Amended Memories

Photos aren't any more factual than the transitory memories they supposedly upstage. In fact, good photos will often open a proverbial can of worms when it comes to nostalgia that does more to obscure the alleged truth than to verify it. For me, photos aren't the end all when it comes to a memory or story, but simply the mechanism by which to get one started. For instance, one of the first pools I ever really got to skate--that is, without being chased out by someone--was Los Arboles in Albuquerque. It was going during a seemingly undying summer in the mid-1980s and, since I'm on an '80s nostalgia kick right now, it seems appropriate to post the lone picture of it that I've got.

The stories that go along with Los Arboles are cornerstones of my very own, highly subjective version of skateboarding "authenticity." As I recall it, Los Arboles was located on a cul-de-sac behind a vacant home that, for whatever reason, garnered little interest from its neighbors. As a result, the pool was skated heavily by literally everyone in the area and beyond. In fact, skaters became the pool's de facto owners and, before long, the locals pretty much came to view Los Arboles as their inalienable property. So much so, in fact, that I heard that people would actually show up early mornings and drain the pool after the house was sold and new owners moved in. It wouldn't surprise me, since the Team Radster-led Albuquerque scene was pretty epic back then and, whether it's true or not, I like to think that those dudes pulled that off a couple of times.

C. P. at Los Arboles

 

 

There's a lot of nostalgia at stake for me when it comes to Los Arboles: corner carves being ripped in the foreground of turquoise skies and austere rocky mountains, frothy, seemingly ubiquitous beers gripped between runs. Whether verifiable myth or mistaken memory, I embrace all the peripheral and anecdotal poolisms surrounding this spot as the gospel truth. And why not? When it comes to skating, or anything else important in life, we tend to amend our memories anyway, preserving and exaggerating the things we find validating and conveniently altering or even omitting whatever complicates what we'd like to believe. For better or worse, we wind up stitching together a memory-based autobiography that, one way or another, validates the things about ourselves we like. A photograph, it stands to reason, is subject to interpretation and liable to provide only so much more malleable "evidence" to pad one's personal fiction. Nevertheless, when suddenly confronted with photographic evidence of a genuinely formative spot in one's skate story, the type of picture that can abruptly invalidate everything you've chosen to recollect about a pool that helped make skating what it means to you, it's nice to look back through it and see something good. In a word, that was Los Arboles.

Piney Flats Sk8 Punk Crew

So, I barely even got the word that the Piney Flats Sk8 Punk Crew had busted out of prison last Saturday night before they were at my door with a plan to hit up all my best pools the next day. What did I get out of it? The usual: the crew helped themselves to a case of my beer and a bottle of Jack I had laying around, sniffed out my weed and what was left of an 8-ball I just scored and informed me that, if I didn't want my ass kicked, I could drive them around to all my pools and take pictures of them skating. Gee, thanks.

 

I reluctantly escorted the crew over to the "Volunteer" bowl, one of the best permissions I've got going right now, and the dudes proceeded to schralp the place. No doubt about it, the Piney Flats Crew are some straight OG rippers and they will definitely get down in a pool. Of course, these dudes were pounding brews and snorting coke the whole time, and the sketchy fuckers hadn't gotten five runs in before I noticed that Tom (alias) was missing. Next thing I see, dude's crawling out the back window of the house. He'd just broken into it while the people were still asleep and stolen a bunch of liquor and jewelry and shit! Then he went right back to skating the pool like nothing happened! When, after twenty minutes or so, Tom mentioned that he'd always wanted a flat screen TV like the one he saw inside, I did some fast talking and convinced the Crew to cruise with me over to the "Blue Balls" pool, which is a permission pool so good you can't fuck with it. 

At least, that's what I thought. The Blue Balls session was heavy from the get go. Elmer, we'll call him (pictured above), had just crail-tapped the shallow on his first run when I (thankfully) snapped this photo a little late. By the time we got there the brews were already running low and I could see Tom eyeing the house like he wanted to creep on it, so I begged him to be cool and just skate the pool. To my surprise, he promised he wouldn't break into the house just for me, but seemed to think it was pretty damned funny that he hadn't promised not to break into the neighbor's house and, sure enough, he was back with a wad of cash and a bunch of pornos in no time flat. Meanwhile, Elmer was tossing everything from lawnmowers to patio furniture in the back of my truck between runs so, in the hopes of saving this permission rider, I finally talked their drunk-asses into heading over to the Time Capsule.

Of course, we didn't get half way to the last pool of the day before the Piney Flats homies claimed they had to stop and take a piss at the gas station. Not surprisingly, no sooner had we arrived at the Piggly Wiggly than the fuckers simultaneously slid on their ski masks, cocked their weapons, and left me with the truck idling while they went in and terrorized the place. I never heard so much ammo expended over eight packs of Fruit Stripe Gum, a bag of Funions, and a twelve pack of tall boys, but they sure seemed to think it was necessary. And, yeah, they did manage to piss all over the place, too. When I asked why in the fuck they didn't get more beer they looked at me like I was crazy. They answered "we got 50,000 more rounds" like I was some sort of idiot.

Believe me, I begged the owners of the Time Capsule not to let us skate. I explicitly informed them that the dudes holding me hostage were indeed escaped prisoners with serious convictions ranging in everything from money laundering to bovine anal rape. But, cool as ever, the yuppie fucks said "Come on in and skate" and, fifteen minutes later, the house was on fire and Elmer and Tom had yet another (alleged) assault, attempted homicide and arson charge staring them in the face if they ever get caught.

Let me tell you, taking photos of pool sessions this punk is nerve racking. I mean, dudes were making me nervous! On the one hand, the Crew kept asking if I got any good shots of them doing this and that... "Put pictures up on the Coiler, dude!" But then they'd eye me like, "You better not have gotten a good shot of my face in that photo!" All I know is I wasn't really trying to get too many mug shots! I don't understand why these dudes don't save themselves some time and energy and take a clue from the Barrier Cult: keep the ski masks on! Maybe that way I'd feel a little better about snapping some better skate pics of these guys. At any rate, it was all in a good day's fun for the Piney Flats Crew, who dropped me off at home, tossed me a couple of brews, and even left me $5 for gas. Last I heard, they said something about going to check out a Misfits show. I guess old punks never die: they just keep finding new ways to take people's money!

Texas Two Step

Reminiscing over pictures of some of the pools I skated in Texas, it amazes me that I ever got to ride any of them. For some reason people out there let me in on a ton of rad pools, really for no other reason than to be cool. I'd often get an email or a phone call that went something like this: "Hey man, I'm headed through [my town] and there's some pool 300 miles northeast of there these dudes told me about. I'll pick you up and we'll go hit it, dude." "Uh, ok, sure." Many times I met people I hardly knew out in the middle of nowhere on blind faith and got rewarded with the chance to ride a killer pool.

One such pool was the "Outlaw," so named because, when I cruised through doing the very backside carve pictured at left, some total hayseed methhead watching over the fence exclaimed, "Aaaah! You're an outlaw!" I had met some dudes from Dallas out there after a four hour drive and the thing turned up empty and ready to go. $20 bucks and a Bud Lite or two got us into a help yourself session that turned out to be rad as fuck, as attested to by the lack of photos. We hit up a number of pool missions where we'd  get some lead from people we didn't even know and just say "fuck it" and drive for hours. When we got a pool to ride, it was sick. Interestingly, the same dude who originally clued me in on the "Broken Back" (see earlier post) was the same guy who tipped us on the "Outlaw." Two for two wasn't bad, but this dude became the crown prince of pooldom when he came up with the gem of gems a couple of years later (2005?), the "Hole in One."

The Hole was fucking unbelievable. Everyone who rode it will tell you that it was seriously better than a lot of skate park bowls and, while it may not be everyone's all time favorite, no one I know claims to have ridden a better pool.

I got told about this one, as usual, as it was about to get dozed. Riding it, I found it hard to trust at first because the finish and the trannies were so ridiculously perfect it was hard to believe. I eventually got to ride it twice, leaving both times in utter disbelief... "That thing wasn't built to skate?" Seriously, it was that good. And of course years later you look back at the lone picture (which I had to steal off some web site!) you have of the thing and ask yourself, "Why don't I ever take any good pictures?" But I guess that's the point. No one's gonna stop in the middle of a good Texas two step and take a picture. You're either in or out; skating or spectating. And, considering the circumstances, I'm just stoked I had the chance to get in on these two dances. They don't build bath tubs in Texas, that's for sure.

*INTERVIEW* Professor C. Ken Choquer

Professor C. Ken Choquer (PhD Yale, 1983) is a pioneer in the cutting edge field of skate anthropology known as "Skathography." The originality and scope of his research into ancient skateboarding culture has made him an influential scholar on a global scale, and has enabled him to land the prestigious endowed chair of Anthropology and Ethnographic Studies at Dartmouth University. His new book, Grinding with the Ancients: The Necrology Fetish Among Skathographers (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2011. 288pp. $54.00) has been hailed as a modern classic. I sat down with Dr. Choquer for a recent interview.

Professor C. Ken Choquer

DC: What's up doc (riotous laughter)? Get it dude? Like fucking Bugs Bunny? You ever seen that shit?
CKC: (Groans) Why, yes. I do remember those rather violent cartoons from my youth.
DC: (Wiping eyes) Damn. I made that shit up. Gotcha huh? That was funny, right?
CKC: Sure. Whatever you say. Do you have any serious questions?
DC: Ok, ok. So, what's "ska..." "skate-i-ology... gy?" What is that shit? Like, can you explain it to dumbasses and shit?
CKC: Well, I'm not sure I can completely bridge the rather dramatic intellectual gulf between myself and "dumbasses," but in layman's terms, Skathography is the study of ancient skate cultures. We especially examine abandoned skate monuments and try to explain how and why they have lost significance among members of today's skateboarding community.
DC: What in thee fuck? In other words, "skatiology... gy" is a bunch of bullshit.
CKC: Not entirely, son. I admit we do take liberties in terms of fabricating evidence in support of our theories, but we have produced serious scholarship nonetheless... er, at least, that's what it says on my curriculum vita.
DC: (Long pause) Whatever, bro. Moving on. So, did "ain't shit" skaters smoke weed?
CKC: You mean "ancient" skaters. Yes. They most certainly did.
DC: How you be knowing that shit, dog?
CKC: Why, we have uncovered massive amounts of un-smoked cannabis at several ancient skateboarding sites. In fact, much of it is still neatly organized in what the ancients called "dime," "twenty," and "OZ sacks."

Ancient Skating Monument

DC: Now we're talking some shit I can understand. So, is any of this "ain't shit" evidence for sale, G?
CKC: Well, the ancients cultivated rather potent cannibis, son. Assuming it were for sale, its value would be immense.
DC: (With furrowed brow, speaking slowly) Well, is it at least possible to examine some of the evidence to check it out first, brah?
CKC: Hmmm... while unorthodox, I think it might be allowable, just this once, to perhaps "examine" the evidence with such a dedicated student as yourself... that is, if you happen to have a light.
DC: (Handing Professor Choquer a lighter) Word... Whoa. What the fuck is that, dog? Is that an "ain't shit" gravity bong, brah?
CKC: I see you've studied your skate artifacts well. Why, yes. It is indeed.
DC: Word, son. Let's burn some shit, yo.
CKC: Er, you seem to be taking quite a few examinatory passes at the evidence... uhm, you're ah, going to go ahead and purchase a sack of the ancient cannibis, I take it?
DC: (Caughs) ....Uh, fuck. Yeah, bro. But, I, uh, left my cash out in the Pinto and shit... Lemme, uh, cruise out there real quick and get you some funds, homie.

Newly Unearthed Skate Ruin

CKC: Uh, excuse me, but you seem to have put on a few pounds there, son. You wouldn't be hiding a few sacks of evidence under your shirt, there, would you?
DC: Nah, dog, I gots some of that ill weed under my... I mean, what? Look, dude, there's some frat muthafucka trying to plagiarize and shit... over there... I'd help bust his ass but my back's killing me, dog.... word, late! I got's to go get an A on a  paper and shit, dog (flees).
CKC: Why, you little cocksucker! You owe me some serious fucking cash for that goddam weed!!
DC: (Voice fading down hallway) Fuck you you chicken chokin' mutha fucka!!
CKC: Blast! Now I'll never get tenure!!

Professor Choquer's research, however contrived, certainly raises important questions about the decline of ancient skate cultures worldwide. His theory, that skateboarders willingly abandoned ritual practices at ancient skate sites in preference for the ease of access characterizing modern skate parks, has generated much controversy among academics. Choquer's critics call him a cocksucker, a fake assed biotch who doesn't know shit. There nevertheless remains the compelling evidence that skaters worldwide have stopped frequenting ancient skateboarding sites, while skate parks, even crappy ones, are over-run by what Choquer has termed "little kooks." Regardless of the controversy over his scholarship, there is no doubt that Professor Choquer's excavation of ancient skate sites continues to turn up voluminous and potent "ain't shit" skate weed, none of which, he maintains, is for sale.

Wedding Warrior

I attended one of my best friend's weddings in New Jersey this weekend and, since the drive proved to be in close proximity to a couple of Artisan parks I thought I'd make an official Coiler trip out of it. I haven't had the chance to skate an Artisan park yet, so I was looking forward to it. Moreover, there was a little park in the town my homie was getting married in, so I figured maybe we'd get in a session with some of the members of the old crew.

As usual things didn't turn out as planned. First, there was a sink hole or some crazy shit on I-81 outside of D.C. that set traffic back four damned hours, so it was dark before I even got to the Front Royal area. No pics or skating on the way out there.

For those of you just skimming this article, however, let's just say that I took a wrong turn and wound up at Cachagua land bro!! Fucking sick!!

The weekend itself was--not surprisingly--a heavyweight drunk fest with fucking mega Jaeger shots being consumed. I actually didn't get nearly as fucked up as most of the homies though, since the drive turned out to be fifteen hours instead of ten and I showed up well after everyone else was fucking coma-toast the first night. Long-time Coiler supporter and homie LewC4 was something of a blacked out, drunken tornado, hurling luggage and speed stumbling through three hotel stories so as to elude a miniature army of people trying to corral him into his room before everyone got tossed in jail. I thought dude was as good as dead, but he jumped up the next day like nothing happened. Damn.

The following night's wedding was surprisingly chill for me despite running into some fucking skinheads at the bar after the reception... I know I don't get out much, but there are still skinheads out there? Apparently they're even bigger pussies now than they used to be, so nothing came of it.

But, for everyone just skimming, let's say I kicked the living fuck out of those skinhead pussies, which is far more interesting reading, I'm sure.

Anyway, it turned out that most of the crew wound up leaving the day afterward. So I figured I'd definitely get some skating in on the way back. But, by the time I drove another six or seven hours to where the parks were, I was so fucking burnt and hung that I didn't even try. Fortunately, my homie, who's visiting out in California, is actually skating and sent me dope pics of Cachagua land. It looks to me like there is a new edition since the last time I saw anything of it, which was a video over on the Confusion site which I will shamelessly plug here.

You less meticulous readers will find that I built this new spot after I herded those pussy skinheads onto my property and enslaved their honkey asses. I forced them to erect this structure in one afternoon if they didn't want me to beat their bitch asses again. Sorry. That may have been a little long for you.

...but I'll go ahead and add that I got so tanked at the wedding that I wound up with this new tattoo... I mean, someone had to do it, right? Plus we're on a roll.



All things considered, I'd say that combination makes for a pretty successful post. But hey, skating was of secondary consideration this weekend anyway. Sometimes, it's more important to get fucked up with the crew you grew up skating with and leave the actual skating to someone else. The homies don't get married every day, and it's rare that we all get together any more in any capacity. So all in all--skating or not; sitting in a car for 26 hours or not--I'd say this weekend was pretty fucking rad.

Ditches

Since moving out East I've come to understand skateboarding a lot differently. One thing I have definitely come to realize is how incredibly good we had it out West. Although we bitched and moaned (as kids will do) about the fact that we didn't have a "skate park" growing up, we were surrounded by things to skate. In retrospect, almost every Western city or town is a veritable skate park in and of itself. I mean, we had driveways, sidewalks, streets, loading docks and banks, ditches, hills, patios, porches, campuses, tennis courts, plazas and pools. Everywhere. Moreover, all this terrain was connected by concrete. We could, and did, literally skate everywhere we went. In fact, a lot of us hated cars and never thought about driving to a "spot" to skate. The "spot" was anywhere we'd happen to be at the time. The only question was where you'd wind up.

Don Roser Ditch, 1987

Add to that the fact that the weather permitted 360 skating days a year and you have an ingrained skate culture. Although we liked to think of ourselves as dedicated (and I think we were to the extent that was necessary), the fact was we didn't have to do all that much to skate. 

In fact, built-to-skate structures, particularly ramps, were kinda few and far between. Why bother? Let's hit the pool. Why bother today, even? It's supposed to be nice for the next six months... let's get fucked up. Skateboarding out West is about whatever mood you're in. Skate whatever you feel like skating because there's always something else to skate if you change your mind. You can be mellow, go hard, both or neither. No one cares. Not to mention that you can always skate tomorrow. 

Back East, outside the major cities there's nothing to skate. No sidewalks or pools. Few (if at all) of anything else. Skaters out here had to build everything they ride. Moreover, the weather sucks dick at least six months a year. In a nutshell, skaters out here are dedicated like a mother fucker. Just to learn how to skate they probably had to jump in on a vert session and break their arm. Skaters go hard out here every time they skate because they may not get another chance that month. In fact, you miss a session and you may not hear from them again. They're always eyeing you suspiciously, as if to say "you're gonna quit, aren't you?" ("but, I've been skating for 30 years!"). It took me a long time to get used to the fact that it's just harder to make it happen out here. You have to respect that people get it done under the prevailing circumstances East of the Mississippi... don't even get me started on the humidity.

While I've come to appreciate East coast skate culture immensely, there are still things about the West for which I often pine. The ditch session in particular strikes my nostalgic chord heavily. The imagery associated with a typical Western ditch leaves me longing for mountainous vistas lined with foreboding thunderclouds, Budweiser in hand and a crew of like-minded homies aimlessly traversing banked transitions towards a seemingly endless sunset (I'd bring up pools but I'd cry).

We literally grew up in drainage ditches. We learned how to skate there, how to smoke weed there, how to drain a twelver and ditch the cops there. We learned to spray paint there and scared the hell out of the younger skaters there. We got in arguments and brawls there, hung out there--not just because there wasn't any place else to go, we were skateboarders. Strangely, though, we dreamed of skating parks there, perhaps not realizing just how good we had it. We never built a single ditch, though we resurrected a few after the neighbors tried to ruin them. There was never anyone around with any chance of telling us what to do. Sometimes we got chased out by a crew of jocks or shit kickers. Every once in a while we even threw a contest at one, though fire hydrants usually upended our best laid plans.

The Banks, 1986

At some point we ditched those ditches. In fact, though I've visited often over the years, I can't remember the last time me and any of the homies I grew up skating with made it a point to go skate one. They're just too... I don't know what it is; they just don't seem worth the trouble any more. Look at them. Overgrown by weeds, cracks in the surface, graffiti about everything but skating. 

Sadly, it seems like we've all got a similar story. We've moved on, leaving behind whatever we think we've outgrown, too proud to return home. There are perhaps easier and nicer things to skate now, as evidenced by the fact that everyone and their damned dog is skating those places now, too. In retrospect, maybe back in those ditches' hey days we were a little more dedicated than I thought we were. At least we skated those ditches, which is more than a lot of people did: just note the proportion of spectators to skaters in the above photo. More importantly, one way or another, most of us are still skating now, too, carrying with us perhaps the very same soil we collected in those ditches twenty-five years ago. Or maybe we're still sitting around wishing for something better to come along.

From the Mail Room

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