The liti-
giousness of America is, on the
decline. The Phoenix park opened to
hips. The deepest bowl is only 7' and
the coping is steel (but good), but for
a city-sponsored park it's the shit.
Pay no mind to the weird trannies on
the pyramid and the quarterpipe
extensions, because you can keep a
line, and the snake run is grindable
on one side. The only real downer is
the rollerturds who tromp through
the mud and then roll it all over the
park (oops, negativity).
Flagstaff is a totally different envi-
ronment from Phoenix. It's idyllic,
up in the mountains, a little snowy
college town with hippies every-
where. It's a nice place to ride.
Tucson has some spots as well.
The legendary Sahara bowl is still
going, as are a few more bowls, I'm
à masterpiece of ghetto craftsman-
ship. Ignoring all the rules for ramp
building, it's made from stolen pal-
lets, stolen plywood and particle
board, stolen campaign signs, and
whatever else. The thing rides like a
champ, though, has been home to
some sick sessions, and the place is
kind of a hangout, pre-party pad,
and crash spot.
After skating the other day, my
friend Ben (an aspiring school-
teacher, no less) was telling me
about how the hippies, "well, not
even really hippies," would tell him
that his music was too aggressive.
That was his problem, they said, that
he was too aggressive. There are a
lot of people around here who are
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