Globe East Coast Tour
 I thought your memory was supposed to get better when you stopped doing drugs. It's been nearly three months, and I still can't remember shit. I'm convinced that my recollection has gotten worse without the aid of pharmaceuticals. It's as if they acted as rebar for my
brain, framing out some sort of structure from the
nonsense and holding it all together. Without the drugs
my brain has trouble discerning north from never mind,
Tuesdays from Toyotas. Is this what Muhammad Ali
feels like? I'm waiting for my hands and head to shake
uncontrollably or to start foaming at the mouth like
some wild, crazed beast. I've considered investing in
those gankobaluba pills, or whatever they're called,
but I fear that like the "fat burner" pills that I purchased
to try and lose weight while drinking, it would just be a
waste of my hard-earned money. My real concern is
that things can only get worse. And let me tell you, it's
pretty bad as it is. It's almost like a mild case of
amnesia. To wake up one morning and not be able to
place the face of the beautiful blonde next to me will be
just cause for them to commit me to the funny farm. I
know it's only a matter of time.
Luckily this Globe tour was short, not even a week, I don't think. And it took place in my backyard, Boston to Jersey. I took some notes, otherwise I fear you'd be reading about what I imagine life would be like for a manager of a storage facility that lives on premise, which I've been putting a lot of thought into lately. The notes have been my saving grace for everything. I'm turning into Guy Pierce in Momento, I have Post-Its  everywhere. Post-Its to remind me of other Post-Its. I keep track of the exact time I piss and shit so to avoid going too long without exploding my bladder or ass bag. The other day I forgot my lady's birthday. I called her, frantically apologizing for my unforgivable error. She forgave me, telling me I was actually two days early.
I'll give you the facts. Just the facts. The facts as I know them to be and that you can trust are true: We had a van. And in that van was Greg Lutzka, Paul Machnau, Mike Peterson, D.J. Chavez and Al Partanen (who just became the Globe team manager; arguably the most rippingest team manager right now), Giovanni Reda, R.B. Umali and myself. I hadn't been traveling much since I opened the skateshop and was eager to get back on the road and not have to worry about gripping anyone's board but my own, and being with this hand-picked crew was exciting for me. As far as the skaters were concerned, I'd traveled with all of them before, except for Machnau, but I knew I got along with Paul, so we all got to bypass that "getting to know each other" stage and got right down to busting each other's balls. Rolling with Reda and R.B. was a real treat for me because I've been a fan of both of theirs for some time and had always wanted to travel and work with them in some capacity. But because Reda and R.B. had always worked for Zoo York, I never had that opportunity; for some reason I've never been able to find my way on to a Zoo trip despite my love for those guys. It happens. There's a lot of people in skateboarding I'd like to work with but can't logistically. Atiba Jefferson is, of course, the first to come to mind. To have my words accompanied by images made by the greatest skate photographer of our generation would be something else. It's actually one of the main reasons, aside from the free all-access passes, that I've been trying to freelance for various basketball magazines: in hopes that some day they'd put Atiba and me on the same assignment. I figured if I can't work with him in skateboarding, then I'll find another way to partner up. I've always felt the same way about Giovanni Reda. His photos are brilliant, and if you've ever spent a minute with him or seen him in any video yelling at someone, you know it's very difficult to get a foothold on a bad mood when in his company. He's a real change from the black cloud behind the lens that I've grown accustomed to traveling with over the past few years. When I learned that Reda not only wanted to do more for Big Brother but that he was coming on board to be our new photo editor, a rush of selfish delight overtook me. Finally I could be proud of the photos that ran with my articles. Finally I could feel comfortable traveling with someone with my same brand of East Coast (abrasive) sense of humor. Finally I could stop apologizing for blown photos and bad morale on trips. Finally I could focus in on my favorite part of touring the globe: staring out the window and watching the world go by.
First stop Boston. We (Reda, R.B. and myself) arrived in style in Reda's Cadillac Seville, by way of New York City, and immediately met up with Charlie Wilkins, who took us to a bar called Bukowski. I had a shirt with a photo of Bukowski once. Once. Then Carnie made some joke about how gay wearing images of your literary heroes was, and I think it's been three years since I wore it last. I wish I knew what the joke was because I wanted to use it on every employee, patron and vagrant inside the bar named after the L.A. writer. The only thing remotely interesting about the pub was that they had some deal where if you made so many visits to the place, you earned a handled pint glass which they would engrave with a number and your name, then hang it from a rack for you, and only you, to use when you came in and drank. In life I have certain things that are mine and are not meant to be tainted by the grease and slime and bacteria of another human's hands: my car, my woman, my chair and my Bass coffee mug. I like the idea of having a beer mug waiting for me five hours away in Boston for whenever I made an appearance. For a moment, I even  considered inquiring into how to make it a reality, but then a thought struck me across the front of my head with the force of a 2x4: I don't care. Why the fuck do I want a beer mug in Boston? I have a beer mug in New Jersey. Boston is home of the Red Sox and the Celtics, why on God's green earth would I want anything of mine, other than the spit and piss I left behind on the sidewalk, to be associated with Boston? It's just wicked retarded. Not to mention to find out the information associated with getting one of these personalized mugs, which I was already beginning to doubt were reserved solely for me, came at a price. I would have to ask someone, some employee or some drunken patron, and that would begin a conversation I found to be both completely unnecessary and a waste of my precious quality time with my Guinness. The bartender barely had time to recognize I was thirsty, why would I want to burden her frail, little brain when she was having trouble with basic motor skills? And I was certain that the Neanderthal that guarded the door would have little or no information. He was busy being amused with his T-shirt that had a torso of a naked woman screened on it. Oh, how it made him laugh when he had his obligatory thought for the week, which was to take large hoop earrings and stick them through the drawn-on nipples of his shirt. We all laughed at that one actually, just for entirely different reasons.
Outside the bar was no safer. I imagined that if I was with Charlie, his wife, Reda and D.J. Chavez hanging outside that I'd be fine, but that's never the case. My life is one long preparation for defense against the stupid. If they are in my vicinity, they'll spot me and try and strike up a conversation. This particular night it was a hideous wombat in desperate search of a cigarette. I'm not one to dole out smokes, never have been, and now with the inflated price taxed upon my addiction, I'm even less inclined. But I will quickly offer one up if I know it will help me avoid small talk with a stranger whose very existence sickens me. So when she asked, I quickly drew my pack and offered her two, so as to avoid her coming back again. But she wanted menthols. My smokes were not good enough. Fine, more for me, I thought. But no. She had to cut into a debate with herself over the pros and cons of menthol and nonmenthol. I tried to walk away, turn my back to her, anything, but she fumbled into an awkward segue of where we were from. She asked the whole group, but she obviously didn't care because she began to tell us where she was from and her entire life story. I looked down at the filthy ground below, and it seemed as clean and beautiful as new kitchen tile compared to her face. She was wearing flip flops, and her feet were filthy. Her second toe from the big one on her right foot was wrapped in bloodstained gauze. For a moment I felt like a parent, wanting to scold her for tracking dirt on my brand-new floor. Had she no shame? I hated her, so of course she insisted on continuing to talk to me. I hadn't heard anything she said prior to noticing the mangled foot and surely heard nothing after; I was fixated on it.
I cut her off in the middle of what it was she was saying and asked, "Why are your feet so disgusting and dirty?" She had no answer. "And what's with the fucking bloody rag wrapped around your cocktail-frank toe?" You'd think that I tried to suffocate her with an onion because her eyes welled up with tears, and she bit her lip to fight back the emotions. Bravely, she ignored my comments and tried to change the subject, reading my T-shirt allowed, "Big Brother...?" I told her that she was very good at reading and asked if she was at fourth- or fifth-grade reading level.
She had enough and exploded. "Why are you such an asshole? I'm trying to be nice and make conversation, and you're just being a dick."
I told her I didn't want her conversation nor did I ask for it. Then I said, "Your appearance is hideous. Who leaves the house with feet like that? Your clothes look
like they're made of burlap, and just looking at you and hearing your voice annoys the shit out of me."
Then there was no stopping the water works. Her last words before storming off (hopefully to clean her feet) were, "If I had a remote control, I'd turn you off," which I thought was awfully clever for someone as dim as she was.
New York City. What can I say about the greatest city on Earth that hasn't been said before? It's got the cars and the buildings and the people and everything the New York City that has been painted in your head by films and television has. The main difference though is that the real one has a type of pure humanity that never gets portrayed by the media, even after September 11. In the aftermath of that tragedy some years ago, the citizens of New York City were portrayed as survivors, and they certainly did survive something awful, but they are not survivors. To label them that is to say they just barely got through it all. That's not the case. They came through with flying colors because they are lovers of life, and they have survived, conquered and carried on as a result of that lust. It makes me proud to be alive every time I step foot in the City. I've never been to the site that once was the World Trade Center. Not once. And I will never go there, regardless of what they build in its place. I choose not to glorify a grave, instead I'll stay as far away from downtown as possible and celebrate the pulse that beats through the heart of that city. I think everyone on the trip felt the same way because we all celebrated every night 'til the cows came home and the bars ran out of swill.
New Jersey is like my mother's womb, once I leave, I spend every waking moment trying to get back in. So each day of skating in New York City I tried to motivate the others to cross the Hudson and head to my neighborhood, but Reda loves New York like I love Jersey, so it was like two seasoned car salesmen battling over a sale. He always won, since he had the camera. Eventually, we did cross the water, and calm overtook me.
This was the first time I had planned on ever showing anyone our spots in New Jersey. Generally when passing by Jersey on tours, and I'm asked if I know any spots, I say, "Nope. Nothing to skate here. Let's head to Philly." It's not so much a matter of them being my spots and that I'm saving them for myself; like, what the fuck am I going to do with a 16-stair handrail? I'm not using it, but I'll be damned if I'm going to let  Johnny Rail-Jockey get a photo on it. My spots are hot, and they deserve to be treated with love and respect, not like a whore who lets anyone jump on them and go. The rail on the cover is one of my spots. Back in the Welcome to Hell days, when I thought Jamie Thomas was the hottest shit, we took him to that rail. His response was, "Yeah, right." After that I became more selective of who I showed spots to. I like Lutzka. I like all the guys that went on this trip, and that's why I didn't mind showing them around. I was excited that Greg Lutzka was the one that mutilated that rail and not someone else. I could have taken Chad Fernandez or Josh Kasper to that spot years ago, but let's be realistic: Are those the guys I want to see at my spots?
As a favor to me, the guys agreed to do an autograph signing at my shop. It was the first event of its kind that we'd had, and it was a huge success. Tons of kids showed up, and I was very proud of each and every one of them. I know how lame autograph signings can be. All kids want is free stuff and to know why so-and-so (insert big-name pro) isn't there. But aside from a few requests for Rodney Mullen, everyone was mellow, and no one badgered the guys for stickers, shirts or anything. Let's see if it's the same when Bam comes to town.
I had hoped to take the guys to my favorite Jersey strip bar, Hott 22, but Reda was going through Manhattan withdrawal and insisted that the guys get back before they shut the gates. It's a shame, because, unlike my spots, I have no problem showing traveling teams some of Jersey's finest naked women, and for that there is no place better than Hott 22:15-dollar cover, the women wear nothing but a smile, and it's BYOB. In the past we've gone in there with four or five cases, beer balls, pony kegs, anything you can think of, and just posted up for hours ogling all the beautiful breasts and mocking the few that forgot to tell their doctor to make their tits point outward, not upward. My plan was to give Lutzka the bachelor-party treatment. It costs around $100, and what happens is, you tell four naked girls that your buddy is getting married the next day, and they pull him on stage, beat him with their tits and pussies, jump on his back and ride him like a pony, pull his underwear band up and over his head, then yank it out completely, lash his back with a whip, then sit him on a chair while one climbs the pole behind him and slides down, landing repeatedly on his head. It's great fun, and while this is all happening, they snap Polaroids of the entire spectacle, which I think would have made a fantastic opener for Greg's interview. I guess I'll have to wait for the next poor son of a bitch to pass through on tour.
I chose not to return to Manhattan with the guys, opting to stay in Jersey and get laid instead. As much as I love New York, I can only handle it in small doses. Like Vegas, long stays in the City can be very problematic for me, and with my new version of sobriety (I stick to only booze) in full swing, I knew what I would get into if I returned to Max Fish again. Then again maybe I should consider using drugs again, not heavy, just a few here and there to help me remember things. I've been skating to the shop all week because I haven't got a clue where the hell my car keys are.
Comments
Chris
07 Mar 2007, 23:43
GOTTA post the Rockstar Bearings tour.
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