Chairman of the Board
Chairmen of the Board
I never tried to learn many tricks, or be savvy on my skateboard when I started out. I earned my share of twisted ankles, scuffed up knees, and periods--months--of heel pain. Otherwise known as the unspoken concrete tuition for learning just enough to have a useful manual for cricks and crags in the city, a loud ollie to interrupt the annoying conversations of flaming gay dudes along Fifth & Washington, leaving Hillcrest for my place downtown. (Move to San Diego.)
I wasn't some vegan "save the earth" skater, or a full blown stoner either. I was just having fun without a car in the world rolling around downtown to get a slice to eat, a midnight catch-us-if-you-can rabble rousing free-for-fucking-all slalom in Horton Plaza with my crew, whom likely befriended me in particular due to my retention of an apartment downtown, rather than a room with the 'rents.
It started out with me, manic, shucking my car away in the Southland, a new young transplant to the ghetto-by-the-sea, also known as Oceanside, CA. It was there I began to learn the way things worked. You didn't go to anyplace in the mall to buy your stuff, because that's reserved for the gullible tourists and lazy posers. If you're going to fake it, at least take the time to actually build a unique skateboard, fuck.
Nah, you went to Asylum in O'side, Ninestar in West L.A., Utility in Del Mar, and, if you felt you had at least almost-had-your-kickflip-down, and paid enough dues, you'd go pick some stuff up respectfully among the pros from the magazines, laid back talking shit amongst each other.
McGill's in Encinitas.
I just mainly rode from point A to point B.
That was before I started my developing career as a photographer about three years ago, since then, here I've had access to some boards, but they're not mine. Pieces of me are there--the baker deck on this one, the thunder truck trademark-turn , the unmistakeable roar of someone's bones...
Finally, I broke down and shelled out almost two bills for a proper setup. I don't know why, and I don't give a shit, all I know is that I skate Baker. Maybe their team board with concave that doesn't feel like a popsicle stick beneath my disproportionately large feet, size 12--I'm 5'6". Never knew Andrew Reynolds wore about a size 11, but it makes sense now, I've got a crush on the concave and subtle lip of his stuff. Even the mechanics and terms for design in skateboards can sound sexy, sometimes.
I finally really had a nice session to myself last night--about 3 AM, sober, full moon, summer breeze, I spent about three hours just running my basics, having fun, getting intimate with my board and fine tuning the trucks like a cellist tuning to concert pitch.
Heel to toe, wrapped in puffy Adios, solid surefire spitfire 58mm black "Goodyear" all purpose wheels, rolling so deep they put any black man's Cadillac spinners sitting on dubs to shame with swiss bones on those World-Famous Thunder Trucks. MOB. Grip-tape coarse enough to file diamonds or sand the paint off the front door.
Merrily rolling along these two empty parking lots with split levels, small concrete medians, drain blocks, gentle slopes, well lit, and unseen, hidden off the main road behind village-style office suites (this place has a mother-fucking gazebo, I shit you not)
It's just on the other side of wooden prison bars, better known as the fence. So secluded, junior high stoners-in-the making occasionally gather in the aforementioned gazebo for a good while, smoking billowing amongst ADHD poster boys tickled by an exceptionally sticky green, presence unseen but well heard with their adolescent minds during lulls of laughing in prepubescent squawks and guffaws.
This perfect place to start, stay, and play about with no pressure or politics of a skatepark is not even two minutes away, just up the street, on the right along the sidewalk, where the fence runs. No need to jump it: There's a gate, and whoever has maintained it for the last decade was cool enough to put in a gate that's never locked.
It stays that way.