Skate: November 1990

Skate

It was like this: we were all out skating one Tuesday night downtown. We hit the Salt Palace, First Interstate, the Federal Building and the rail slide. We were good and warmed up, and skating pretty well, but it started to get dark and the lights were off, so we decided to head over to the banks to try to skate more. My friends were trying all sorts of tricks. (I’ll call them Moey & Curly) Moey was doing 360 ollies off the top, while Curly did 180 ollie grabs higher than anyone in this state. I was skating okay; I guess I did a backside disaster to revert, then an ollie—impossible to fakie—and as I gloated over that, I noticed another skater skating up to the banks.

"We hit the Salt Palace, First Interstate, the Federal Building and the rail slide."He was about 25 with total Vision Geek-wear on from hat to shoes. He had the camouflage dayglow hip sack and a brand new board with new trucks and wheels. Not a scratch on them. He skates up and surveys the situation. He just stands and looks. So Moey, Curly and I start skating to show him up. You know how it is. So, we skated hard and pulled some tricks. We surveyed the situation. “He’s not ever skating,” Moey said. “Yeah, he’ll leave soon,” says Curly. I didn’t care. I was just having fun.

So, this guy comes over to us and says, “Where did you guys learn to skate like that?” “Downtown,” says Curly. “You’re pretty good for a little brat,” he says. Then he takes off with too much speed and goes up and does a shaky kick-turn up the bank and comes back. Then, he does a big boneless off the top and comes back smiling. “How’s that?” He asked. “That was pretty lame,” said Curly, whose mouth is as big as Texas. “What?” asked the guy. “I can skate better than you if I want to,” says the stranger. “Well, start wanting,” says Curly, and he goes and busts a big 180 glue shoe. This guy gets hella speed and, smooth as silk, does a 360 glue shoe about 4 feet high. Curly does a feeble grind, then the other guy is up and does a blunt slide to feeble grind to fakie.

Moey goes up to him and says, “That was killer! Where are you from?” “Downunder,” he says. “Australia?” Curly asked. “No, underground. I have the secret to skating, and I can pass it on to you. For years you have skated and learned tricks, but through me; you can do it all, on command, anything you try. All you must do to obtain this wealth … is to worship me, serve my commands and pray to me. You must give up your soul to me, and live in hell for 500 years. What do you say?” “Is there anything to skate in Hell?” asked Curly. “What do you think?” I said. “I don’t even begin to believe that you are the devil.” “Satan,” he corrected, “What must I do to prove that I am he, the Prince of Darkness?”

“Blow up the mall,” I said. Seconds later, there was a gigantic explosion—fire, dust, debris everywhere and a huge shock wave all around us. When the rubble cleared, all we could see were fire, sirens and chaos. The mall was toast. Moey was crying, and he wanted to go home. Curly and I sat in awe and tried to think of a plan. Satan was just standing there looking pleased with himself. “Do you believe?” he asked. “Yes, we believe. Why do you want the souls of skaters? We are a peaceful bunch,” I ask. “Because skating is punk. It is skulls and swords and women; treachery and lechery. It is looked down upon and not treated as a sport. It is my medium, my way of getting through to the kids today. My subliminal graphic message and evil-enchanted cartoon drawings catch kids like fish, and then I turn them into bad kids. I make them evil,” he said with a sneer on his face. “Well, why don’t you try other channels. Mountain biking is popular, big money in it, and lots of clueless yuppies trying to look and be their best. Why don’t you take their souls?” I asked. “Yes, yes, that is a brilliant idea,” he said, and he skated away. A bottle of tequila materialized in his hands, and I saw him headed for the avenues, probably trying to get to Wild Rose before closing.

Now we’re afraid to skate the banks again. But, we’re going there Saturday night. Everyone beware of Vision Geek-wear. Ray Barbee and Frank Hill ripped. You could’ve been there. Next month I’ll tell you how skating Seattle was. Sorry about the mall. 

Read more 1990 Archives:
New Band Spotlight: Common Place
June 1990: Local & National Record & Tape Reviews