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Words and photof
by Michael Burnett
WORD
OJ
W
HENEVER I FIND MYSELF
on the verge of complaining
or feeling sorry for myself
while on one of the fabulous low-cost
vacations I get to go on with my job
here at Thrasher, I think of that Nirvana
song lyric, the one that goes, "I'm on a
plane, I can't complain." Sappy and
probably taken completely out of con-
text, that line is nonetheless grounding
and reminds me that no matter if I am
locked in a train car with one hundred
and fifty chainsmoking Germans, eat-
ing a $10 pickle-and-mayonnaise sand-
wich and heading for a weekend of
techno-accompanied battle-royal-style
contest photography, hell, at least I'm
livin'. At least I'm doing stuff-going
places, skating new spots, meeting
people, and the like. Comfort is really
pretty relative. But, to me, comfort is a
really close relativè as sacred as a
great grandmother. Therein lies the
tension that accompanies me anytime I
leave the house.
The first two weeks were cake, as I was on a
fully-subsidized, largely babysat, and talent-
packed Blind Skateboards demo tour. We were
helpless babies and all of our needs and wants
were provided for by the various Euro-distribu-
tors of Blind merchandise. "Whahh! I'm hungry!
Whahh! I'm thirsty! Whahh! Why aren't there
any hot girls around?!!" Our regression was
complete and instantaneous as we were trucked
around in womb-like minivans from skatepark to
hotel to restaurant to skate shop to hotel to
demo to restaurant and so on. When you're
dependent on your mother for all your basic
skate
Left: FrankenBrian Anderson dwarfed the course
and squashed bluntslides down the rail like bugs.
Above: Koston doled out your trick-of-a-lifetime
about three times daily: fakie 5-0 fakie flip out.