Ditches are f’n amazing. They come in all kinds of shapes and sizes, from smooth to gritty, from mellow and easy fun to steep and scary as hell. Central Arizona is blessed to have such a wide variety of concrete forms floating around. As a skater, I’ve been making it my mission to go and explore as many of them as I possibly can. This is the photo-journal of my recent conquests, and the quick-hit stories behind them.

 

 

Stop Number One

I meant to get photos of this one when I was working on Mission Number One, but I was so excited to skate it that I plum forgot to get the photos while I was there. Oh, well; it’s not like you had to twist my arm all that hard to go back for another round. This one is really interesting and unusual: it’s under an overpass, generously shaded, and features a double-kink embankment that is really challenging (but really fun) to skate. Even basic tricks on this beasty are a real handful; anyone that might have the skills to bust out some technical street trickery on it should do so, photograph and film the hell out of it, and prove to the world what super-studs they are.

 

Stop Number Two

I couldn’t resist; I just had to hit this bad boy up all over again. Trust me on this one: it was even better the second time around than it was the first time. I think I’m in love…

 

 

Stop Number Three

This is f’n depressing, man. So much potential, but so much rough, shitty concrete poured all over the flatbottom. Whoever authorized this takedown is a real dick and a half. Rest in peace, good friend. Wish I could have had the opportuity to get to know you a little bit better.

 

 

Stop Number Four

This one might not look too terribly fun, but looks can be decieving. The flatbottom is a bit smoother than it looks (if your wheels are big softies, like mine are), and the ditch was remarkably clean and debris-free. Dropping in off the high (right) side of this ditch allowed for exactly one hit on the other (left) side, before you got to the grass and the rocks. If you made that one hit count, it was well worth it. The fact that it was completely accessible… no walls, no fences, and totally bust-free… made it a mission to remember.

 

Stop Number Five

I went to this spot with the intention of skating that giant light blue wave off to the right, but the broken concrete at the base of the transition made that absolutely impossible. However, that smaller, more mellow bank that spans the entire width of this spillway was all sorts of easy-ridin’ fun times. A little bit of sweeping, and my ever-trusty “big softies” meant that this spot was a solid couple hours of fun. The nearby parking lot (with lots of shaded spots) was an added bonus.

 

Stop Number Six

This ditch was so, so close to being the perfect ditch-skating situation. Long, clean, easily accessible, and almost entirely bust-free, only the overly steep walls made it less than ideal. However, just one short block down the street, I found…

 

Stop Number Seven

… this example of emergency water-drainage awesomeness! Much more mellow than it’s counterpart up the street, this fella was even cleaner, even easier access, just as bust-free… and even featured rollout decks on both sides that were just big enough to accommodate a wide bowl board, and the king-sized assery that was riding it. This ditch was definitely one for the memory books, and well worth keeping under wraps for future bust-free ditch expeditions.

 

Stop Number Eight

Ahhhhhhhhh! Just look at this smooth-walled monstrosity right here, my frenemies. This might have been my best-ever ditch-skating day all year; this humongous, easy-access speed-monster was a major brownie-point contributor to the fun times. The entrance gate to this one was just a little over crotch-height, allowing me to simply step over it, and walk straight into the vortex. The fact that it had ample shade for my between-run breathers, and hardly a pebble to be found, only added to my immense good fortune.

 

Stop Number Nine

You’ve never seen so many ditches in your life, have you…? All you jealous people. This one might have been short on flatbottom, but it was (obviously) long on fun. Again, note how clean it is, overall; my good fortune is damn near infallible. Also note the lack of anything keeping you out of this one; this ditch is wide open, freely available, and ready for anybody that might want to come along and take full advantage of the good ride. Kinda like the slut of ditches, but without the STDs.

 

Stop Number Ten

Awww, hell yeah. This is exactly what The Doctor ordered, right here. I knew this spot was gonna be good when I explored it on GoogleMaps, and saw skaters in the ditch on the street view. I was really surprised, however, to find ample-shaded (yet stealthily hidden) parking for the Econobubble practically on top of the ditch, and that it had recently been swept almost completely clean and clear. In addition, many of the edges have been thoroughly lathered in skate wax, and there were hips, dips, extensions, and escalators everywhere. So much fun, so little daylight… but there’s always a next time. With a spot like this so close at hand, that “next time” is virtually guaranteed.

 

Stop Number Eleven

This one may seem like a bit of a letdown to you, after seeing all the awesome epicness that I skated earlier in the day… but in reality, I thrive on the challenge of skating something that really isn’t conducive to skating at all. The easy-access of this spot meant that I almost had to skate it; it’s rare as hens teeth that you find a spot without even as much as a fence around it. In this case, the only thing standing between me and my quarry were a few puny-sized, easily ignored “keep the heck out” signs. The best part about this spot were the pint-sized mini-banks on the far side that allowed for all kinds of lip trickery that might not be possible in other mega-sized, lipless ditches, and the fact that it provided just-as-easy access to the far bigger ditch just behind it.

I’d tell you all about the cool tricks I busted out in this one, but some things are best left to the imagination for y’all to figure out for yourselves.

 

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I have to apologize. Sometimes, I get a little bit over-ambitious here at Everything Skateboarding. Last month, I intended to get all of the travel articles hung and published on the site. As the old adage says, “The road to hell is paved with good intentions”; sadly, I can now verify the underlying truth in this oft-repeated sentiment. Between being on the road, writing about being on the road, launching several full-scale initiatives, and beginning the painfully tedious process of executing on those initiatives, I simply did not have to time (nor the energy) to get everything done. Thus, the apology.

I’d like to chat about those initiatives for just a moment, if I may. Those are significant, because they are an effort to plow and plot the way forward through the modern maze of mass media. A maze that will surely get a lot more complex and sophisticated in the coming years.

 

Art by this month’s featured artist, Lakota Cloud. See his Featured Artist profile here.

 

Big business is quickly losing its stranglehold over skateboarding. That is hugely significant. Skateboarders around the world are taking skateboarding back, in droves. It doesn’t matter what part of the industry or the community we’re talking about here; that basic premise remains true all across the landscape, no matter where you’re looking. Skaters are starting new brands, new retail (and e-tail) skate shops, organizing skate clubs, throwing their own events… there seem to be more events happening this year than there have been in the entirety of the previous decade… and, yes, they are also starting to take back their own media as well.

 

Art by this month’s featured artist, Lakota Cloud. See his Featured Artist profile here.

 

Of course, social media was a fundamental step in that direction. With social media, everybody is the media. But there’s still a pretty big philosophical (and functional) divide between social media, and the more traditional mass media. Skaters are starting to span that chasm, and encroach on the last bastion of big business in skateboarding: The Mass Media Paradigm.

With new blood will come new ideas. That’s inevitable. Everything Skateboarding is planning for the inevitable by launching initiatives and partnerships that will (hopefully) hit the emerging issues and problems head on. by putting solutions on the table before the said problems even become readily apparent.

 

Art by this month’s featured artist, Lakota Cloud. See his Featured Artist profile here.

 

The Skate Shop Outreach is a natural place to start. Skate shops are still a vitally important contributor to local scenes… and as I’ve said a million times before, if we lose those shops, then we’ve lost an irreplaceable infrastructure that simply cannot be duplicated. At least, not easily. Nor, quickly.

Along with the outreach, we are also working on that Free-To-Join Skate Shop Union that we discussed in the March issue. That will be slow going, and it might even take a solid year or two to really gel. But initial interest is strong, as is the resolve that such a thing is exactly what shops need right now, along with the quiet resignation that there is simply no more time to wait for somebody else to come along and do it for them. Ultimately, this is gonna have to be something that the shops do, and do by and for themselves. But we’re more than happy to help the process along as much as we possibly can.

The Content Sharing Agreement (CSA) is another wide-ranging initiative with long-term implications. Designed to be something like an Associated Press of Skateboarding, the CSA is already showing some potential payoffs for the member medias. Because it works on a friendly (and honorable) handshake, it’s definitely easy enough to implement and to utilize for everyone involved. The bonus is that we can work together to get readers’ eyeballs on stories and issues that they might have otherwise missed in the media madness. Nobody can stay on top of everything these days; the CSA helps both the media, and the readers, by building and implementing stronger interpersonal networks. We’re obviously totally open to bringing in even more member medias to share the wealth on this one. Indeed, I spent a lot of my time last month doing exactly that sort of outreach.

Then, we have the Content Credit for advertisers. This allows advertisers to pay for part (or all) of their advertising with articles, photos, captions, and art. This allows even the smallest brands to play on a relatively level playing field with the big boys, while also encouraging them to play a more pro-active role in the process of making the e-‘zine itself.

 

Art by this month’s featured artist, Lakota Cloud. See his Featured Artist profile here.

 

Everything Skateboarding continues to grow and change in other ways. This month we are featuring the first of our “Storytime” segments with the ever-entertaining (and hysterical) Nate Sherwood, and his colorful story of a lost love and a broken heart. There are several artists coming on board for the next round of Featured Artist segments that we’re super excited to tell you all about. Our senior writer, Daniel Fedkenheuer, is leaving New Jersey for the sunnier pastures of Southern California; we’re looking forward to following his move to the skateboard industry’s central mass, and hearing his stories of high adventure. Candy (Candice Dungan) continues to recover from her recent skateboard accident, and is (once again) managing to inspire us all in the process; a determined human is, after all, a fierce animal, and Candy is a perpetually determined nugget. Claudia Yaw in on her first special assignment, which ought to be a whole buncha fun for everybody. And every month, more and more creatives come on board to add to everything that Everything Skateboarding represents, while more and more advertisers are coming on board to support them in their endeavors.

 

Art by the author. Should’ve stuck with Lakota. See his Featured Artist profile here.

 

Lastly, we have the guy that runs the place over here, and his never-ending ambitions to stay out on the road, skateboarding as much as possible in between roadside visits to all of those American oddities that modern-day road tripping enables and encourages. This month, I finally got around to publishing the Summer Tour 2016/2017 articles in their entirety, as a complete body of work, as originally intended. You’ve probably never read a series of tour articles like this one, simply because there’s never really been a tour like this one. While most pro (and amateur) skaters are out there living the version of “The Dream” that 99.999999% of us will never be able to enjoy (or even relate to), my version of “The Dream” is one that almost anybody with a driver’s license, a tent, and an inflatable mattress can do, and do on a pretty paltry budget to boot. If you have the brains, the brawn, and the budget to whip yourself up a home-built micro-camper? Even better!

More than anything else, I want Everything Skateboarding to serve as a beacon of imagination and inspiration for our readers. It may or may not be working out the way I intended, but hey, at least we’re tryin’. That’s the important part. Enjoy the issue, see you next month.

 

 

Bud Stratford
Executive Director,
Everything Skateboarding

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Most of the “big brands”… and even a lot of smaller ones… think that they are far too cool to ever be forgotten. That’s not only extremely arrogant, it’s also hopelessly incorrect. You certainly can be forgotten… and if you cut off your media outreach, you will be forgotten. That, my frenemies, is absolutely guaranteed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Newsletter is here to keep everyone in the Phoenix skate scene up-to-date and in-the-know about upcoming events and happenings. Below, you’ll find the May community calendar with detailed information about each event. If you have an event you’d like to add (or corrections for any of the events below), please e-mail the information to budstratford@aol.com. Thanks for supporting your local skate scene, and your local skate shops…!

 

 

 

 

 

Last Sunday of every month, 8 am to 12 pm (or so):
The Sunday Sessions

Presented by the skate shops, skate companies/brands, and the skate media of the greater Phoenix Metro area
Held at various local skateparks around the valley, 9 am – 1 pm every Sunday (or Saturday evening if Sunday will be too hot)

Contact: Bud Stratford (or any local skate shop or skateboard company) on Facebook

Cost: Free for anyone to come, skate, and have fun.

 

Mark your calendars! The first of The Sunday Sessions will be happening on Sunday, May 27th, 2018 at Litchfield/Goodyear skatepark at 3151 N Litchfield Rd, Goodyear, AZ 85395.

The Sunday Sessions are intended to be free-to-attend, open skate sessions for skaters of all ages and abilities, held at the various Phoenix local skateparks on the last Sunday of every month (or Saturday evening, in the heat of the summer). The idea is to rotate them through all the local parks throughout the year, starting on the far west side, and working our way clockwise through the valley. Designed to get skaters together and to build the strength of the local skateboarding community, these events will be hosted and funded by the local Phoenix skate brands and shops, and will feature team riders, “Learn To Skate” sessions, spontaneous mini-contests here and there (for those that are competitively inclined), dork trick sessions, bar-b-ques, and prizes and giveaways from the participating brands and shops.

The goal here is to keep the community tight, and to keep skaters stoked and hyped on skating via regularly-scheduled get-togethers.

 

Tentative 2018 Locations Calendar:

The Sunday Sessions (Goodyear) Sunday, May 27th 

The Sunday Sessions (Rio Vista) Sunday, June 24th (or Saturday the 23rd)

The Sunday Sessions (Surprise Farms) Sunday, July 29th (or Saturday the 28th)

The Sunday Sessions (Union Hills or Paradise Valley) Sunday, August 25th (or Saturday the 24th)

The Sunday Sessions (Eldorado Park/The Wedge) Sunday, Sept 30th (or Saturday the 29th)

The Sunday Sessions, Special Road Trip Weekend! Lake Havasu City, AZ, weekend of Saturday and Sunday, October 20th and 21st

The Sunday Sessions (Freestone) Sunday, October 28th

The Sunday Sessions (Pecos) Sunday, November 25th

The Sunday Sessions (Cesar Chavez) Sunday, December 30th

 

 

Every Sunday morning at 9am:
Sunday Morning Mass
At various local skateparks, 9am every Sunday
(Typically Foothills/Union Hills Skatepark, 5752 W Union Hills Drive, Glendale, AZ 85308)
Contact: Prevent This Tragedy or Adam Richards on Facebook

Skaters of all ages congregate at local area skateparks every Sunday morning in and around
Phoenix. Free for anyone to come, skate, and have fun.

 

Every Wednesday, 3 pm – 6pm, and 6 pm – 9pm:
All-Girls Skate Session
91 West Skatepark
8550 N 91st Ave, Unit 54,
Peoria, AZ 85345
Phone: (623) 236-3033

Open to all girl skaters, $5 per participant, this is a chance for girls of all ages to skate together. Air conditioned comfort in the summer is an added bonus.

 

Every Thursday, 7 pm to 9 pm, $11.00:
Old-School Skate Night
Kids That Rip (aka KTR)
1927 N Gilbert Rd, Mesa, AZ 85203
Phone: (480) 844-9600

Open to all skaters, $11 per participant, 7-9 pm every Thursday.

 

Every Friday Night, 7 am to midnight, Free:
Friday Night Sessions at Gobber’s
Contact: Chris Gobber via Facebook

Free weekly skate session at Chris Gobber’s private backyard skatepark. Happens most Fridays. You must do this at least once, or you just haven’t lived. Fun for all ages and abilities. Friend him on Facebook to get updates and an invite.

 

 

 

Genius Sk8 x Snow Presents:
Genius Summer Sk8 Series
Saturday, May 19th, 2018; Sunday, June 24th, 2018; Saturday, August 11th, 2018; and Saturday, September 8th, 2018

Held at the Genius Backyard Sk8 Park, 3002 N. Manor Drive West, Phoenix, AZ 
Times TBA, Free

To register, or for more details, visit www.genius-life.com

This is a four-date series of amateur events held at a private, backyard skatepark in Phoenix. Check the website for details…!

 

 

 

Everything Skateboarding Magazine Presents:
Phoenix CitySkate 2018 Indian Bend Wash (May)
Sunday, May 20th, 2018

Meet at Chase Bank, 8999 E Shea Blvd, Scottsdale, AZ 85260
8 am to 11 am (or so), Free

The Indian Bend Wash Greenbelt is a long, smooth, paved greenway (that doubles as a flood control diversion ditch) that runs from Shea Road and 92nd Street, all the way to Tempe Town Lake, through McCormick Ranch, Chaparral Park, Camelback Park, Indian School Park, Continental Golf Course, and Eldorado Park, before continuing through Vista Del Camino Park and Rio Salado Park to Tempe Town Lake. It rolls steadily (but imperceptibly) downhill the whole way, and winds through some of the most beautiful scenicscapes in all of the Phoenix Metro.

This particular cruise is about nine miles in length, and ends at Eldorado Park, with multiple options for shorter lengths; there are bus stops at Chaparral park and Camelback Park for the less-ambitious and -adventurous of us. We get an early start, of course, to avoid the mid-day Phoenix heat.

For those that make the whole nine, the typically tired and hungry crew heads to Denny’s at 7605 E. McDowell Rd. to tank up on Grand Slams before catching the bus at the Hayden and McDowell bus stop to head back to the cars. 

All attendees should bring $2 in exact change for bus fare, plus money for the after-cruise breakfast. This cruise is open to skaters of all ages and abilities, and all are encouraged to attend. The cruise is extremely relaxing, and far less taxing than you would think, given the ambitious mileage involved.

There will be demo boards on hand, provided by our event sponsors: Carver Skateboards, Seismic Skate Systems, and Loaded Longboards.

All attendees will get “Thanks For Attending” prize packs, filled with goodies provided by our our sponsors: Concrete Wave Magazine, Carver Skateboards, Seismic Skate Systems, Loaded Longboards, Orangatang Wheels, Bamboo Skateboards, Abec 11, Concrete Disciples, along with local skate shops Scottsdale Sidewalk Surfer, Freedom Boardshop, State Rideshop, and Cowtown Skateboards.

 

 

 

Everything Skateboarding Magazine Presents:
Phoenix CitySkate 2018 Indian Bend Wash (June)
Sunday, June 17th, 2018
Meet at Chase Bank, 8999 E Shea Blvd, Scottsdale, AZ 85260
8 am to 11 am (or so), Free

The Indian Bend Wash Greenbelt is a long, smooth, paved greenway (that doubles as a flood control diversion ditch) that runs from Shea Road and 92nd Street, all the way to Tempe Town Lake, through McCormick Ranch, Chaparral Park, Camelback Park, Indian School Park, Continental Golf Course, and Eldorado Park, before continuing through Vista Del Camino Park and Rio Salado Park to Tempe Town Lake. It rolls steadily (but imperceptibly) downhill the whole way, and winds through some of the most beautiful scenicscapes in all of the Phoenix Metro.

This particular cruise is about nine miles in length, and ends at Eldorado Park, with multiple options for shorter lengths; there are bus stops at Chaparral park and Camelback Park for the less-ambitious and -adventurous of us. We get an early start, of course, to avoid the mid-day Phoenix heat.

For those that make the whole nine, the typically tired and hungry crew heads to Denny’s at 7605 E. McDowell Rd. to tank up on Grand Slams before catching the bus at the Hayden and McDowell bus stop to head back to the cars. 

All attendees should bring $2 in exact change for bus fare, plus money for the after-cruise breakfast. This cruise is open to skaters of all ages and abilities, and all are encouraged to attend. The cruise is extremely relaxing, and far less taxing than you would think, given the ambitious mileage involved.

There will be demo boards on hand, provided by our event sponsors: Carver Skateboards, Seismic Skate Systems, and Loaded Longboards.

All attendees will get “Thanks For Attending” prize packs, filled with goodies provided by our our sponsors: Concrete Wave Magazine, Carver Skateboards, Seismic Skate Systems, Loaded Longboards, Orangatang Wheels, Bamboo Skateboards, Abec 11, Concrete Disciples, along with local skate shops Scottsdale Sidewalk Surfer, Freedom Boardshop, State Rideshop, and Cowtown Skateboards.

 

On Deck:
Scottsdale Sidewalk Surfer Anniversary Bash
Tentatively scheduled for Saturday, October 13th, 2018
Scottsdale Sidewalk Surfer, 2602 N. Scottsdale Rd, Scottsdale, AZ 85257
10 am to 5 pm (or so), Free

Scottsdale Sidewalk Surfer throws an anniversary bash every October to celebrate their customers and the skateboarding community. Generally an all-day event that includes a swap meet, vendors, and bands, this is a can’t-miss local event. Stay tuned for details as October approaches.

 

 

 

This is the definitive list of every skatepark in the Phoenix Metro. It’s in geographic order, starting at the far west suburbs and working clockwise around the city.

 

Buckeye Skatepark
299 N 9th St, Buckeye, AZ 85326
8 am to 9 pm every day

 

El Mirage Skatepark/Gateway Park
10100 N El Mirage Rd, El Mirage, AZ 85335
6 am to 10 pm every day

 

Surprise Skatepark/Surprise Farms Skate Park
15798-15826 N 175th Ave, Surprise, AZ 85388

 

Goodyear Skate Park/Litchfield
3151 N Litchfield Rd, Goodyear, AZ 85395
7 am to 10 pm every day

 

Dust Devil Park
10645 W Camelback Rd, Glendale, AZ 85307
5:30 am to 10 pm every day

 

X-Court BMX Park
6101 N 83rd Ave, Glendale, AZ 85303
9 am to 10 pm every day

 

91 West Skatepark
8550 N 91st Ave, 54, Peoria, AZ 85345
(623) 236-3033
91westskateparkpeoriaaz.com

 

Desert West Skateboard Plaza
6602 W Encanto Blvd, Phoenix, AZ 85035
5 am to 10 pm every day

 

Peoria Skatepark/Rio Vista Park
8866 W Thunderbird Rd, Peoria, AZ 85381
8 am to 10 pm every day

 

Foothills Skatepark/Union Hills
5752 W Union Hills Dr, Glendale, AZ 85308
9 am to 10 pm every day

 

Anthem Community Park
41703 N Gavilan Peak Pkwy, Anthem, AZ 85086
6 am to 10 pm every day

 

The Refuge Youth Center
401 W Deer Valley Rd, Phoenix, AZ 85027
(480) 226-2019
therefugeyouth.com

 

Paradise Valley Skate Park
17642 N 40th St, Phoenix, AZ 85032
8 am to 9 pm every day

 

McDowell Mountain Ranch Skatepark
15525 N Thompson Peak Pkwy, Scottsdale, AZ 85260

 

Fountain Hills Skatepark
10441 N Saguaro Blvd, Fountain Hills, AZ 85268
Open 24 hours

 

Eldorado Park/The Wedge
2311 N Miller Rd, Scottsdale, AZ 85257

 

Reed Skate Park
1631 E Broadway Rd, Mesa, AZ 85204
8 am to 10 pm every day

 

Fountain Plaza (New!)
417 E Southern Ave, Mesa, AZ 85204
Open daily 7 am to 10 pm

 

Kids That Rip – Mesa, AZ
1927 N Gilbert Rd, Mesa, AZ 85203
(480) 844-9600
kidsthatrip.com

 

Apache Junction Skatepark
1097-, 1135 W Southern Ave, Apache Junction, AZ 85120
8 am to 10 pm every day

 

AZ Grind Skatepark
8743 E Pecos Rd #136, Mesa, AZ 85212
(480) 888-0499
azgrindskatepark.com

 

Queen Creek Skate Park/Founder’s Park
22360-, 22426 S Ellsworth Rd, Queen Creek, AZ 85142
8 am to 10 pm every day

 

Freestone Skatepark
1045 E Juniper Ave, Gilbert, AZ 85234
5:30 am to 9:05 pm every day

 

Chandler Bike Park at Espee Park
450 E Knox Rd, Chandler, AZ 85225

 

The Bridge
824 W Germann Rd, Chandler, AZ 85286
(480) 326-2247
bridgeccc.com

 

Snedigar Recreation Center/Chandler Skatepark
4500 S Basha Rd, Chandler, AZ 85248
8 am to 10:30 pm every day

 

Kids That Rip Chandler/KTR Family Action Sports Center – Chandler, AZ
1050 E Pecos Rd, Chandler, AZ 85225
(480) 718-5872
www.ktr-centers.com

 

Copper Sky Skate Plaza
44345 M.L.K. Jr. Blvd, Maricopa, AZ 85138

 

Tempe Sports Complex/Tempe Skatepark
8401 S Hardy Dr, Tempe, AZ 85284
Open 24 hours

 

Esquer Park
2407 E McArthur Dr, Tempe, AZ 85281
6 am to 9 pm every day

 

Hudson Park
1430 S Cedar St, Tempe, AZ 85281
6 am to 10 pm every day

 

Mitchell Park Skatepark (New!)
S Mitchell Dr & 9th St, Tempe, AZ 85281

 

Pecos Skate Park
17010 S 48th St, Phoenix, AZ 85048
7 am to 10:45 every day

 

Hermoso Park
2030 E Southern Ave, Phoenix, AZ 85040
Open 24 hours

 

Cesar Chavez Skatepark/Cesar Chavez Park
7858 S 35th Ave, Laveen Village, AZ 85339
5:30 am to 11 pm every day

 

       

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My name is Lakota Cloud. I was raised in the mountains of Colorado. My mother, a beautiful native American woman from the black hills, and my father, a white man into native culture, are both artists. My father, for as long as I’ve known him, has supported our family working for himself, carving and painting bone into native feather jewelry, and paintings.

 

 

I’ve been into drawing for as long as I can remember. With my parents’ encouragement and an arsenal of art supplies, I spent a lot of my childhood (and class time) drawing and doodling, though never really using more than a pencil. As much as I loved drawing, I never thought it would offer any opportunities in my adult life. I always grew up believing that my passion for music and art would be nothing more than a hobby, and that one day when I grow up, I would get a real job and do my hobbies in my free time.

 

 

One day, when I was 28 years old, still waiting to grow up and get my grown up job, and I had had it up to here (raises hand real high) with working at my hundredth call center, my dad asked me to share a booth with him at Comic-Con. He was getting sick of making the same old jewelry, and wanted to try a new line of digital art he had been working on that had a more modern style. He had also been collecting my doodles over the years and scanning them into his computer. He suggested I give it a shot, and helped me get some stuff together for the event. At that time almost all of my art work was black and white. You see, I’m actually fairly color deficient (color blind), and have a hard time telling colors apart. I spent the next couple weeks testing out paints, pens, markers, and such to add some color to my inventory. Anyways, after spending the weekend pretending to be an artist, I had finally made a decision. If art was something I loved so much, why spend my time doing anything else? I decided then to take art seriously, and if I died poor as a starving artist, then at least I died doing what was important to me.

 

 

Almost 2 years later, I’m 30 years old, dying poor as a starving artist. My wife, who is so supportive, and my new daughter inspire me to continue to be better. I attend almost every First Friday in downtown Phoenix and any other art event I can get my hands on.

 

 

I loved cartoons as a kid, and still love them very much as an adult. I’m inspired by the cartoons and artists I love. I love to draw things that strike a nostalgic chord in me. Sometimes I try to be funny or creative. I think the biggest thing I try to do is be different, which is a very difficult task. I figure anyone can draw a certain person, place, or thing, but how am I going to draw it and make it unique to me? I also like to use different mediums, anything from toys and figures to paintings to digital art and animations.

Also, I tend to ramble.

 

 

So, be sure to keep and eye out for me, and follow @coffeeandbroccoli and one day soon when it becomes a household name you can say you’ve been a longtime fan.
Thank you for your time,

Lakota Cloud
Coffee & Broccoli
coffeeandbroccoliart@gmail.com
@coffeeandbroccoli

 

 

 

It started with the cartoons. The cartoons are what grabbed my eyes and my imagination, before anything else. I’ve seen Lakota’s characteristic cartoons all over the place, for months now… but the artist himself has remained steadfastly elusive, and perpetually just out of reach. It took a very determined effort to track him down, and get his attention. It was well worth the wait.

Lakota’s art is spontaneous, whimsical, animated (obviously), and super-saturated with both eye-popping color, and heart-bursting personality. These aren’t just cartoon characters; they feel much more like old friends. As such, I thought it was more than appropriate to share some of my old friends with my readers. I hope you enjoy Lakota’s work as much as I do.

– Bud Stratford, Executive Director, Everything Skateboarding

 

 

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Normally, I wouldn’t review a ‘zine put out by a skateboard brand. It kinda goes against the whole premise of the column, which is to review independently published ‘zines. However, considering that it’s been forever and a day since I’ve seen a brand-created paper ‘zine… let alone, one that is this well done… well, I thought it might be wise to make a slight exception in this case.

 

The cover. Pretty well done…! Art by Boss Dog, who also…

 

I picked this puppy up at Sidewalk Surfer in Scottsdale. They have a section of their bar where they put local flyers, business cards, et cetera… sort of like a community corkboard. That’s where I found the Zero ‘zine. Of course, I picked one up straightaway. That’s just what I do whenever I see a ‘zine lying around, impatiently waiting to be read.

 

… has an interview inside. Note the full-color presentation throughout. Impressive stuff.

 

The funny thing is that I had damn near forgotten that Zero even exists. I haven’t heard anything out of them for eons. Clearly, the social media paradigm is letting them down, and letting them down hard, because they never show up anywhere in my news feed, or in my advertisements. Maybe all my friends have forgotten about Zero, too. I don’t know.

 

Jamie did most of the interviews, actually. Did a damn spiffy job with them, too. The Chief just might have a future in journalism, on top of his already immense skating talents.

 

All I know is that this is the best brand-reminder that I could have ever asked for. This ‘zine is remarkably well done; I was super impressed. Printed on heavy stock using a traditional four-color process, the photography, the layout, and the writing are all top-grade stuff, through and through. The Adam Arunski interview was really entertaining, and there’s even a crossword puzzle in the back  for those that would like a little bit of analog entertainment in their lives.

 

The really fun stuff is towards the back. Time to break out those pencils, kids.

 

If you can’t find one at your local shop, you can always cruise on over to the Zero website to read all of the back issues. This is a project that’s well worth staying on top of; personally, I can’t wait to see what the next issue looks like. I’m guessing that one will be pretty good, too.

 

Check out the current (and back) issues of the Zero ‘zine online here: https://zeroskateboards.com/zines/zine-vol-2-issue-1/.

 

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Loaded might be best known to the longboarding world as the marketing, advertising, and promotional powerhouse of our industry. Their multimedia broadcasts are full of whimsy and humor, reflections of the funny that they curate for the benefit of their customers worldwide. Many of their competitors are seethingly jealous of their communications savvy, to the point of being openly resentful of Loaded’s immense long-term success. But in the no-bullshit world of skateboarding, the fact still remains that if you can’t back your marketing up with a super solid product, then all the suave silliness in the world isn’t gonna amount to jack shit. Loaded is a longboarding success story because they can back up the zany bluster with real-world innovation, an eye for high art, and a focus on quality execution every step of the way.

 

 

The Loaded Icarus is a fairly traditional of their modus operandi: the highly flexible, extremely responsive, composite-construction longboard that is designed for smooth and powerful pumping and carving performance that has defined their entire product lineup since Day One… but slightly and thoughtfully re-engineered to meet emerging trends in design head-on.

Examples include the novel use of corkboard as the bottom veneer, and a continually variable concave cross-section throughout the deck. The corkboard is a damping material, applied here to smooth out the vibrations that would otherwise percolate up from the pavement, and through to your feet. Coupled with the relatively soft flex and the huge, soft-rolling wheels, the Icarus guarantees a smooth-sailing glide that is unmatched in the marketplace.

 

 

The continually variable concave ensures that the flex patterns stay consistent throughout the board, regardless of the width and mass of the deck at any given point. The concave is steeper and deeper over the wheelwells… stiffening up the smaller cross-section areas… before gently tapering off at the widest parts of the deck, where the bamboo/fiberglass construction is at its strongest. In the middle, the concave rises again to add some subtle resistance to the camber, maximizing pump efficiency. The end result is a deck that has a snappy, responsive, and consistent flex from the nose to the tail. The wheelwell concave is also a great way of orienting your feet to the deck’s danger zones by feel, insuring that the dreaded footbite remains a fairly remote and unlikely occurance.

 

 

Coupled with 180mm Paris trucks (outfitted with Orangatang’s large and lively, double-barreled Nipple bushings) and 80mm Kegel wheels, this board is carving nirvana. It pumps with the effort that might be required by a much smaller skateboard, and effortlessly harnesses low and medium speeds into pleasantly smooth perpetual motion. Skaters that are accustomed to much stiffer decks will find all of this a bit of a handful to get used to… but once they do, the pleasure payoffs are immense. This thing is pure fun. And nothing else in the world is quite like it.

 

 

Like the rest of the package, the graphic treatment is sophisticated in its simplicity. “Abstract art” is, once again, not something you see on many skateboards these days… but it’s pretty common in the snowboard world, where this board gets a lot if its technology and design direction from. That being duly noted, it would be completely natural for Loaded to take some subtle graphic cues from the snowboard industry, and apply those to a skateboard as well. It’s a beautiful board, and the choice of colorways for the trucks and the wheels only heighten the visual effects.

 

 

This is not an inexpensive setup. It is definitely not “cheap”, by any means. It might well be one of the more costly skateboards on the market today, with an MSRP of $359.00. But the old adage still says that you ultimately get what you shell out for… and in this case, what you ultimately get is a visually stunning, well-designed, thoughtfully engineered, high quality, long-lasting product that will continue to perform for many years, with minimal to no maintenance (outside of the occasional bearing lube, which is really smart business for every skater to engage in).

Is the performance worth the money? Judging by the sheer numbers of these that I see being skated around, and absolutely adored by their respective owners, I’d have to say that the obvious answer to that question is “yes”.

 

See the Icarus, as well as the rest of Loaded’s lineup, at www.loadedboards.com

 

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It was the spring of 1999 at Slam City Jam, Vancouver, B.C., when I first saw her. She was busting super-clean nollie tailslides. She was super short, no more than 5’2” or 5’3”- but in her run, she flowed around the course like a seasoned vet. She had skinny arms and a brunette ponytail, with a black shirt and a pair of khakis. She had a clean kick flip as well.  She was not like the hesh-mesh females I knew from Burnside, nor was she like the padded up transition queens of the 1980’s. The pro female skaters at the time were 90 percent antisocial and mean-spirited, so I stayed away. She seemed different, and by that I mean happy-looking. That skater was none other than Jessie Van Roechoudt.

I was seeing someone back then, and didn’t even bother to say hi. I was intrigued by her, though. Shortly after this moment in time, an article on her in Slap magazine came out. She was attending San Francisco State and studying Anthropology. She was into bebop jazz,  liked coffee, and was well-read and brilliant. Her roots were from Kelowna, B.C.. Her mom was a flight attendant and she was well-traveled. She also seemed to have a very comedic way of stating things in the article. My crush- or you could say, “obsession”- grew. “Wow,” I thought, “she is good-looking, well-read, and educated, not to mention she shreds on a skateboard. I need to talk to her, some how, some way.”

 

Nate Sherwood, our esteemed storyteller of the month, with a backside nose blunt (left), and an ollie outside Eduskate, his skate shop in Cedar Rapids, Iowa (right).

 

A couple of years later, I was in the Birdhouse tour van on a road trip from San Diego to Lockwood in LA, paging through a Thrasher in my seat as we fought northbound Five interstate traffic. An ad with Jessie was in there for Genetic Shoes. I gasped and went, “aww”, and Willy Santos, as well as Jeremy Klein, were like, “what the fuck did Nate just see?” as they jumped over my shoulders and tried to get a view of what I was looking at. I explained it was an ad of this female I had a bad crush on. Brian Sumner, riding shotgun, cracked up super-hard and then turned and looked at me. He started to tell me a story how he had “relations” with her at  Steve Rodriguez’s place. All the guys in the van were high-fiving, Brian was cracking up, and I felt kind of bummed…. ‘cause you never want to think of your crush having “relations” with some dude you know. But yet, I was kind of happy and relieved. At least I now knew she was straight and liked men rather than women, which at the time was rare in female skaters. So I went from a shocked frown to a smile.

Fast forward another few months. I heard through the grapevine at Billabong, on a trip to their warehouse with Willy Santos to pick up some gear, that her birthday was in late-April or early-May, and that I should surprise her with a gift if I wanted to break the ice, even if it was just to talk to her.

I planned out my next Slam City Jam in Vancouver, which was in May of that year. I bought a book on Charles Mingus (the upright bassist), and another book on Margaret Mead (the anthropologist), and wrapped them up as well as I could. I spent hours drawing funky little skateboards on the wrappers, and skyscrapers. EMB and Hubba Hideout were on there, as well as the P.N.E. rail in Vancouver B.C.. I used skate stickers rather than tape to tie it all together, and my bow was a string of bearings wrapped in dental floss. I liked the mint smell it gave off. I was freaked of flying at this point in life (that is another story), so I drove from San Diego to Vancouver BC with the gift buckled in my shotgun seat.

I stopped in SF to see the owner of Elevate Trucks, Matt Cole. I needed some last minute goods to toss out at the comp. I also hoped I might run into her at any of the street spots I was to go skate that day and night. I then set sail to my motherland of Portland to pick up fellow Capital teammate Rodd Marks. I picked him up, and then drove to Seattle to my good friend Brandon Egggleston’s place to pick him up to hang and film, etc. Yep, before he was the guy behind the soundboard for such bands as the Mountain Goats and Modest Mouse, Brandon was my filmbot and childhood friend. Anyway, I had my posse of bros with me, and I briefed them on why I had this gift in the car strapped down like it was the Lost Ark and why I was going all-in on this caper and that whatever happened, I would deal with it.

Brandon was giving me a pep talk, helping me out. Brandon, although he would not admit it now that he’s married, was a grade-A lady killer. This fucker could get you free food, free drinks, free anything other than a car or house because he was a hunk. Women loved this fuck. To this day, if I go home to Portland women will walk up to me and say, “ I went to high school with you; you were that friend of Brandon’s, right?” Like they have no idea who I am at all, but they all knew him. Anyway, I was trying to study his TEO as if it was doctrine so that maybe I’d have a chance to break the ice with Jess and not look like the insecure fuck that I am. Rodd Marks had a whole different art of war. He was saying I just need to be “drunk before I go talk to her.” It was a great five-hour talk though traffic and apple orchards. My confidence was building.

We got to the border, and the Canadian border dudes searched the car because we all looked nuts as fuck. Brandon is a modern indie rocker: clean-shaven, smells good, and he had clothing on that looked newer than 30 years old. Rodd looks like he walked out of a biker bar and belongs to the Gypsy Jokers with a tat on his neck of a fucking six-shooter that read ‘Desperado’ on it. Then there was me: a nerdy-looking fuck with a button-up shirt and a bowl cut. They must have thought we were some crazy crime family smuggling guns and ammo into the Great North. They made us go to the inspection area; they kept asking us, “do you have any firearms?” We said “no, we are hippies.” See, Canada does not give a fuck if you have a key of coke or a bindle of H or a dead hooker in your trunk. But if you have a gun, you are fucked. That was all they wanted from us. A nice gun or four.

Anyway, when they got to my gift for Jessie they asked what was this box and who is Jessie. I told them it was a gift: two books for the crush of my life. The dickhead looked at me with the face that can only be described as ‘this guy is a pussy,’ but whatever. He held the box, then put it on top of the car. He was not stoked on us. They searched my car for half an hour; under it, on top of it, in it. They found nothing, of course. Anyway, they shook my gift for Jess and then they placed it in the back seat. As soon as they let me, I strapped it back in. We put all our shit back together, then we hit the road. Into Vancouver we went, happy as can be.

 

The object of Nate’s affections. Well, five years of them anyway…

 

Fast forward to three days later, the female portion of the contest was on. Some dude was interviewing Jessie, and some of her fans were asking for her to ink some shirts and whatnot. I grabbed her birthday gift from my backpack and skated up to her. I said, “Hi, Jessie, happy late or early birthday!” I smiled. See, I had no internet, so no Google for me. So I had no idea if I was late or early, but I knew I had to be close.

When I gave her the gifts, I froze up like deer in headlights. She responded, with a odd look on her face, “thanks for the gift.” Then I said, “your runs were epic.” She replied, “they were mediocre at best, but thank you.” She used big words like ‘mediocre.’ I was falling deeper into my crush from hell, but her crew came up and whisked her off and the camera man followed. Before I could get any more words in, she waved at me and I waved back. I must have looked like a dumbass, because right then Jamie Rayes skated up and said “are you high? Get off the course you fuck, it’s female day out here fool.” I skated away in shock, so happy that I got to speak with Jessie, and even more stoked that Jamie did not shank me.

A few months later, I got my internet and received this mass email from Bryce Knights about saving the Berkeley skate park from some toxic waste that was leaking into the bowls and shit from beneath the park. This was before blind carbon copy was widely used, and I decided to see who else got this same email. Every heavy hitter at the time was cc’d on this email: Danny Way, T-Hawk, even Koston. However, I was more stoked that Jessie’s email address was in there. So I emailed her, asking if she liked her gifts. I said I had received her email address from Bryce (not fully a lie, right?) so I wouldn’t appear too shady. She replied back, but it was very blunt and professional. After a few emails back and forth, I got a super optimistic idea that I might have a chance to just go skate with her or hang out, get to know her, etc.

My friend Stephanie Limb, mostly known for playing Peggy Oko in the film Lords of Dogtown, and I were skating one day at the sand gaps in Santa Monica. At some point Steph exclaimed, “do you still have a crush on Jessie?” I replied, “of course, I have for some time now. Why do you ask?” Stephanie went on to tell me that she was at an audition for a Hewlett Packard commercial, and that Jessie was in the office in the call backs as well. Stephanie said, “I told her I was friends with you, and she said ‘that guy is creeps me out, I heard he did porn.’” Steph went on to ask me if I did porn. I felt like my world was over. My innocent crush was crushed. Steph went on to say, “you might want to stop the emails and try to talk to her in real life to straighten it out.” I agreed, and then again denied all accusations of me doing porn. I had no idea who was life-blocking me, but I was out for blood. Some asshole planted a seed in her mind that I was a fucking player or some shit, and I needed to get to the root and stop this shit.

How was I supposed to bring that up in an email, anyway? Like, “Hey, I heard you heard a rumor and think I am a creep. Well, I’m not.” Blah blah blah, etc. Who the fuck brings that up in a email? And how crazy would I look saying that anyhow? That would only make me look even more guilty.

Two years go by, many relationships fail, one with this chick Megan who looked like Jessie. No joke, I dated her just because she looked like my crush, but she didn’t have the personality or the book smarts that I was drawn to so badly. And I was still in crush mode with Jessie. I will save that one for the shrink.

At this time, my friend Adam Sullivan was working at the Skateboard Trade News mag, and he had hired Jessie to be a contributing writer. Knowing my crush on her, he sets up a session for us to skate some red curbs and go get dinner and drinks with his wife Ann, and Jessie. Two days before she flies into San Diego, I get sick with the worst ear and sinus infection I’d had in years, but I knew I had to set the record straight. I knew I had to prove I was not a porn star, or some misogynist or sexist fuck, or at least get coffee with her and talk it out. Plus, I wanted to know what enemy of mine was trying to poison the well by making up this porn rumor.

The phone rang. It was Adam: “Yo, Nate, red curbs tonight at 5 pm?” I was like, “hell yes.” I ate four Sudafed and puffed my Afrin and Flonase. I was trying not to look completely dead, but I was someplace between the pale of Darby Crash and the white of a Motel 6 wall. I got my ears to pop, I showered, made myself not smell bad, got rid of my Nyquil breath, and I grabbed my board and headed out to shred with Adam, Ann, and Jessie.

When I got to the spot, it was packed. Cullen Poythress was there with a launch ramp he brought from home; the late Eric Striker (rest in peace) was there, and of course Adam and Ann, plus the person I wanted to hang with more than a Catholic wants see the Pope: the one and only Jessie, as if a beam of light was surrounding her. I was shaking, so nervous. The gold standard of women was right there in front of me. “Not the time or place to bring up your bad rep”, I told myself in a repeating mantra manner, “just be cool, be chill, skate it up”.

Eric Striker, that fuck, says to me, “Nate, do a nollie flip!” I am as high as a gas huffer on the international space station, fidgety as hell! So I bail a nollie flip, and land primo. Jessie saw it, and that made me feel more insecure. I went about doing my normal pressure flip overdose of shit and we all had a fun session. Jessie even clapped for me when I busted an ollie up this launch ramp the hard way. My confidence was up enough to talk to her. I clapped for her when she did a bolts-perfect Nollie 50-50, and she seemed in good spirits and was nice to me. We chit-chatted about normal shit: the weather, the flight down, writing, Buddha, and how karma worked in the world. Nothing too heavy yet. We just skated; I didn’t want to piss her off or piss myself just yet. I was on a lot of drugs, and pissing in my pants seemed like a good idea. Hell, I was dizzy as Gillespie and higher than a hippy in a tree fort. After it got dark, the Transworld gang left, and Adam suggested we go get dinner and a beer.

We were off to Islands Burgers on Airport Road in Carlsbad. Adam, his wife and Ann, and Jess were in his Honda; I drove separate. I was in my beat up Volvo wagon rolling solo like a stalker should behind them in traffic, using snot rags to keep my nose from looking wet like a damn canine, and doing my best to try to play it off like I was healthy, leaning forward over the wheel like the guy in the film Repo Man who had the nuke in his trunk. I feared getting anyone sick, but at this point I had waited five years to sit down with her and have a beer, and I was not going to let a cold fuck that up.

At Islands we got ourselves seated, and I had this gut feeling that Jessie was a vegetarian. For some reason, I think every person in SF is. I know that is a stereotype, but I was high as fuck on antihistamines. I was seeing visions of God at this point, let alone trying keeping my game sharp.

I was the first to order. Adam put me on the spot, like, “order first, Nate!” I said, “I will have a Boca Burger please, with guac and a house salad.” I did not want to look like a pig in front of this goddess. My palms were sweaty like a heroin addict going through withdrawls. Then it was Jessie’s turn to order. I was dead wrong with my stereotype: Jessie ordered a damn beef-as-fuck burger, huge Megatron-size, and draft dark beer. I was scared now because I received that look from her, like, “this guy is a pussy, I love red meat,” so my self-esteem now was in the gutter once again. Out of respect I didn’t order meat, and here she was, eating a damn burger that looked like Fred Flintstone made it and a beer fit for a damn Viking queen. I drank my little crafty art-fuck beer and ate my Boca burger. I had to run the role I was playing now. There was no return after that fuck up. Adam looked at me, like, “damn, Nate is biffing his shit left and right.” Plus I was shaking like a damn squirrel due to the large amount of drugs in my system.

After dinner, Adam had the idea to show Jessie the Carlsbad High School gap. I tagged along like the love-sick puppy that I was. When we all got to the spot, I was higher than Keith Richards in ‘76 from all my nasal drugs, and this cold was kicking my ass. As we walked from the cars to the spot, Ann and Jessie made jokes and I talked to Adam, and as we walked across the football field to the side where the gap was hidden, we all started to geek out on all the tricks that had been done. Ann outright says Kris Markovitch kickflipped it. I went on saying Jeremy Wray frontside 360 ollied it. Jessie just looked at it, and had that look off an artist who was viewing a blank canvas. Then I said, “P-Rod almost fake tre flipped it. I heard that was a rumor, at least at the time. I caught from the Syndrome dudes that he was attempting to fakie tre flip the fucking C Bad gap.” Jessie went off; she was not a fan of P-Rod. I will not gossip here, but I think P-Rod rocks. She clearly did not, and we both decided to humbly disagree. To this day I have no idea why, but she gave me a strange half-mouth grin and said, “I don’t like his style.”

That made me lose some respect for her. My crush was not as strong after that. I found something that made me not like her. I could live with a small thing like that. Who is that shallow, right? Not like a thing like that could change an outlook on a crush that was five years deep at this point.

Then somehow the conversation got changed to how automatic garage doors are for the suburbs, and people in the city have a garage door that has to be opened by hand or no garage at all. Adam and Jessie argued this in an intellectual manner, and I went from stating it to just listening to how they rambled, happy that the heat was off me. I think P-Rod is great, but I also dug her defiant ways against the norm and I was still crushing hard.

We then went to the Von’s grocery store down the street to skate and look at this loading dock ledge spot that Patrick John Ladd, better known to anybody reading this as PJ Ladd, had some clips on. We all sat on the ledge after skating for a few minutes because it was too dark to sesh. We talked about skating some more, and then Ann yanked out a yawn and Adam followed suit, and I did the same. Jessie had the look of ‘I am beat.’ Now was my time, my shining moment, to try and get her number before they all said their goodbyes and good, nights and made their way home to Adam’s house to crash out. I needed a window to get her number. ‘We could get coffee,’ I thought. ‘Yeah, that sounds good.’ Then maybe I could change her mind about me.

Adam and Ann walked to their car and Jessie was following. I sprung up from the ledge with my Nokia silver candy bar in hand and said, “Hey, Jessie, I’m not sure if you are free tomorrow, but I would love to go get coffee with you in the morning.” She looked at me like I was a moron and she saw my phone in hand, queued up to program her number in. That might have freaked her out even more. I then said, “Can I get your number so I can phone you before I pick you up?” She still looked at me funny. I repeated myself, thinking maybe she had not heard me. ‘A lot of people never hear me when I talk to them,’ I thought. She then said the sharpest words I ever heard in my life to this day:

“I check my email daily.”

I asked one last time, but she replied again with, “No, I check my email daily.” I was about to tear up. I said, “Ok, well, I will just email you then.” She gave me the look of, ‘I am shooting you down you idiot, get it through your fucking head, you are not my type, fuck off, and I don’t feel safe giving you my number you are insane, leave me alone.’ I could read that from her Canadian death stare, the same look Bobby Ore gave Detroit in the Stanley Cup finals. “Sounds good”, I said in my best chipper mode voice. Thank god I was high as fuck on meds, or I might have died right there on the spot of a broken heart. I think everything felt like a dream sequence, and not real. Adam gave me a look of, “Oh, damn! Poor Nate, that had to hurt!”, and even Ann had a look of pity for me. I said goodnight to them all, and waved goodbye as I skated away to my car.

I knew she was not that eccentric. I knew that email was not her choice of communication, and it hit me hard that this was a shoot-down. It was a brutal one, to say the least. She did not trust me with her number. I had Chad Muska’s and Jamie Thomas’ and Daewon Song’s number in that phone, but yet hers was more guarded than theirs. It was as if hers was sacred. “Who the fuck does she think she is?”, I thought for a second. Then I got in my car and waved goodbye to them as they drove out of the parking lot the exact opposite direction. I drove down Tamarack Street, headed back to P.C.H., to go northbound to Oceanside, and then it hit me in the face like a wet fish. “I worked on that crush for 5 years”, I said to myself, “what the fuck did I do wrong?”

I cried so hard. Like an infant. I cried so much I could not control my car, so I pulled over at Squid Joe’s. It was a dive bar at the time. I sat in my Volvo crying with tears all over my face, and I keeled over with snot coming out of my head like a fire hose on crack. The drugs did not help, but I was mental as fuck. I had used all my tissues in the glove box; thank god I had a case of new t-shirts that Mark Waters at Es Shoes had shipped to me. They became snot rags. My eyes were so glazed over from my tears I could not even see the AM/PM gas station sign across the street. I sat there for it seemed like an hour trying to get my nerves back in order so I could drive safely. Two Carlsbad police cars rolled up. They lit up their lights and came up to my window, asking me why I was loitering in the parking lot of this bar for so long. I am sure the bar keeper called them. They were out DUI hunting, and I knew I was in the clear. I had more Sudafed in me than a meth lab. That shit is legal for some reason, fuck if I know why. I then vented to the officer as I was crying: “I just got shot down by the women of my dreams officer, it was horrible. Five years I’ve been trying to just hang with her get to know her and she said to me and I quote ‘I check my email daily.’” The cop, trying not to laugh, said “Damn, that sounds like a shitty day! You just sit there as long as you need, son, and get home safe.” I said, “Thanks, dude”, and rolled up my window.

I sat for a bit to deal with the gravity of the situskation. I then noticed an old, beat up Vice Grip on my passenger side floor board. It was oxidized like it had been sun burnt. Then I put it all together. Life is a Vice Grip; every hour it gets a bit more tight, and if you can’t roll with it, you better jam it before it crushes you.

I got home hours later and I wrote Jessie an email, even though I knew there was no chance at all. She never returned fire. And that was how it all ended. I went on to live a normal life. If you invest five years of your life into anything, get a degree rather than basically stalking a woman. It is not worth it. Worst five years I ever wasted. The amount of hours I spent doing that could have gone into building a company, owning a shop, or getting a degree in something that made a buck.

I’ve had to deal with a lot of creepy people over the past six years. Owning a skate shop means dealing with a lot of insane people. I think it might be my karma paying me back for creeping her out.

 

?>

As a skateboarder from Northern New Jersey that frequently travels into New York City, I experience a particularly odd change in dynamic over the course of my day trips. With a quick hour’s bus ride, I speed from the openness of suburbia to the hustle of metropolis with a shift that feels more like a trip to a different world, rather than a different state. Maybe this is because I’m usually feverishly jotting down notes or reading skate magazines in preparation for some sort of an interview or meeting or event that I’m headed in to cover. One moment, I put my head down into a notebook full of scribbles, and the next I’m holding my breath to keep from huffing bus fumes in the Port Authority.

 

 

On one hand, it’s a blessing to be able to live as close as I do to the New York City skateboarding community. Having the privilege to head in for the day to collaborate with the locals that make it happen and the international passerby’s that stop by is one that I never take for granted.

On the other hand, this creates a situation where I often feel as though I only make my way into the greatest city in the world when I need to take care of business. In those moments, the journey from Fairfield through Secaucus becomes a waiting game where my stomach turns with the fear of being unprepared and my mind races with the trepidation of not being able to execute the project that I promised to my subjects and to my superiors.

 

 

This is precisely why a passing Instagram post from Valeria Kechichian, Founder and CEO of the Longboard Girls Crew jumped out to me as an opportunity to make the most of a fellow skateboarder’s pass through New York, and break my routine of nerve-wrecking public transportation rides. Valeria and I have known each other for a few months now, and are already well aware of each other’s work: she, a confident and outspoken activist for women’s empowerment and me, an amateur writer whose lack of literary prowess is at least masked by the energy of attempting to get published as much as possible. Wanting to strike up a face-to-face, I proposed meet up somewhere in Brooklyn. Ever the socialite, Valeria kindly accepted and picked out a suitable coffee spot.

As I boarded the same Lakeland Bus that I always do, it was somehow snowing in New Jersey. In April. The temperature was warm enough to get away with wearing a jacket and a tee shirt, but still bitter enough to make me wonder why the hell I hadn’t relocated to the West Coast yet. Then again, perhaps I was considering these things because there was no stress of a grand project clouding my head. Instead, I was heading in to meet an acquaintance, whose badass story of sparking a global community that promotes female empowerment through skateboarding was one that I was already thoroughly familiar with and completely stoked on. With that being said, I threw on the musical stylings of Brooklyn’s own Beach Fossils, and sat back to enjoy my commute for the first time in a while.

 

Press the play button for the full effect. Seriously: it’s good. You won’t be disappointed.

 

Apart from still choking over the bus fumes, I found myself able to breathe easier along the way and became keen on noticing things that I hadn’t typically observed before. I began to note all of the random sticker slaps that the subway system had to offer and started inadvertently seeking skate stickers in the process. By catching the downtown ACE train after rush hour, I was rewarded with a nearly empty car full of seats. Here, I caught glimpses of white graffiti tags scattered on the walls of the subway tunnels in between stations and wondered who could be bold enough to trek through pitch-black caverns only as wide as the passing trains themselves. Finally, after a quick transfer and a splash under the East River, I emerged from the confines of public transit into the drizzling streets of Williamsburg.

With a coffee shop already chosen, I took a couple quick lefts and ended up pressed against the windows of a spot called Toby’s Estate. Soon, with a reusable thermos in hand and a denim jacket adorned with “Thrasher” and “Feminist” patches, the LGC CEO made her way in. As such, we wasted no time in chopping up what we have both been up to since we last chat. For anyone familiar with Valeria’s “work,” one could only imagine where this conversation went. Anyone unfamiliar with her efforts should check out her TEDx Talk here. Trust me, Valeria can paint a far better picture of her story than I ever could.

 

Or, press play here…

 

For those too lazy to click however, I’ll try to sum things up. Valeria began skateboarding at age 28 in an attempt to replace some of her bad habits with a positive leisure activity. At a time when a woman skateboarding in the streets of Madrid was seen as outlandish, she was able to harness the power of social media to provide not just exposure for females on skateboards and longboards, but quality exposure.

 

 

Her emphasis on promoting proper representation of females in action sports allowed her to scale the movement to over 180 countries, with the support of passionate network of ambassadors. Since it’s inception, Valeria has played an instrumental role in a number of notable achievements for the crew including production of the world’s first all-female longboarding film, speeches at countless international conferences and, most recently, the launch of a new non-profit organization.

 

The film.

 

As we uncovered, the past several years of her life have seemed more like a world tour of globetrotting and couch surfing on her #IDontHaveAHouseLetsAbuseYourFriendsTour. With Brooklyn as another destination along her route, we were able to take the morning to discuss her non-conventional lifestyle and the escape that it allows her from societal confines including expectations and defined structure. As echoed by her public speeches, Kechichian has used the empowerment and momentum gained by stepping on a longboard for the first time at age 28 to propel herself into a world where touring unfamiliar cities has become familiar. Unsatisfied with the thought of settling in one place and unencumbered by the prospect of randomness interrupting her master plan, she lives her life in the company of the international community of riders that she has helped unite through the Longboard Girls Crew and beyond. With each different experience that she shared with me an anecdote from, I considered how crazy it was that out of anywhere in the world she could have skated to next, that a stop just a short trip from my house was the spot. With that, I again felt relaxed in not having to jot notes down but to simply enjoy the moment of being at that specific place in time.

 

 

Periodically, the conversation veered into sidebars regarding the logistics of becoming an iconic, community-leading skateboarder in a way that justified my use of quotations around the term “work” earlier. The truth is, Kechichian’s affairs have not always been as glamorous as they seem today. As her stories supported, the path she has carved out in life has only been possible with years of uncertainty and instability – not to mention an optimistic amount of mental fortitude needed to back it up. To this day, we chatted about how she has her hands full with the website launch of the new non-profit she is eagerly waiting to unveil. With this, her end goal is to continue traveling the world and providing enrichment opportunities for as many corners of the globe that she can reach. Based on the destinations she told me she had plans to work with, I have no doubts that her efforts will be far reaching and felt by the masses.

In the end, with another meeting on her agenda and with an evening at University in my future, Kechichian and I resolved to keep in touch as her reusable thermos ran dry. As she set back off to Long Island City, I focused my efforts back to New Jersey, still searching for skate stickers on the backs of all the street signs. In those moments of fresh air just before descending into the world of public transportation, I relished the lack of pressure I felt and that Kechichian was able to help me understand the value in. As skateboarders, the time we spend outside of our typical comfort zones is sometimes the most rewarding. Vulnerable to the potential of variability but inspired by the newness of exploration, traveling is an indispensable piece of skateboarding culture that allows us to escape from our daily routines through blissful immersion. In fact, it’s something that Kechichian and I would encourage the person reading this to go and pursue right… about… now!

 

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You don’t always have to plan an extensive, faraway road trip to have a real skate adventure. Here in the Phoenix Metro, I’m finding that I’m surrounded by more skate spots than I could ever shake a damned stick at. Naturally, they fall all over the quality spectrum from the wonderfully epic to the hopelessly lackluster… but for the most part, Phoenix is a concrete oasis with a lifetime (or two) of skate potential. The quantity is definitely there; the amount of fun that is quietly laying in wait out there in the desert is almost beyond imagination.

This spring, I made it my mission to go and check some of those spots out. Below, you’ll find my field reports from the spots that I visited (and skated). Hopefully, they’ll inspire you to go out and do a little exploring of your own. If and when you do, remember to take lots of pictures and send the stories in. We always like to hear the details of recently discovered skate spots here at Everything Skateboarding. Just make sure that they don’t get blown out by publicizing their exact locations too hard; it’s best to leave some things to the imagination, and let skaters pay their dues by doing the requisite networking and research.

 

Stop Number One

This is a pretty famous spot. Apparently, this ditch was skated a lot back in the ’80s before it was “rendered unskateable” by the local authorities (according to the city news gazette). Now, I’m not too sure about this “renered unskateable” business; generally speaking, rendering a ditch like this unskatable would require a whole lotta jackhammer time and/or creative concrete placement… and even then, your average skater might still find a quick and effective way around the said rendering. I decided that I’d better go check it out for myself, just in case the local media is full of fluff.

Good thing I did, because once I got there, the only thing I found that was “rendering” this ditch “unskateable” was some dirt and pebbles that had collected in the flatbottom of an otherwise perfectly skateable, couple-hundred-yard-long ditch. The cleanup effort could be considerable to make the entire ditch truly skateable, but I was able to clear out a thirty-yard stretch in under twenty minutes or so (with the help of my industrial-sized push broom). So much for mass media credibility! This place is definitely high-visibility to passers by, so it’s best skated at sunrise or sunset, to maintain as low of a profile as possible.

 

 

Stop Number Two

This is another fairly famous spot that has had some less-than-welcome coverage in the local news rag. In this case, great efforts have been made to render this spot unskateable- and they’ve almost worked. The deeper side of the big set of banks (to the right) are not currently skateable, nor are the red handrails that have been erected on top of them. However, the smaller set of banks is still skateable, and a skater with enough creativity and skill could probably hop right up onto those bars, and make something happen. It’s interesting to note there that a few cubic feet of concrete and a quick trowel job could, in theory, make these banks totally skateable again, as could a metal cutoff tool to work those handrails back into shape. But with so much concrete fun so close at hand, why would anybody bother…?

 

 

Stop Number Three

Here, we have The Wedge, one of the few spots that I’ll publicly name in my article because it’s so well known, as well as being totally accessible, open, and completely bust-free. Another historic skate spot that has been a skateboarding cornerstone since the late 1970’s, The Wedge sits in the shadows of Eldorado Park along a bike path that crosses under McDowell Road. Largely shaded from the scorching summer sun, The Wedge is still as skateable today as it’s ever been; the banks appeal to the old-schoolers while the rock gap (into the bike path) is pretty popular with the street-skating contingent; note the missing rocks at the top of the runway. Just make sure you bring a broom to push away the occasional mud and sludge buildup, and try to avoid losing your board in the water diversion channel at the far end.

 

 

Stop Number Four

While I was out on a Bitchin’ Ditch Mission, I thought it might be more than appropriate to stop by at Eldorado Skatepark for a few quick, bust-and-hassle-free carves through the mellow bowl/ditch combo that is the centerpiece of the park. Is it totally legit, as defined by a ditch-deciding purist? Nope, not really. Whatever, man. Sue my fat, happy ass, if it makes you feel better. Is it a fun diversion in the middle of my daily ditch-riding routine? Yes, absolutely.

 

 

Stop Number Five

What’s a skate mission if you don’t take a moment to stop in at your local skate shop, pick their brains for a few minutes, and put your paws on some neat new planks? Not much of a mission at all, if you ask me. Today’s paw-plundering included these two classic pigs, the SMA Jay Adams model (finally released as a production model, nearly forty years after the prototype was built), and the massively period-correct (and collectible) Dogtown Jim Muir Triplane model. Go get some, kids, and start livin’ life to the fullest.

 

 

 

Stop Number Six

Shaded skate spots are a luxury here in Phoenix, so when I come across one I tend to put it on my must-return list. I came across this one while out on one of our CitySkate longboard cruises, and made a mental note to go back and check it out with something that’s a bit more bank-friendly than a 44-inch drop-through. You’ve probably seen quite a few double-kinked handrails in your lifetime, but how many of you kiddies have seen a double-kinked embankment? My guess is, probably not too many. Here’s the dirty little secret: if I can haul my fat ass up this thing to skate it, then so can you.

 

 

Stop Number Seven

Again, we have here another historic skate spot that’s probably gotten a little too much press in the local media, and got skate-stopped pretty determinedly somewhere along the line. Not only are there prominent signs pleading for users to stay on the walkway (and stay the hell off the banks), there are also 1/4″ thick steel strips riveted into the concrete to emphasize the point.

However: no amount of skate-stopping will ever completely deter a determined skater. Turns out, I’m not alone: when I arrived to check the place out, I was pleasantly surprised to find that a few of the stop-strips have been removed, making sections of this spot skateable once again. The speedy downhill run-in and the ample shade are total bonuses, of course. The mellowly transitioned banks ended up being a ton of fun, in spite of official efforts to render them otherwise.

 

 

Stop Number Eight

The city authorites tried to “skate stop” these sprawling banks right from the outset by utilizing exposed aggregate in the construction process. “Exposed aggregate” is what results when you hose the top layer of smooth cement off of the curing concrete, leaving the coarse rock exposed. In theory, this would be far too rough for your average skateboard wheel to roll across… but not if you’re smartly armed and ready for battle with the decidedly un-average footprint of my monster super-stompers (which happen to be 65mm, 78a Abec 11 No Skools). Suddenly, the whole world becomes instantly skateable- including these fast, fun, mellow banks.

 

 

Stop Number Nine

While I had my jolly green Abec 11 super-stompers set up on my trusty Santa Cruz Bevel, I thought I’d take a moment to go eye these massive-sized, exposed-aggregate flood-control embankments. Again, these would be totally un-skateable under most “normal circumstances”… but as we learned at the last spot, my Abec 11 No Skool jellyrolls aren’t exactly “normal wheels”, which makes everything instantly enjoyable. Rolling my big ‘ol butt into these mammoth banks was pure fun and a real hoot that also scored pretty high on the adrenaline meter.

 

 

Stop Number Ten (Under The Bridge) 

The Spot Hookup really came through on this one. Again, we have a skate spot under an overpass that provides all-day shade in the scorching summer heat of central Arizona. But this time, the banks are big, smooth, fast, and long with forever lines; the only limiting factor here is how long your thighs and calves will last. The only other thing you’ve gotta do here is watch your head when you get to the top, just to make sure that you don’t bean your brain bucket on the bridge. There’s ample (and free) parking nearby; the walkway is rarely used; it’s completely hidden from passersby; and you barely have to sweep it because it’s so clean and dry. By any measure, this is the pretty much the perfect skate spot.

 

 

Stop Number Ten (Beside The Bridge)

There’s also another (smaller) ditch section perched a little higher up on the knoll, right beside the bridge; with a thorough sweeping and de-lousing, this could be a fun little diversion when the weather turns a bit more comfortably cool in the fall and winter.

 

 

 

 

Stops Number Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, and Fourteen

The next series of spots are from a ten-mile long ditch complex that was recently poured as part of an ambitious highway expansion project. Given it’s length, it would make sense that there might well be multiple access points along the way. Thankfully, some of those were far enough in the boonies that the bust factor was tolerably low, and allowed more than enough time for the required sweepin’ and cleanin’.

 

 

 

 

What I wasn’t expecting was the variety of terrain that I’d encounter at the various ingress points. This ditch contains some sections that are big, fast, and steep, with very little flatbottom, while other sections were much smaller and mellower with heaps of flat bottom. All of them were connected to each other by strangely-engineered drop offs, spillways, and culverts. This really isn’t “a ditch”, per se. This is much more like several entirely unrelated ditches that all happen to be strung together from end to end.

 

 

Stop Number Fifteen

This one took a little bit of creativity to skate. The hardest part was gaining access; after all, you cannot skate what you cannot get to. Once inside, however, the next immediate challenge was dealing with that coarsely brushed finish. Once again, this is probably an attempt at “skate-proofing” these giant-sized ditches… and once again, my Abec 11 Jellyrolls made the misguided and ill-intentioned effort at skate-proofing a moot point. I can roll over anything and everything, and thus, I shall roll over anything and everything.

That’s my new mantra, and dammit, I’m stickin’ to it.

 

 

?>

I’ll be 44 years old in July. I have long since retired from my heydays in the skateboard industry. My last “Summer Tour” happened all the way back in 2008. If you read the encyclopedia-long article in Concrete Wave Magazine about my trials and tribulations, then this will probably sound pretty familiar to you. But, most of you probably haven’t. No worries; just keep on reading, and I’ll fill you in. It’s quite the story. Hopefully, you won’t be too terribly disappointed.

 

 

It’s now April of 2016… a solid eight years later. Almost a full decade. And here I sit, in my office, planning yet another insanely ambitious, solitary skateboard tour. I guess I’m not “retiring” just yet, now am I…? And I’m sitting here at my keyboard, hoping and praying that the ‘ol knees can stand up to the strain of another summer of torture. I am, after all, 44 years old. A guy my age should really consider staying retired. If only for the sake of my nonexistent sanity, and my questionable health.

 

 

Back in 2008, my very lengthy (and very exhausting) “Summer Tour 2008” around the central United States included the states of Indiana, Kentucky, Tennessee, Illinois, Michigan, Ohio, and a few bits of Wisconsin. The goals of the tour, at the time, were as follows:

– To write (and photograph) a feature article for Concrete Wave Magazine (obviously),

– To document the skateparks that I visited, both in writing and in photos, for Jeff Greenwood over at Concrete Disciples (so that they could keep their skatepark database up-to-date),

– To do some in-the-field market research for a few of my consulting clients,

– To “mystery shop” skate shops across the midwest… including both Zumiez, and independent, brick-and-mortar skate shops,

– To talk to independent skate shop owners about their day to day struggles, on behalf of my clients. And to give them constructive feedback, based on my mystery-shopping them,

– To promote the brands that “sponsored” the tour, to the kids that I met along the way… and lastly,

– To get the “average skater on the street’s perspective” of where skateboarding (and the skateboard industry) were at the time.

 

 

The really remarkable thing about that tour, is that it looked nothing at all like most skateboard-industry-sponsored summer tours. First of all, I went completely solo on my tour; there was nobody else out there on the road with me. There were no pro skaters, no sponsored ams, no filmers, no photographers, and no pro-hos. It was just me, my Econobubble of a car, my road map, a few cold Cokes, my skateboards, my camera, my portable tape recorder, and a shit-ton of product to give away to kids, if and when I came across them. Stickers, mostly. But, I did give away a dozen or so completes on tour as well, along with quite a few decks and wheels. Which was all very cool of my sponsors to provide. And of course, I left a small army of happy kids in my wake. That was pretty cool.

 

 

I also went to places that no industry-sponsored skate tour would ever consider going to. I spent so much time out in the distant boonies of skateboarding, it was literally insane. I skated parks in the middle of lifeless cornfields in central Illinois, miles away from civilization. I skated things in Ohio and Indiana that barely qualify as “skateparks” at all. I stopped at, and skated, more shitty skateparks on that tour then I had ever seen in my entire life. And I had this crazy, self-imposed rule that said that I had to skate every single skatepark that I visited. Even if it was almost entirely un-skateable.

 

 

But then, there were also the really epic ones as well that deserve a nod. Grinding real pool coping in Paducah, Kentucky at 7 am was a special treat. Carving tight lines at the South Bend skatepark immediately comes to mind as a particularly precious time that I’ll probably never forget. I remember taking a run on Lew’s mini ramp, and having Weston Vickers say to me, “Man, you just spoke”. This is why skateboarders tour: to skate new and memorable stuff. In that regard, I’m just like anybody else.

 

 

I also did stuff that, for the most part, very few (if any) skateboarders would ever consider doing. I slept beside grain silos and railroad tracks. I spent a week in Amish Country in northeastern Indiana, learning about their peculiar (but admirable) lifestyle. I attended a bluegrass festival in western Kentucky. I slyly used my Concrete Wave press credentials to get pit passes at a vintage drag racing event in Brownsburg, Indiana; God, my ears are still ringing from that one. My car was nearly blown away in a tornado. I explored an air museum at length that was situated on a federal Superfund cleanup site; I was only advised of this, of course, after I had already paid my admission. The airplanes contained therein were the ghosts of relics that seemed to have been completely forgotten by time. I got stranded in a flood in Terre Haute. I was honored to sit in the pilot seat of a B-17 Flying Fortress and an F-4J Phantom II. My trip took me through miles of America’s agricultural heartland, and hundreds of small farm towns, doing things, enjoying experiences, and making memories that very few other skaters will ever live.

 

 

Mostly, what I remember are the people. Both the skaters, and the non-skaters. If and when you ever explore the world alone, you quickly find that you’re never really lonely. There’s always somebody, somewhere, ready and willing to give you a little wisdom, a couple laughs, some solid directions, or a helping hand. I came through it remarkably well. I remember it quite fondly, actually.

 

 

That tour ended up becoming the fabric of my summer. And that fabric, in turn, became a lot of the “me” that I am, today. That tour shaped a lot of my world view surrounding skateboarding. I learned that there’s a lot of stuff out there to explore, just waiting on you to get up, get moving, and to trip on it at the most serindipitous of times. And although I’d seen about six states in total… including at least a hundred shops, and probably two hundred skateparks in the short span of about eight months… it was still just the tip of the iceberg.

 

 

This year will be almost exactly the same. Same purpose, same itinerary, same goals. But, with two major exceptions:

First: I live in Arizona now. Not, Indiana. So, this year’s tour will be a southwest tour, not a midwest tour.

 

 

Secondly: while I spent the majority of my midwest tour sleeping (very uncomfortably, in retrospect) in The Econobubble… eight years later, I’m happy to report that I have a very handy, and very cozy micro-camper that I can tote around with me on my adventures. I’m pretty excited about that one, actually. Grain silos, railroad tracks, and tiny cars don’t exactly make great beds.

Having a plush, queen-size (and very, very comfortable) Sealy Posturepedic readily available everywhere you go (no matter where you might end up going) would make you pretty damn chipper, too, if you were as old and broken as I am.

 

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I’m not too sure if there’s ever been a skateboard tour that has featured, of all the crazy things in the world, a homebuilt micro-camper. But this one will…!

If you’re not familiar yet with my micro-camper , I’ll give you a brief synopsis to get you caught up to speed:

I designed, and built, my little camper about two years ago now. It’s built on a Harbor Freight utility trailer, and is made of wood… much like a skateboard ramp would be. It weighs about 700 lbs (or so), features a queen-size mattress (with a memory-foam pillow top), and tows easily behind my little Toyota Yaris. The same Yaris, by the way, that I took out on my 2008 Tour. Back then, the Yaris was brand spankin’ new. Today, it has a compiled a lovingly reliable 187,000 miles. I just realized that, by the way, as I was writing this paragraph. My, how the time flies.

 

 

The camper has been through a few revisions, and has had some press over at Tiny House Listings; Google “Bud Stratford camper” to find the articles, and they’ll pop right up, three articles in total.

Since I built it, the camper’s probably racked up well over 30,000 miles, and has been all over the western United States. You could probably build one for about $2500 or so; of course, I have a bit more than that invested in mine, with all the various revisions and rebuilds over the last three (or so) years. But even then, I’d be shocked if I had more than $3500 invested in the whole project.

Given that the Yaris still gets about 25 mpg while towing the camper, this is probably the most fun, functional, relaxing, and enjoyable way to experience the vast, wide-open wilds of America, on a threadbare budget. Whatever “vast, wide-open wilds” that remain, at least. And trust me, there aren’t that many left.

I know, because I’ve been looking.

 

 

The camper was originally designed and built with long-distance snowboard expeditions in mind. Like, to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan for my annual pilgramages to Mt. Bohemia. It didn’t dawn on me until quite some time later that this thing might actually work pretty well for spring, summer, and fall camping, too. I can be a really short-sighted idiot like that, sometimes.

At first, I was a little disinclined to agree to, and follow through with, yet another overly-ambitious summer tour. I really didn’t think that I had it in me, and in any rate I suspected that the ‘ol knees would immediately protest and/or veto the whole shenanigans.

But once I remembered the fun-times potential that the camper provides, then I was all about it. How much better could it really get, than to combine three of my favorite lifelong loves… skateboarding, road tripping, and camping… into one big, epic adventure…? 

 

 

I turned it over in my head a few times, and quickly realized that it cannot possibly ever get any better than that. The Tour was a total go, and I was excited to get my ass going.

 

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Sometimes, things don’t exactly go your way. Sometimes, things go far better than you could have ever hoped for. Or even, dreamed of. This was one of those rare weekend diversions that memories are made of. This is the sort of weekend that explains why I spend so much time out on the open road, traveling to weird, strange, obscure, and little-known places to go skateboarding. You just never know what you’re gonna find out there, patiently waiting to be discovered. There are surprises, quite literally, right around every single corner of this great country of ours. My mission in life is to be pleasantly surprised at every turn. This weekend, I was not let down.   

I was not really expecting this weekend to be all that great. Being a salary employee at a trucking company means lots of deviations, distractions, and unscheduled working days. Saturday was one of those days that I found myself unwittingly working way too late, and far too hard. Not that I mind too much… my job, after all, is usually pretty damn entertaining and enjoyable… but, it did wreak a bit of havoc with my travel plans for the weekend. Which it regularly does.

I was also pretty tuckered out. I’d been skating, touring, writing, photographing, and yakking a lot over the past month. I did need a bit of a break to rejuvenate and recharge. I decided that a quick trek over to Buckeye was just what the doctor ordered.

 

The Buckeye Air Fair; a local, small-scale, free-to-see air show. Thought I wouldn’t? Real nerds (like me) never pass up a chance to geek out over classic airplanes. February, 2017. Illustration by the author. Views of Estrella Mountain from across a typical Buckeye cottonfield (upper center), and from the peak of a nameless mountain at Buckeye Regional park (lower right).

 

Buckeye does not have a particularly good skatepark. I knew that already. I’ve seen it before; it’s not all that impressive. The skatepark consists of a bunch of cookie-cutter steel prefab ramps on a concrete slab. Not that big of a deal at all, and definitely nothing to get all that excited about.

But, Buckeye does have a pretty amazing camping attraction over at Buckeye Regional Park, a free-to-use facility with minimal policing and extremely sparse facilities. It’s basically boondocking, but with official permission. As a result of the overly sparse facilities, only a very few (extremely hardy) camper-customers ever utilize the campground. But the place is really quite a spot, if you have an adventurous spirit that is inclined to give the place half a chance. The bonuses include beautiful, wide-open skies; lots of bright stars (far away from the city lights); ample mountain-climbing opportunities; and fantastic, panoramic views of the valley from the tops of the many knolls that pepper the place. It’s a fairly well-kept pseudo-secret, one that I profit from quite regularly. And it would allow me some downtime this weekend to play the “typical tourist”, to boot. A role I enjoy playing, and playing well, from time to time between solitary skateboarding expeditions.

 

 

Buckeye is a former farming community that has undergone a bit of a modern movement to become one of Phoenix’s burgeoning “bedroom communities”. Fields that once produced cotton, citrus, flowers, and alfalfa now sprout Middle-Class McMansions at an alarming rate. Many of these middling communities are queued up on either side of the I-10, a few miles north of midtown. But Buckeye Proper still retains the old-school, main-street feel of many familiar farming towns. It actually reminded me quite a bit of rural Indiana. But in a much more arid, highly irrigated desert environment.

 

Clockwise from upper left: The Buckeye History Museum; vintage tools of the photography trade; Buckeye Union High School, on the National Register of Historic Places; Hokoham pottery display at the museum; historic downtown Buckeye, circa the mid-1930’s; more vintage artifacts.

 

The Buckeye History Museum was really fun. Small, but super friendly and informative. The lady manning the front counter was gabby as hell. She was probably just really lonely; it seemed like maybe this museum didn’t see too many visitors. Although it was centrally located on the “main drag”… i.e., Maricopa County Route 85… the reality is that the real “main drag” was the whizzing interstate to the far north of town. Buckeye, in the grand scheme of things, is a tiny, inconvenient diversion that most travelers would probably go well out of their way to avoid in their mad rush to get to Phoenix or Los Angeles. But the tale of the valley’s native Indian and transitory migrant past, and the stories of turn-of-the-century cotton farming (and the hardships and opportunities that came along with increasingly irrigated and industrialized agriculture) were extremely fascinating. The museum was really well-done, for being such a small little facility. I was glad that I took the time to stop in and check it out.

 

 

Clockwise from upper right: Staring at his own shadow; Buckeye Skatepark; downtown Buckeye, circa 1930’s; another view of Buckeye Skatepark. Note the bright reflections from the scorching sun. It gets hot out here. Damn hot…!

 

The skatepark, on the other hand, was actually far worse than it looked from afar. There were lots of obstacles between the obstacles. Not like, “Oh, look, a fun-to-skate obstacle!” More like, “Holy shit, I could seriously impale myself on that damn thing” sorts of “obstacles”. And then, there were those skatewheel-sized expansion joints in the concrete slab that I only survived by bringing 92a, 60mm Bullets with me for my outing; anything harder or smaller, and death would have laughed his pansy-pants ass off at my extreme expense. The park was really hard to skate, to put it generously. But, y’know… it’s all part of the job. I took a few runs to say that I skated it, did a couple carves and grinds, and somehow lived to tell y’all about it. I consider that a high achievement worth being pretty proud of.

 

Clockwise from upper left: A super rough ditch find out in the open desert (it takes a determined soul with big, soft wheels to skate it); The historic Gillespie Dam Bridge on old US Route 80; abandoned cabins on Old US 80; steel artwork; the remnants of the broken Gillespie Dam; Gillespie Dam postcard before the breach, photo from bwcdd.com; window to the world; a combine hard at work in the arid agricultural valley along US 80. Yes, I’m a total history geek. Sue me.

 

In between checking out the air show, poking around the history museum, and scoping out some rough-as-hell skate spots, I decided to take an impromptu trip down Old US 80, one of the more storied (but lesser known) of the decommissioned US highways. Route 66 tends to get all the glory, while all the others (like US 80) are rapidly fading into a forgotten obscurity; the contributions they made toward building our great country are steadily being lost to the blowing sands of time and indifference. Wholesale abandonment exists out there, far off the beaten path, which is a treasure trove of investigation opportunities for the enthusiastic urban explorer in me.   

 

Clockwise from left: Camper and scenery illustration by the author; the sun sets over the western desert mountains; my campsite at Buckeye Regional Park; the panoramic view from the knoll behind my campsite.

 

Not only do I camp out at Buckeye Regional on a fairly regular basis, I’m also a bit of a caretaker when I’m there. By necessity, not necessarily by choice. Fact is, Buckeye Regional isn’t really “maintained” in the same manner as White Tank, Estrella, Lost Dutchman, or any of the other area regional parks are. The grills are almost never used, so they’re prone to cultivating a severe case of rust. And the “landscaping” is completely ignored by whoever’s tasked to take care of such things. My campsite for the evening was the same as they always are at Buckeye Regional: in dire need of a little bit of TLC. So, again, I spent my evening burning the dead branches of a Palo Verde tree (they’re great at keeping the flies at bay), and sanding, priming, painting, and seasoning the on-site grill before I made my dinner.

“My Dinner”, by the way, was f’n delicious. You should be openly jealous of my suave cooking skills. It included sweetly seasoned burgers with sharp swiss and cheddar cheeses, topped with my garlic and brown sugar BBQ marinade; spiral-cut sweet potatoes sprinkled and baked with butter, paprika, and parmesan cheese (among with a few other secret spices); potato, macaroni, corn, and arugula salads; and a few tasty desserts brought by my friend Brooke, who graciously joined me for the sights and sounds of a brilliant evening out on the high desert. The cedar-and-pine campfire smelled sweet, the ghost stories were spectacularly spooky, and the stars were burning bold and bright. Camping and skateboarding, as it turns out, complement each other really well.

 

Left to right: Air Tractor crop duster at Pierce Airport, on the far outskirts of town; cabin and gas station abandonments along Maricopa County (MC) Route 85; Hobo Joe, a Buckeye institution, now in storage undergoing restoration (photo from Wikipedia commons); gas pump illustration by the author.

 

The next morning, I woke up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to rock and resume my ambitious tourist-itinerary, which included exploring various airfields and abandonments in and around Buckeye that I had spotted in my travels the day before when… completely out of the blue wild yonder… I spotted one of those every-skater’s-dream-scenarios: a brand-new, perfectly smooth (and clean) drainage ditch complex under construction. Along with an isolated, unmanned, and totally unsecured construction site, complete with an easy-access ingress road, and all kinds of convenient parking. No security, no hassles, no worries, and not a single problem. Just a bunch of frolicking fun under the bright, relentless midday sun.

 

A few views of my incredibly fortunate find, somewhere in the open desert wastelands near Buckeye, Arizona. Get your ass out there, and go find it for yourself. Gas station trailer billboard illustration by the author.

 

The ditch was long, tall, and super smooth. It must have been an easy 6’ deep, maybe even a shade deeper. It featured… of all the good and fortunate things… slight, yet smooth transitions between the flatbottom and the walls. It had the typical “brushed” concrete finish, but it wasn’t so rough that it posed any sort of super-outlandish injury threats. Quite the opposite: if you didn’t know any better, you’d think that this ditch might have been purpose-built for skateboarding. And the best part was, it wasn’t even finished yet. There were still a couple hundred yards left to be poured. You could tell just by looking at it that it was gonna be epic when it was done. Hell, it was pretty damned epic already.

Boy, was that ever the find of the year. Quite possibly, the find of a lifetime. And all because I went to document a crappy skatepark, and do a little bit of impromptu camping out in the middle of nowhere. Who would’ve thought that I’d stumble across my own little slice of skateboarding heaven in the process…?

 

The finished product. The dream is real. And it’s out there, just waiting to be discovered (and skated). I still have no idea what Plaid Stamps are. Studebaker illustration by the author. 

 

Kids everywhere, listen up: Dreams do come true. The adventures are out there. They’re just waiting on somebody… anybody… to get up, get out, initiate the search, and discover them for themselves.

The only missing variable in this equation, is you.

 

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Every time I head out on an ambitious, regional tour, I always end up learning a lot about skateboarding. You’d think that having been a skateboarder for, oh, maybe 35 years or so now, I might be in a position where I “know everything” about it already. But just like everything else in life, skateboarding constantly changes and evolves. To the point that it becomes a markedly different pastime, recreation, culture, and business every eight years or so. Considering that it’s been about eight years since my last ambitious tour, I’d say that’s pretty accurate. Already, I’m seeing a few things that are a little “questionable”, at the very best. And frankly disconcerting, at the very worst. I’d like to address a few of those concerns directly, with their own essay. So as to not “bring down” the rest of my generally-fun tour coverage.

Let’s begin here: Skateboarding is in an economic slump. There’s definitely a consensus that things are a bit off track. But the question is, why…?

Well, of course, there are external forces that unfortunately lie well beyond our control. The economy, politics, et cetera. So, I’m not going to spend any time on those things. Because, they are entirely outside of our control. Instead, I want to focus on things that are well within our control.

 

 

I saw Away Days today for the first time. The Adidas video. That’s significant. I had the pleasure of watching it at Cowtown (a great shop in Goodyear, AZ) with Brian, one of the assistant managers over there. About halfway through, he asked me what I thought of it?

“I don’t like it much, to be honest”, I said.

“Why not?”, he asked.

“I can’t relate to it at all. And something’s missing”.

 

 

Well of course, the first thing that was missing was a Mark Gonzales part. Which is why I was watching it in the first place: to see a Mark Gonzales part. A part that I never saw, because it’s not in the video. There’s random footage of Mark here and there, doing the typical Mark stuff (namely, being funny and doing creative stuff), and he sort of narrates big chunks of the video. But, he has no part. Which is basically criminal, as far as I’m concerned. Because it’s the one thing that I really wanted to see.

“Why doesn’t Mark have a part, Brian? Have you heard…?”

“I heard it was because he didn’t feel like he could keep up with the new generation of guys, and didn’t feel good enough to have a part.”

Hmm, how odd. Mark Gonzales. Not being “good enough” to have a video part. Never thought I’d hear the day that would ever happen. But, y’know, times change I guess. And not always for the better.

I’ve been saying this for years: there is entirely too much pressure on kids these days to be “good at” skateboarding. Waaaaaaayyyy too much pressure. Absolutely too much pressure. And that’s bad. Very, very bad. Because it sucks the “fun” right out of skateboarding. And we’re supposed to be doing this for “fun”, right…? But, it’s not fun anymore. It’s work, it’s effort. There are Joneses to keep up with, tricks to master, footage to grab, names to be made, sponsors to garner and impress. Mark may not be “The Best” skater anymore, but I’ll tell you this: he should have had a part. Because it would have been fun as hell to watch. Because Mark is always fun to watch. It’s what makes Mark, Mark. The fact that somebody… anybody… perceives that Mark is not “good enough to have a part anymore” says an awful lot of bad stuff about skateboarding right now. And it is a damn shame.

 

 

That’s the only reason I’ve stuck with skating for 35 years now. Because I never gave a damn about being “good at it”. I didn’t do it to “be good at it”. I did it to get my kicks, and to have a good time. And I still do. But if you compare and contrast me with 99.999% of all skateboarders today, you’ll find that I’m the exception… not the rule. And that’s exactly the problem. I should be the norm. Not, the exception.

Scootering is easier. That’s unfortunate. I was at Kids That Rip last weekend, talking to Tiffany in the pro shop. I was surprised to find that they rent skateboards and scooters there for kids to try out in the park. This is a pretty neat idea, I thought. This should surely cultivate new skateboarders, right…? Let them try it before they buy it? And this is why I go on tour alone: to talk to people about these things, these neat and novel new ideas that shops and parks sometimes come up with, in depth.

 

 

One of the questions I asked Tiffany is which one gets rented more often: scooters, or skateboards?

“Unfortunately, it’s scooters.” You could almost hear the pain in her voice, having to admit that. Clearly, she’s rooting for skateboarding. But the kids want what they want. And at KTR, more often than not, it’s scooters that they want.

“Why…?”

“Because, they’re easier to ride. Kids like them more. There’s less pressure.”

Ahhh. Theory, confirmed. Sadly. But, it’s the truth.

In making these huge, impressive, high-budget videos (like Away Days) that focus so hard on the newest, hottest, up-and-coming skaters doing the hardest, most technically innovative (read: impossible) tricks… we, as an industry, are actually contributing very significantly to our own demise. Most kids will never, ever do a fraction of the tricks that the Away Days guys are doing. It is causing a severe disconnect between the average customer, and the industry that is supposed to be serving them. We are not serving them well at all. We are actually contributing to a mighty huge disservice. And doing so, I might add, quite consciously.

When’s the last time you saw a scootering version of Away Days…? Ever…? No…? Well, neither have I. I think the scooter manufacturers might be a lot smarter than we give them credit for. They’re not out there making scootering look f’n impossible to do. Maybe we should take a hint from that, huh…?

When I go on tour, I do not promote “good skateboarding” at all. I can’t promote “good skateboarding”, because frankly speaking, I totally suck ass at skating. And the older I get, the worse I skate. Life sucks pretty hard right now. But…! I still love skating. And I still enjoy it immensely. And I still have fun with it, even while I’m sucking at it. And, I still do it! And kids connect with that, oddly enough. Because I give them stuff that most of “The Industry” either can’t, or won’t. Namely: hope. A very different interpretation of what skateboarding is, and what it’s all about (again: “fun”). And, encouragement.

 

 

It’s a bit like The Ramones. I’m sort of like the sucky skating version of them. The Ramones couldn’t play music. They made great noise, though. And they were fun. They were doing something very new, and very different, that captured the imagination and made the dullness of life seem really exciting.

I suppose that when I roll up to a park… give everybody stickers, high fives, and smiles… and shoot photos, kids probably do say to themselves, “Wow. This guy is fat and old! He can barely skate! Yet, look at him! He has a camera, he writes stuff, and he works for a (kind of) major skateboard magazine…! He is living the life… and look at him! He is a total idiot, a complete loser…! Holy crap… I could do that, too…! Right…?!” And, of course, the answer is always “yes”. Yes, you surely can do whatever it is that I’m doing. You, the average kid, could probably do everything that I do, and probably a lot better than even I can. Because I am the old, fat loser that doesn’t skate good. And it gives them hope. Because they don’t have to be Jamie Thomas or Geoff Rowley to “make it” in life. They can be me. They can be punks. They can be The Ramones. They can have a voice. And they can make a difference.

Lastly, there’s one more gripe that I want to address. This one’s important, too. And it’s another place where the industry could make a real difference. Every skatepark that I visit… whether they are public or private, it never seems to matter… is ridiculously humongous. Not in terms of sheer acreage… although they’re happily huge in that regard, too… but in terms of, vertically challenging.

 

 

I went to Litchfield today… “Goodyear Community Skatepark” officially, but commonly referred to as “Litchfield Park”… and Ohmygawd, it was f’n scary. Like, “I didn’t even want to skate it” kind of scary. It looked like the ultimate bone-breaker… and the last thing I want in this crazy Obamacare world of high premiums and high deductibles is a broken bone at 44 years old. I really don’t want to die, or go bankrupt, skateboarding. I just want to scooter around and have some fearless fun with it. But that ain’t gonna happen at Litchfield, nuh-uh. No way in hell.

The best parks I’ve seen yet, in terms of being kid-and-old-fat-guy-friendly, were both private: Kids That Rip in Chandler, and 91 West over in Peoria. Simply because, I could skate them. And have fun doing so. With confidence, even. Because they both had smaller mini-ramps… like, in the 2′-3′ range… that I could goof off on, and have fun learning new tricks on, without the fear of killing myself in the process. So, I skated them both for hours. And hours and hours and hours. But I barely even took a run at Litchfield. I did my one backside grind “just to say that I skated it”, and bugged out. I skated a brand-new ditch out in the boonies instead. That was a whole lotta fun. Litchfield wasn’t.

If we want to get little kids interested in skating… and much more importantly, keep little kids interested in skating… we need to get well away from the mega-sized terrain featured in the Away Days of the world, or constructed in the Litchfield Public Parks of the planet, and give newbies, little kids, old guys… girls, even?… terrain that they can functionally and fearlessly skate. Terrain that is “not particularly challenging” would actually be kind of refreshing right now. Because for the most part, it does not really exist. There is no real middle ground between the curb in front of your house, which is probably the easiest thing in the world to skate… and the mega-ramp-sized concrete park across town, which is more than likely the hardest thing in the world to skate. At least, it is if you happen to live in Goodyear, Arizona. It’s also true if you live almost anywhere in Arizona. I suspect this may be true elsewhere, too.

You can always make “less than challenging terrain” a hell of a lot harder, by learning harder tricks on it. That’s fun. It’s pretty hard to make Litchfield Park “less huge”. That’s the difference. Mark my words on this: Micro-to-mid-sized, easy-to-skate terrain is going to be the hot new direction in skateboarding. If you build it, you will empower and engage millions of new, enthusiastic, life-long skateboarders. Take note, industry, and make that happen…!

 

 

There are many more points to be made here, of course. Contests are out (because they’re not fun); jams and other “community events” are in. There aren’t enough “everybody, everyday” skateboarding events. There’s a lack of cohesive community everywhere. Industry is typically disengaged from the consumer experience; I’ll invite any industry head to come out with me for a weekend and see the world through my eyes… and trust me on this, you’ll be glad you did, because I’m f’n good times. But I think that engaging kids on their own terms… within their own limitations, goals, and desires… and on skate terrain that they can realistically skate, and skate well, would be a damn good beginning.

But how long do I have to wait until the industry realizes the wisdom, and responds…? Can it be sooner than later this time, guys? Please…?

 

 

 

 

The Editor Speaks: Skateboarding, We Have A Problem

This piece was originally published online at Concrete wave Magazine on October 9th, 2016. Thanks for everything, Michael. -B.

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There’s far more to life than skateboarding. That statement probably won’t make me particularly popular among my fellow skateboarders, of course. But being a bit of a punker still, even well into my middle forties, I’m blessed by the curse of not giving too much of a shit about such trivialities. Life is far too short to allow yourself to be pigeonholed or packaged into an inhibiting personal prison. My job, as I see it, is to see, experience, dream, and grow. If that doesn’t suit your pet political penchants, well, so be it.

I have also been advised by a few of my mentors and confidantes that kids just can’t be bothered to read too much anymore. That’s too bad. If that’s true, then you’re probably gonna miss out on guys like Jules Verne, Jack London, Jack Kerouac, and Kurt Vonnegut. Not that they were “great” writers or anything, but still…

Thankfully, I did take some heed of this awful advice, and decided early on in the planning of this installment to tell my story much more in photographs, and a bit less in words. Some trips can’t be believably articulated, anyway; some things just have to be seen to be trusted. I had a hunch that this Quartzsite expedition might just be one of those extraordinarily eventful excursions. Turns out, I was right. And thankfully so.

My road map for this trip was guided by a neat and novel new website that I had stumbled upon, quite by accident, called Roadside America (www.roadsideamerica.com). Inside that web world, you’ll find a full and complete cataloging of every obscure American oddity that the average would-be road adventurer might find fun and fascinating. As it turns out, Roadside America is pretty spot-on, and a great resource for the geekery that defines me.

 

Clockwise from top left: McDonnell Douglas NRF-4C Phantoms at Freedom Park; the bronzed waste of time and money; the Quartzsite Skatepark. Quartzsite, Arizona.

 

My very first stop in Quartzsite was at a public garden called Freedom Park, where I found two aging examples of one of my all-time favorite airplanes, the McDonnell Douglas F-4 Phantom II. Or in this case, more specifically, NRF-4C Phantoms. These particular planes served with overseas tactical reconnaissance squadrons before landing at the AFFTC (Air Force Flight Test Center) at Edwards Air Force Base, where they were used to for on going flight test support; the “ED” tail codes and 6510 Test Wing emblems on the fuselages gave their whole story away to the discriminating dork in me. Whatever else I wanted to find out about these Phabulous Phantoms… which was pretty much, “everything”… I could hastily and efficiently retrieve by simply Googling their serial numbers, a fun little trick that I’ve been employing pretty regularly these days. The ‘Net, after all, is an absolutely amazing resource for certifiable nerds like me. Everything is there, just waiting to be discovered.

 

“Prefab plastic swill. If you do make a pit stop here, just take a funny pic with the goofy skate statue in front of the park and leave. More fun to be had at the various junk shops and flea market booths around.”

– Concrete Disciples review of the Quartzsite Skatepark

 

I was advised well beforehand that the Quartzsite skatepark was going to suck. It really lived up to my lowly expectations. It seems like they might have spent more on the bronze statue dedication to the skatepark, than they might have spent on the skatepark itself. And look at that skateboard; it looks more like a small snowboard mounted up with clay wheels and Chicago trucks, than an actual skateboard. The fact that the kid is tethered to the pedestal is freakishly ominous; this Skatewave skate-place does seem like a jail of sorts, where kids are sentenced to suckiness for the rest of their lives until they either quit skateboarding, or move to The Big City… whichever comes first. I did manage to get my must-do trick here though, the obligatory frontside rock; when you’ve skated as many sucky Skatewave parks as I have in the last ten years (or so), you do start getting used to them. It still wasn’t particularly easy to pull off, though. The only thing worse than the crappy obstacles is the overall setup of the place; here, the skate obstacles themselves become ironic obstacles to enjoyable skateboarding.

 

 

Left and right: Celia’s Rainbow Garden, Quartzsite, Arizona.

 

Celia’s Rainbow Garden was right around the corner from the skatepark. It’s a botanical monument to a local girl that died (at 8 years old) of a rare viral heart infection. The story is heart-wrenching, of course; only a true megalomaniac could avoid being somehow affected by such a tale. But the garden is a study in strikingly solemn beauty, a truly creative and collaborative community effort. It is currently the largest (if not the only) free botanical garden in the state, and it provided me ample opportunities to shoot colorfully saturated photos of extraordinary objects from strange and unusual perspectives.

Roadside America had enlightened me to the existence of Naked Paul at Reader’s Oasis Books on Main Street in Quartzsite. Naked Paul is the owner of the place, and apparently mans his humble bookshop sans clothing. This, I just had to see for myself; I can bring myself to believe a whole lotta horsecrap, but this was just too over the top for my temperamental tastes. Turns out, the tales are totally true… Naked Paul has pictures all over the place of himself being naked, typically with a tourist within an arm’s embrace… but unfortunately, they’re also totally seasonal, and not particularly applicable to the frigid frost of the desert winter. I did manage to shoot a few photos off their offbeat literary offerings, and I made a small donation to Celia’s Garden while I was there with the little bit of cash I was carrying. It was the very least I could do, I thought.

 

 

Left: Hassler’s RV Park, Quartzsite, Arizona. Right: steel sculpture at Hassler’s RV Park, illustration by the author.

 

Yes, “RV Park Sculptures” are a very real thing in this topsy-turvy world of roadside bemusements. Hassler’s RV Park is a cornucopia of steel structures of the clever and funny variety. Bicycles, bobcats, whales, and bears were all forged from horseshoes and castaway rebar, among other steel tidbits; ah, the clever things we can craft from castaways. After Celia’s Rainbow Garden, I kind of needed a chuckle. Hassler’s didn’t disappoint.

 

 

Left: Reader’s Oasis Books; sorry, no Naked Paul today. Center: Hi Jolly Monument. Right: wheel rim camel sculpture, illustration by the author.

 

Hadji Ali… popularly and affectionately known as “Hi Jolly”… was a Syrian camel driver that was recruited by the United States Army to lead an obscure (and ill-advised) 1856 experiment involving testing camels as pack animals in the arid desert southwest. An American legend… at least, in this far corner of the country… he is memorialized by a pyramid-shaped tomb near downtown Quartzsite. The camel experiment having roundly failed (as far as the U S Government was concerned, at least), the animals were released to the wild, with the last camel sighting occurring as late as 1942. Ironically, I visited this memorial on the very same day that Donald Trump was signing an executive order banning Syrian immigrants from our shores. Hi Jolly might well have been rolling over in his tomb, just as I was standing squarely upon it. The world works in really strange ways, sometimes.

 

 

Left and right: two views of the Tyson’s Well Stage Museum diorama, Quartzsite, Arizona.

 

Tyson’s Well Stage Station Museum is a former stagecoach stop that currently houses mining artifacts, homesteading displays… and this really strange, display-case-sized diorama of a “typical” 1950s bar scene, complete with miniature bottles of booze, a pint-size cigarette vending machine, and a whole host of creepily entertaining characters socializing on and around the barstools. It seemed extraordinarily out of place in a museum setting. At the same time, it was probably one of the most entertaining exhibits I’ve ever seen.

 

 

Relics rusting away in the desert at the Quartzsite Airport, Quartzsite, Arizona.

 

Next on my visit-list was The World’sLargest Belt Buckle (it really is pretty big), the “Wheel Rim Camel” (a camel sculpture made out of… yes, you guessed it… wheel rims)… and then, we stopped at the Quartzsite Airport. Which, like most things in Quaztzsite, is not entirely what it was advertised to be. Thinking that it’s a functioning facility with flyable hardware, we actually discovered a strange and decrepit boneyard of archival aircraft components, and a field full of reasonably well-preserved vintage Cadillacs, patiently awaiting some sort of vague and uncertain fate. We liked the area so much that we made it our evening’s campsite, where we got to watch a fireworks display erupting over our camper while we listened to the succulent sounds of a ragtime Christian revival emanating from a nearby yurt. Quartzsite was certainly full of strange surprises. We learned that much the fun way on Saturday.

 

 

The less-abandoned Blythe Airport, where clandestine military maneuverings still happen to this very day. Blythe, California.

 

The Southwest is still largely defined by World War II, and the immediate aftermath of the immense war effort. Relics of the mighty military effort still liberally litter the desertscape, close to seventy years after the fact. Blythe, California, hosts not just one, but two abandoned WWII airfields… although this one was “abandoned” only in the semantic sense. In reality, I found a horde of anonymously-dressed “civilians” and blacked-out SUVs cavorting here, along with some impressively foreign military hardware that seemed strictly engaged in some sort of super-secretive maneuvers. I swore my secrecy of the finer details (and the resultant classified photos) in exchange for some suave intelligence on a far more accessible abandoned airfield just across town. Secure in some British officers’ enthusiastic permissiveness, I thus made my way to what would become the score of the day.

 

 

Clockwise from upper left: abandoned barracks at Gary Field; the old control tower; panoramic view of the abandonment from the top of the control tower; the remains of the last standing hangar at Gary Field. Blythe, California.

 

Blythe Field was subsequently known in it’s WWII heydays as Gary Field. It was the home base for the Morton Air Academy, a contract aviation school that churned out trained flying cadets for the United States Army Air Forces. Today, it remains (barely) standing as an atlas obscurity known as W. R. Byron Airport, named after its apparently absentee owner. Having recieved surprise permission to do a little bit of urban exploration, I carefully strolled the grounds, climbed the control tower… a heart-stopping exercize in immediate risk, that was… sifted through debris, and photographed the site to my heart’s never-ending content. Yes, it was extremely hazardous hunting… and yes, it was eerie and creepy as hell… but this sort of history simply cannot be experienced (or appreciated) secondhand. It takes getting upclose and personal with the ghosts of these places to truly understand, internalize, and empathize with the significance of the homefront war effort, and the mass dismantling and abandonment that followed.

An hour’s drive away in Poston, Arizona was a memorialized reminder of a far different sort of struggle on the WWII homefront. Namely, the struggle for Americans to retain their rights in a fearful and insecure world. After Pearl Harbor and the sweeping victories of the Emporors Empire all across the Pacific, of course, anti-Japanese sentiment ran amok; Americans (of Japanese descent) were roundly and arbitarily suspected of anti-American espionage and terrorism, rounded up, stripped of their worldly possessions and property, and trucked away to inhospitable desert internement camps… much against their free will, of course… for the balance of the war. Ironically, these camps were sited on the sovereign lands of another historically oppressed American minority, the reservations of the Colorado River Indian Tribes; turns out, the Indians weren’t exactly happy about this forced Jap invasion at the hands of the Presidents’ Executive Orders. Poston was the largest of these internment concentration camps, and this memorial represents their dignified struggles to retain their “constitutionally guaranteed” rights and liberties in the face of widespread public propaganda and misguided racial hatred. Not unlike the sort of politically directed disservice that we’re subjecting the Muslims to, today.\

 

 

Clockwise from left: Japanese internment camp memorial, Poston, Arizona; battle tank memorial to General George S. Patton, Bouse, Arizona; steel sculpture, Salome, Arizona.

 

Before George S. Patton became a celebrated national hero, he was the commanding officer of the sprawling Desert Training Center (DTC), later more widely known as the California-Arizona Maneuver Area (CAMA). A massive desert warfare simulation site of epic proportions, the DTC covered virtually all of Southern California and western Arizona (except for the aforementioned Japanese internment camps, which were probably located right in the middle of the battle zone to keep The Japs both figuratively, and literally, in their damned place); it ended up being the largest military training ground in the history of military maneuvers (according to Wikipedia). The CAMA eventually covered an area approximately 350 miles wide by 250 miles long, and included eleven camps, five major airfields, five minor airfields, and dozens of auxiliary [emergency] airfields. This Patton tank in Bouse, Arizona, is a way-off-the-beaten-path remembrance of Patton’s single-minded military mission; rumour has it that he even slept on the floor of the A & C Mercantile across the road when he flew into town.

 

Top and bottom: Wickenburg Skatepark, Wickenburg, Arizona.

 

The western-themed town of Wickenburg was my last stop of the weekend as I made my way back home. Far better than the skatepark of suckiness that I experienced in Quartzsite, this was a concrete mini-marvel of a skatepark, anchored by a midsized bowl that was almost perfect, if only it wasn’t filled to the brim with litter and leaves. Apparently it doesn’t get used all that much by the locals, and they obviously can’t be bothered with sweeping it out from time to time. But just like the rest of the stops on my weekend tour, it was still pleasantly entertaining in its own weird, eccentric sort of way.

I just got back two days ago. The camper is already restocked, and the gas tank is full again. I’ve got some money burning a hole in my pocket. I wonder where I’ll go from here.

 

 

 

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Yes! Dreams definitely do come true. I’m a believer. And you would be a believer, too, if you were standing in my shoes right about now. At this particular moment, my shoes happen to be standing on a slab of dusty, clay-crusted, wind-blown dirt out in the scorching desert badlands of Maricopa, Arizona. It’s hot, of course, as it usually is here. The sun is scalding my skin, and the sand that the brisk wind is kicking up is sticking to the sweat beads on my face, and running into my eyes. It’s extremely irritating, and wiping them dry with the sleeve of my dirty t-shirt doesn’t seem to be helping my vision very much.

This pity party might not seem all that impressive to you… but wait just a second, because it gets better. My toes are pointing directly into the depths of a massive ditch complex that’s about eight feet deep, and must easily measure at least a hundred feet long (if not more), with long, mellow walls, and a humongous hip off to my right. Better yet: there’s nobody around for miles to even notice that I’m standing here, let alone to kick me out of the raging fun times that I’m about to enjoy. Pinch me quick, buddy, because I must be dreaming this up. It absolutely, positively cannot get any better than this. I wipe my stinging eyes dry one last time, and roll straight in to the time of my life.

 

Heaven exists, kids. You just have to get out there, and find it for yourself. Ditch, Maricopa, Arizona.

 

The adventures are still out there on the horizon somewhere, just waiting to be discovered. The trick is to dedicate yourself to seeking them out, and living them as thoroughly as possible. It doesn’t take much, really; a reliable econobubble, a micro-camper, and a full tank of gas can get you remarkably far in life. “You’ll never know until you go”; that’s a truism that never fades, no matter how far our beloved technology pushes us forward. Unfortunately for us, the real outcome of our underwhelming technological progress these days is that we spend far more time sitting on our fat asses than ever, going nowhere at all, living vicariously through a handheld screen in a lowest-common-denominator, mass-manufactured “reality” that, ironically, is not at all real. It’s a two-dimensional existence of emptiness, a faux facade of life. My goal this summer, more than anything else, is to unplug from the virtual reality of our wireless world, and to go experience real-reality, as it was meant to be experienced.

 

Rawhide Western Town, Chandler, Arizona

 

As always, I decided to take the dirty and dusty road far less traveled in order to free myself from this modern technological prison that most of us are more than happy to chain ourselves to, and immerse ourselves in. Desert retirement oases like Maricopa, and sprawling agricultural tracts like Casa Grande probably don’t show up on the radar of too many touring skateboarders, which is precisely why I picked them as my next targets of opportunity; there was a pretty solid chance that I’d be skating something along the way that very few skaters, if any, had ever seen before. Let alone, skated. The allure of virgin concrete is what ultimately led me down this long and lonely desert byway, just a couple hours south of Phoenix’s suburban hell. As always, my good friends at Concrete Disciples led me toward the skateparks, while Free Campsites and Roadside America were instrumental in filling in the gaps with interesting suggestions for extremely adventurous, non-skating diversions along the way. My imaginitive whimsy guided the steering wheel all along my itinerary, as it usually does. No matter how pre-planned the adventures are, there’s always plenty of room for deviation and discovery along the way.

 

Left: Mystery Castle. Right: Moffles Auto Parts Man. Both: Phoenix, Arizona

 

Copper Sky Skatepark in Maricopa, strangely enough, is remarkably similar to Cesar Chavez Skatepark back in Phoenix, which I just skated earlier this morning to warm up the ‘ol muscle bubbles a bit before my long drive into the desert. It has a very “street plaza” aesthetic and feel to it, with a few dozen well-designed and excellently-executed, hybrid “urban” obstacles efficiently packed into it’s rather diminutive space. It’s clean, clever, and functional; a skilled street-skating urchin could easily have hours of fun here. But for a bowlriding fellow with a Santa Cruz Bevel under his feet, it’s a bit lacking. There is one line, however, that a dedicated dinosaur (like me) can thoroughly enjoy. It happens to be frontside for a regular footer (like me), and culminates at a five-foot-high, tightly-transitioned quarterpipe with real-deal pool coping on top. That’s a rare treat that I almost never seem to find at most “street plaza” parks, so I’m thinking that I’m a pretty lucky chump today.

 

Copper Sky Skate Plaza, Maricopa, Arizona. Note the coping gnar. Bark!

 

Thankfully, that good luck stays solidly in effect through my first frontside grind, right when I needed it the most. You’ve never heard an Indy 215 bark as loud on a frontside grind as mine just did; it was so startling that the screeching sound itself almost pitched me straight off my board, and right onto my elbow. Somehow, my back foot forced the truck through the gritty aggregate, reeled it in, and rode it out in a squat, my Vans high tops barely clinging to the deep-dish concave of my trustiest pig. Little did I realize just how much damage years of BMX-peg abuse can do to concrete coping. My good fortune frankly astounds me on a fairly regular basis. But after closer inspection of the coping that nearly killed me, I decided that it might be best not to push my luck any further than I already have today.

 

Dwarf Car Museum, Maricopa, Arizona. Note that the car at the lower left is barely taller than the bicycle parked beside it.

 

Roadside America has been extremely kind to me as of late. The Moffles Auto Parts Man (a mascot made entirely out of junk) was impressive enough, in a “gee whiz” sort of way, while The Mystery Castle (a residence made entirely out of junk) really took junk art to a whole new level. But hands down, the Dwarf Car Museum in Maricopa featuring 5/8ths scale, fully-functioning little hand-built automobiles (made out of junk) really took the prize of the day today. The brainchild of hobbyist Ernie Adams, the dwarf cars started as affordable little dirt-track race cars for the amateur racing enthusiast. Later, Ernie started building “cruising” dwarfs for himself to enjoy, as a fun way to whittle away his retirement years. Each car is completely hand-crafted, and can take upwards of 10,000 hours each to construct. They’re not for sale, never have been, and never will be; Ernie still owns every Dwarf car he’s ever built, and he still parks them in the giant steel building behind his house. The museum, like most museums, has a very explicit “hands off” policy… but if you get to the museum on a slow day when Ernie’s in a generous mood, you just might be able to sit inside one of the Dwarves and check it out for yourself. If you’re still a disbelieving sort of doubting Thomas, he might even be more than happy to fire one up, and let the little headers do the rest of the talking. Ernie’s an amazingly talented and creative specimen of a human being. I’m glad I spent a couple of hours with him today, learning all about his inspiring little car-creations.

 

 

Velocity Skatepark (in Carr McNatt Park), Casa Grande, Arizona

 

Some skateparks really do defy rhyme or reason. The smaller the city, the more mysterious the aims and the ends seem to be. I’m at Casa Grande’s kink-sink of a skatepark bowl… a generally fun, if slightly sketchy skatepark that sits directly beside a far more popular set of soccer fields that are hosting a healthy contingent of hispanics this fine and sunny afternoon. The intermittent screams of soccer joy are wafting across the bowl, as I stand near the shallower end of the snaking run, scratching what few hairs are left on my head. There’s a handrail… a very steep, and very intimidating handrail at that… that starts at the foot of a steel picket fence, and ends at the sloping wall of a small pyramid. How you’re supposed to get on to, or off of this handrail without killing yourself is an absolute mystery to me. There’s no discernable runup, and there’s certainly no clear runout anywhere in sight. But the kink-sink bowl is enjoyable enough, with it’s expansive control joints and extremely irregular coping that either sticks out way too far, or doesn’t stick out at all. It’s not a “purely enjoyable form of fun”, per se… but the steep challenge of skating it, and skating it semi-competently, is a form of “fun” in of itself. If you’re not the type of chap that can appreciate an “extremely challenging brand of fun”, then being a road dog probably isn’t the skateboarding life for you. Even the three sullen scooter kids that were here when I arrived have moved on to the greener pastures next door, where soccer moms, dads, and kids are squealing and screeching an afternoon of soccer summer fun away.

 

The Museum of Casa Grande, Casa Grande, Arizona

 

Every time I swing through a new town, I try my best to learn a little bit about the local history. If you’re not going to put your travels into some sort of sensible historical context, then what’s the damn point of even going? Besides, I could certainly use a reprieve from this scorching sun that’s chafing the skin on my arms and neck for a few minutes, and allow myself a little bit of air-conditioned creature comfort. The Museum of Casa Grande was just what the doctor ordered. Even better, it was just a few blocks from the skatepark kink-sink that just killed what little was left of my knees.

Casa Grande exists because somebody decided that it was high time to take a summer break. It’s true; I swear I’m not making this up. I’m staring at a sign in the museum that’s making all this abundantly clear and concise. They were building the Southern Pacific railroad from Yuma to Tucson when the summer started it’s usual desert sweltering. So some foreman somewhere decided to take a summer off, and resume construction the following fall, when things cooled off a bit back to “tolerable” levels. This is, after all, the Sonoran Desert, so that strategy seems more than sensible enough to me. The original name of the town was “Terminus”, as in “the end of the line”; it was only later that the railroad execs changed the name to honor the nearby Hohokam ruins. Casa Grande means “Big House” in Spanish, which is humorously sarcastic, considering that the town started life with only three buildings and five residents, and was nearly abandoned within twenty years of its settlement. Irrigation and agriculture were Casa Grande’s saving graces, and even today it’s the Cotton Capital of the world, populated by more dairy cows than you could ever count on a single road trip.

 

Red Rock Community Park, Red Rock, Arizona

 

Red Rock Skatepark is only open to the “official residents” of this brand-new, bustling housing tract way out in the middle of this former-farmland nowhere. The gatekeeper guardian is supposed to enforce this restriction, along with all the other rules on this long litany of fine print that’s outlined on an official-looking sign that’s riveted snugly to the solid steel fence. The problem is, I really can’t be bothered with reading this much blubbering bullshit in one standing.

Thankfully, the gate-guardian isn’t here to enforce anything right now. The gate is unlocked, and the door is swinging open and sqeaking in an extremely inviting manner. The only people around are the two little kids inside the park that are learning to push themselves around, and some sort of loud family-fun festival that’s happening a couple hundred yards away. Seeing an open opportunity to break a few rules and steal some fun, I casually saunter in as if I owned the place.

The pool is steep and deep. It’s between six to eight feet tall, and achieves true-vert status almost everywhere. The transitions are extremely abrupt, which jars the tired ‘ol knees mercilessly. But the coping has a shockingly smooth, almost buttery glide to it that contrasts with the harshness of the curved concrete. I climb out of the shallow end and walk all around the perimeter, examining the coping closely, and I swear I can’t find a ding, a dent, or a scratch on it anywhere. It’s as if the bowl was just poured and trowled yesterday. I look over at the kids playing in the corner with their bargain-basement skateboards, and I wonder why in the hell a housing authority would build something so massive, and so difficult and intimidating to skate, for little kids of such limited skateboarding ability.

 

Clockwise from top left: Abandonment; Civil War Battle Memorial at Picacho Peak State Park; Battle of Picacho Pass Monument (for the Union dead); Cactus Forest Campground. Picacho Peak, Arizona

 

My campsite is about nine miles from the interstate. The interstate is about fifty miles from Tucson, and seventy miles from Phoenix. On my way to the campsite, there were road signs warning of “open range” conditions. Cows cavort freely out here, munching the miles away on their great journey to nowhere in particular. I’m not sure that you could get any further away from civilization, than I am right now.

Camping in the open moonlit desert is quiet, and creepy. Coyotes yip and yap close to the camper, loudly celebrating their kills in a manner that drives the fear of wild straight through my lonely heart. A whoo of an owl pierces the thin walls of my cozy little abode, while the light of the moon slices its way through the vents, casting sinister shadows that slowly but steadily march toward my sleeping-bag cocoon, silently advancing upon my sense of security, safety, and sanity. The temperature drops pretty precipitiously out in the desert once the sun settles in for the evening, and a quiet and comfortable calm rolls in a few hours later, immersing me in a deep and satisfying slumber. The hours tick by uninterrupted, all ten of them. I never sleep as soundly as I do in the cozy confines of my camper after a long and satisfying day of skating.

 

Rooster Cogburn Ostrich Ranch, Picacho, Arizona

 

There’s a sign in front of me that is quite clear in its intent. The Ostriches will bite, and Rooster Cogburn’s Ostrich Ranch is not responsible for accidents caused by your lack of a fear gear, your sense of high adventure, or your distain for cautionary common sense. I look at the Ostrich that’s almost exactly as tall (and heavy) as I am, and it looks back at me, straight-faced and waiting impatiently. In my hand are a few tidbits of green animal feed that resemble tiny bird turds. This is, after all, the stuff that bird turds are made of, so I’m rather amused (but not all that surprised) by the resemblance. Presently, I have two choices to choose from. I can dump the food down a small chute that empties in a feed bin, from which the ostrich can nip at its feed well away from my fragile fingers. Or, I can slowly hold the food out to the fence, and let the Ostrich crane its neck over, and peck the feed right out of the palm of my hand. The sign recommends slow and steady movements at all times, for all parties involved. However, it fails to point out that the Ostriches are really hungry, and they don’t read instructions very well. Slowly, steadily, he cranes his neck down, gently gesturing toward the pellets… and then, quite suddenly… snap! In a flash, three of my tasty little fingers are knuckle-deep in his blunt beak. It doesn’t really hurt all that much, but it does startle me fully awake. I decide to head toward the bunnies, instead. They seem softer, and far safer than I imagine the stingrays are going to be.

 

 

Skateboarding and urban exploration, naturally enough, have a lot in common. People that excel at sneaking into schoolyards and backyard pools, quite naturally tend to excel at sneaking in to almost anywhere. This former landing strip is becoming increasingly notorious for the over-enthusiastic tribal police that thoroughly enjoy terrorizing, arresting, and extorting trespassers that wander unawares onto the property. “Their property” is the former Williams Auxiliary Airfield #5, now known as “Gila River Memorial Airport”. What we’re supposed to be remembering out here in the boonies is far beyond me. The only things that exist out here are some long-abandoned runways and tarmacs that have since deteriorated back into the native sand and gravel, and a few long-forgotten Douglas DC-4 and Lockheed Ventura airframes that sit perched on their weak knees (or, in a few cases, square on thier tails) in sad states of gutted and graffitied dereliction.

 

Abandoned airplanes at Gila River Memorial Airport (formerly Williams Auxiliary Army Airfield #5), Chandler, Arizona.

 

These few old airplanes, however, are fast becoming a powerful magnet for geocachers, visual artists, and urban adventurers. The motion sensors embedded at the entrance insure that the tribal police are on site to apprehend intruders within moments of some adventurous punk penetrating their prized property. Because they have the legal authority to immediately seize assets and impound vehicles as “evidence”, it’s probably a pretty steady and reliable revenue stream for the tribe’s overlords. One that they are surely quite keen on perpetuating, so long as less enlightened intruders are stupid enough to roll (or stroll) right through the main gate. The trick, it seems, is to avoid that main gate at all costs; to not bring too many valuables with you; and to park far away from the reservation perimeter, and well out of their jurisdiction.

Now, I’m not saying that I did any breaking and entering this weekend. Oh, no, not me! The Magazine certainly doesn’t condone these sorts of shenanigans, and neither do I. All I’m saying here, is that I somehow scored some really well-composed and colorfully saturated photos of airplane abandonment on my way home from my skateboarding misadventures this weekend, and I think they came out pretty damned spiffy. Nothing more, and nothing less. -B.

 

 

 

Summer Camper Tour 2016/17, Report Number Nine: Maricopa and Casa Grande, Arizona

This article was first published at the Concrete Wave Magazine website on May 3rd, 2017. Thanks again, Mike. -B.

 

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Mike and his lovely lady, April, live on BLM land just north of Lake Havasu City. Their site is about two miles down a sandy wash, in the heart of a jagged mountain range, where they work as campground hosts while whittling away their time doing odd jobs to keep up a steady income. They live a very simple, yet extremely adventurous lifestyle, one that I was quite keen on seeing and experiencing for myself. This would surely be a prime boondocking opportunity, and I spent the week getting my micro-camper scrubbed down, geared up, and ready for the great unknown ahead of me. As always, Atlas Obscura and Roadside America offered a whole host of deliciously eccentric deviations for me and my wandering eyes to check out along the way, while Concrete Disciples shaped and shored up my skatepark search. While I was planning my round-robin trip, I decided to add the skateparks in Bagdad, Kingman, and Bullhead City to my overly-ambitious itinerary. If I’m gonna spend a weekend traveling all over the sparse northwest corner of the state, I might as well get everything I want to accomplish done in one efficient swoop. As you can see, my itinerary for this trip was stacked up pretty tightly. There was barely a moment left unscheduled and unaccounted for. From the moment that I left my house at daybreak (5am) on Saturday morning, I had a whole host of strange places to go, interesting things to see, and obscure oddities to document. In that regard, it was just like many of my more recent expeditions. At the same time, these journeys are always full of all sorts of surprises. You just never know what you’re going to stumble into along the way, no matter how obsessively-compulsively pre-planned your trip may be.

 

 

I’m staring bright-eyed at the prisoner sitting squat on the ground in front of me. The prisoner, on the other hand, is leaning heavily on his arm, staring back at me with dull, glassy eyes that suggest a long night of drunken hijinks might have precipitated his impromptu incarceration. He seems to be suffering from a hangover, coupled with a heaping helping of dismayed confusion. He’s not a real person, of course; he’s a mannequin dressed up in jail-stripe prison overclothes. But he’s a very convincing mannequin, and an unusually creepy one at that. Two feet away, there’s a steel pole with a bright green button that’s just begging to be pressed. I’m a skateboarder. I like to press buttons. So, I slowly and steadily reach across and give it a decisive poke. The mannequin startles me right out of my skin by suddenly speaking, his voice amplified by his fiberglass form. His easygoing drawl, however, is strangely disarming. The Jail Tree is far more urban legend and lore than it is an accurate historical recording. The story goes that, in the haste of Wickenburg’s sudden and spontaneous growth as a mining claim, they just didn’t have the time, the energy, or the resources to build a “proper” jail. Other priorities came first, and robbing the land of its various riches was definitely Priority Number One. Shackling arrestees to this mighty lump of a mesquite tree did the duty perfectly well for the town’s immediate purposes, the serendipitous by-product being a not-so-subtle, overtly public display of what would happen to certain segments of the populace if they decided to step anywhere out of line. Wickenburg is not widely known for harboring successful criminal contingents; the rule of law stands pretty solidly ’round these parts. After seeing The Jail Tree for myself, it’s pretty easy to see why that might be the case.

 

Giant Spurs sculpture, just north of Wickenburg, Arizona. Saturday, May 13th, 2017

 

Bagdad Skatepark, Saturday, May 13th, 2017.

 

The large mining interests of Freeport McMoran seem to own everything around here. They are, after all, the town’s largest employer and benefactor. It’s not a big town by any means, and it’s about twenty solid miles off the beaten path. The only way in and out is over a windy road traumatized by extremely hazardous twists, turns, hips, dips, and blind corners. The scenery is heavenly, but the drive is pure hell every single foot of the way. The skatepark looked great from Google Earth. They always do. It even looked great through the tall steel fence and the chained-and-padlocked gate. Across the way, I could see a playground standing idle, yet inviting. “There must be a way in there, somehow”, I thought to myself; and I was dead set and determined to find that way. A determined human is, after all, a fierce animal. A few doors down, somebody had left an entrance gate swinging wide open. My good fortune really does astound me sometimes. I ran back to the car as fast as I could, grabbed my board, and lunged straight for the skatepark. Oh, God. This place, wow. The transitions were… how do I put this nicely? “Definitely abrupt” might be fitting; “Absolute Torture” would be far more accurate. Things do not always skate as they seem, and this was Exhibit A of my unfortunate reality. There were two small nipples right in the way of my line that seemed to serve no functional purpose whatsoever, above and beyond making my life far worse than it already was. And then we had “The Quarterpipe Of Certain Death”, made far more lethal by the jagged razor-blade pebbles strewn around the base. I did manage to land a few grinds, and boy, did I ever feel accomplished for having done so. Bagdad is a company town, sure enough. And just like those lucky miners that manage to make it to retirement, I was happy as hell to make it out of there alive.

 

Left: Abandonment at US 93 and AZ 71, north of Wickenburg, Arizona.

Right two photos: Nothing, Arizona. “Population: 4, Chicas: 2”. Saturday, May 13th, 2017

 

Left: At the Wikieup Trading Post Jail. Saturday, May 13th, 2017. Right: Snoopy on a Rocket, Wikieup, Arizona. Saturday, May 13th, 2017

 

Kingman, Arizona started life as a humble railroad siding named Beale’s Springs. This simple city subsequently grew and expanded due to two entirely unpredictable circumstances that could have never been imagined when it was founded in 1883: the certification and construction of Route 66, and the outbreak of World War II. Both brought a glut of infrastructure and humanity into to the area between the 1930’s and 1950’s; Kingman Army Airfield alone trained well over 35,000 aerial gunners during the wartime effort. Route 66 was how the government got them here, and Route 66 is how the Army Air Forces got them to the coasts, so they could ship straight to the front lines to do battle with Hitler and Hirohito. After the war, Kingman AAF became a Reconstruction Finance Corporation center, tasked with storing, selling, and ultimately scrapping entire air forces of obsolete Army Air Corps bombers; 5500 airplanes met their final fates at Kingman, most of them being ingloriously smelted down into raw aluminum ingots by fires that raged 24 hours a day. There used to be a small museum here dedicated to Kingman’s invaluable contributions to the war effort, but that museum is no more. A victim of public funding woes, a far-off-the-beaten-path location, and a general indifference towards such obscure historical tidbits (or even American History in general), the sole World War II remnant that survives at Kingman Airport is the original control tower, built in 1942 to handle Kingman’s burgeoning military air traffic.

The railroads and Route 66, however, are still the toasts of the town. There are historical spaces and places all over the city that have been lovingly preserved and restored to tell the tall tales, and there are several museums right in the heart of downtown to further educate and enlighten anybody that has an interest in the area’s past. It’s even possible to drive a long-forgotten and bypassed remnant of the original National Old Trails Route, the precursor to Route 66. Yes, it’s a narrow and harrowing drive along a sheer cliff that dead-ends at a former raceway, but it’s also a rare experience that illustrates just how unsophisticated (and unsafe) those old roads really were.

 

Left: The El Trovatore Motel’s restored neon, gloriously beckoning a new generation of Route 66 fans and aficionados. Saturday, May 13th, 2017

Right two photos: An abandoned raceway still (barely) stands at the end of the National Old Trails Highway, just southwest of Kingman, Arizona.

 

Clockwise from upper left: The original WWII control tower at the former Kingman Army Air Field (now Kingman Airport); steam locomotive and classic car show on Route 66 at Locomotive Park, Kingman, Arizona; the Powerhouse Visitors Center and Route 66 Museum, Kingman, Arizona (including displays, mural details, and the exterior facade).

 

The Kingman skatepark, however, left a hell of a lot to be desired. It looks as if it was designed fairly competently… you can clearly see some real potential here in the overall layout… but somebody, somewhere, seriously dropped the ball on the execution and the construction. It seems like it was poured and trowled by rank amateurs that knew little to nothing about the finer points of skatepark construction, let alone skateboarding. I’d be hard pressed to think of a bigger kink-sink anywhere in the world; I’ve certainly never skated anything quite this quirky in all my time as a touring skater.

 

Clockwise, from upper left: The quirky art-enclave of Chloride, Arizona; mural detail; monstrous sculpture; the painted rocks that harbor the Chloride murals.

 

“In science, chloride is an ion used to desalinate seawater into drinking water. Which is ironic, because the Arizona town of the same name is incredibly dry. Founded in 1862 as a silver mining town, Chloride was once home to some 75 mines and 5,000 residents. The local miners excavated minerals like silver, gold, and turquoise for over six decades, until in the late 1920s when the town was burnt to the ground in its (near) entirety. By the 1940s, it had practically become a ghost town. Now Chloride is making a comeback, thanks to tourism. With new attractions like mock gunfights, Arizona’s oldest post office, and “The World’s Only All-Female Gun Fighting Troupe”, the town is a chance to walk through an original Wild West town. Yet amid all this, the two most unique characteristics of Chloride often go unnoticed. The bizarre junk art of Chloride can easily be seen along the roadside of the non-historic part of town. Drivers can admire a flamingo made of a gas tank, a tin man with a blue hat, and a junk tree with rusty items hanging from the branches. The graves in the town cemetery are even topped with old telephones. In fact, of the 20 currently-inhabited residences of Chloride, each of them features some display of junk art. One house, for example, features an elaborate bottle tree; another displays a metallic spider next to a caterpillar made of bowling balls. Harder to reach, yet equally worth the visit, are the Murals of Chloride. A 1.3-mile, 4-wheel-drive-only road past abandoned mines and ancient Native American petroglyphs will take you up the hill to the murals of Roy Purcell, who, in 1966, was a local prospector with some extra time on his hands. Not yet showing the signs of weathering, Purcell’s “The Journey” covers 2,000 square feet of cliffside granite and is dense in symbolism, featuring a yin yang, a giant red snake spanning multiple rocks, and a fertility goddess.”

– From Atlas Obscura

 

 

Left: “Poki, the World’s Largest desert Tortoise”. Bullhead City, Arizona. Right: The Lil’ Red Schoolhouse, erected in 1946 and currently residing at the Bullhead Community Park, Bullhead City, Arizona.

 

Lower right photo: Founded in 1937 by land speculator Nina Talbot and her husband, the unlikely roadside relic of Santa Claus, Arizona was the focal point of the couple’s strategy to entice forward-thinking investors to purchase lots out in the distant desert. Unfortunately, the tourist spot’s close proximity to absolutely nothing at all and the scalding summertime highs probably did more than anything else to insure its eventual demise. Even the relative success of the Duncan Hines- and Jane Russel-endorsed Santa Claus Inn could not stop the inevitable downward spiral; Santa Claus was sold in 1949, and was well on its way to ghost-town status by the early 1970s. The long-abandoned and nearly forgotten remnants of a land speculator’s dream investment, these empty shells still stubbornly stand twelve miles north of Kingman on the southbound side of US 93.

 

Oh, dear… Here, we have the third total blow of the day, the Bullhead City Skatepark. Another built-by-total-amateurs misconstruction masterpiece, this one featured flaking concrete that was peeling off the walls of the bowls in big chunks, and settling into the flatbottom, creating all sorts of unexpected hazards. You can see the rudimentary (but ineffective) attempt at patchwork in the photos. This might well be one of the worst skateparks that I’ve ever attempted to skate in my entire life.

 

Because of the lackluster quality (to put it mildly) of the Bagdad, Kingman, and Bullhead City skateparks, I managed to arrive in Lake Havasu City well before my scheduled 7 pm rendezvous with Mike and April. That allowed me to take a quick catnap before they arrived to escort me to their campsite far out on the northeastern edge of town. On the way to the site, we spotted several Mojave Green rattlesnakes crisscrossing the primitive road, and stopped to watch one of them rattle off a fair warning from beneath a bush (from the safety of our vehicles, of course). The evening was spent relaxing in outdoor easy chairs, reminiscing about skateboarding’s heydays, and the various misadventures that we’ve enjoyed all along the way.

 

Clockwise from upper left: Fountain in front of London Bridge; London Bridge; the Lake Havasu City skatepark; the view from the river’s edge, looking toward California; the micro-camper way out in the boonies, Lake Havasu City, Arizona.

 

Sunday started at a local breakfast boutique named Rusty’s, where we tanked up on omelets, pancakes, Cokes, and coffee before making our way over to Beachcombers to fine-tune our boards a bit before we began the day’s skating adventures. Mike had a few seized bearings that he had to break free and lube, which gave me the time and the initiative to give my rolling stock a thorough clean-and-lube as well. Beachcombers was a surprisingly welcoming and well-stocked skate shop that shared its ample retail space with water skis, life jackets, kayaks, scooters, surf trunks, bikinis, and a whole host of miscellaneous “beachy” offerings. With our rides rolling smoothly, we made our way over to the first skate spot of the day.

Tillman Memorial Skatepark in Lake Havasu City is, as Mike put it so simply, “The sort of skatepark that’s built for pros to skate”. It’s massively huge and extremely impressive to be sure, but the one thing that it’s not is particularly “fun” for the average, ho-hum, run-of-the-mill, middle-aged skater. Everything in this park is super-sized to the max, so it’s definitely not the sort of place for easygoing guys like us to chill, relax, and enjoy the simpler pleasures of skateboarding. The view of the lake, however, was absolutely outstanding; we did spend some quality hanging time hanging at the beach before we made our way to the next spot on Mike’s to-skate list.

 

 

Because it’s shoehorned between a backdrop of high mountain ranges and the low-lying Colorado River Valley, Lake Havasu City is blessed with a bevy of drainage ditches that serve to re-route floodwaters harmlessly around and through the city during the infrequent (but potentially severe) monsoon rains that blow in throughout the fall. Exploring these ditches was the itinerary for the day, in lieu of killing ourselves at that monstrosity of a skatepark. The ditches were pretty manly, as it turns out, but at least we didn’t have to deal with any scooter kids at the ditches. That was a definite bonus.

 

Right: Mike checks out the harsh transitions of our first ditch of the day. Left: The second find, just up the street from the first. Hot damn!

 

Left: Mike casually carves a speedy line while grabbing a rail to hold onto. Right: It was a real charm, complete with hips and roll-in channels.

 

Right: Mike scoops up a beauty of a bean plant for the amateur photojournalist in me. Left: This mellow masterpiece might have been the best of them all. 

 

Mike doubles down with a Boneless into the back.

 

Mike and April really know how to win over a traveling skater. Food (and lots of it) pretty much wins every single time. That evening, before I hit the road for home, April made a Chicken Alfredo (from scratch) that completely knocked my shoes off. It smelled delicious just relaxing in their camper, which was sheer torture. Mike and I were seriously starvin’ after a long day of tossing ourselves around on harsh transitions and splatting our old bones onto the flatbottom; after a long afternoon of self-abuse, that Alfredo was a real smell and sight for sore eyes and empty stomachs. That dinner was the best dinner I’ve had on the road yet. If Mike and April ever invite you to dinner, don’t be stupid. Go…! I really didn’t want to leave, but I had a warm bed and an idle computer at home, patiently waiting for me to return. Even though the skateparks along the way ranged between mostly-to-entirely unskatable (for a variety of reasons), thanks to Mike and April’s hospitality and sense of adventure, the overall trip ended up being a real success story. When the going gets insurmountable, skaters start searching for alternatives. Thankfully, Lake Havasu’s geography has a lot of hidden gems, just waiting to be discovered. On my way out of town, I spotted another half-dozen (or so) ditches that we didn’t even see in our initial search-and-destroy mission. If you decide to take a road trip to check it all out for yourself, bring along a broom, a shovel, and a pair of bolt cutters; they’ll serve you well in your skate explorations.

Until next time, travel safe, travel well… and by all means, travel often.

 

 

Summer Camper Tour 2016/2017, Report Number Nine: Kingman and Lake Havasu City, Arizona

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Summer Camper Tour 2016/17, Report Number Eleven:
Prescott and Prescott Valley, Arizona
Friday, June 23rd to Sunday, June 25th, 2017

 

This was a really busy weekend. For a fella that’s supposed to have long since retired, I sure do have a nasty tendency to pack a whole lotta livin’ into three days… especially when two of those days are abruptly cut short by unfortunately unforeseen circumstances. But given the ambitious itinerary for the weekend that included enjoying a weekend camping getaway with Renee, covering a skateboard contest, exploring a certifiably western-themed tourist town, fooding out at some fine eateries, and attending an unplanned bluegrass festival, it’s no real surprise that there was hardly a moment left unlived all weekend long.

I had planned on leaving mid-day Friday. Of course, that would have required getting an afternoon off from work to accommodate my early departure, and informing Renee of these intentions. Because the mag has been keeping m e unusually busy these days, I plum forgot to do either of these things. That meant that my well-laid and good-intentioned “plans” went straight to shit, right off the bat. What we ended up actually doing, was leaving Phoenix at about 6:30 pm to drive through the excruciatingly hot blast furnace temperatures of The Valley (sans air conditioning) on our way to what we thought would be significantly cooler temperatures up north.

 

 

The skate-itinerary for the weekend was pretty mellow: two skateparks and an amateur contest. That was it. An unusually light weekend on the surface of things. But contests, for me, are an exercise in masochistic hell that I never truly look forward to; thus, I was definitely not looking forward to the contest aspect of this trip at all. I’ve always hated the damn things to the Nth degree, so I generally avoid them like the f’n plague. This contest, however, was being put together by the Prescott Skate Stop… from what I’ve heard, an excellent little skate shop that’s doing some pretty novel stuff. So I went along with the contest program anyway, if for no other reason than to grudgingly support the cause and the initiative, but secretly hoping the whole time that this contest might be just a bit more entertaining than the usual amateur bailfest slog.

 

 

We pulled into Prescott pretty late on Friday night, long after the sun had receded for the evening. It was still unusually hot… blame climate change for the aberration, I guess… but downtown Prescott was unexpectedly humming with bright-lighted activity. Turns out, we had sauntered straight into town just in time to catch an annual bluegrass festival, and all of the spontaneous nightlife that goes along with the party. We parked the camper-combo just a block away from Whiskey Row and climbed the short hill up to Grandma’s Bakery, where the smell of fresh bread immediately forced us inside, and convinced us to purchase a bagful of handcrafted lemon cookies and cherry turnovers. You and I both know that fat men cannot refuse their sweet-tooth impulses; that’s how we got fat in the first place.

After we scored our just desserts, we climbed a few more doorways to The Bistro, where Renee and I sat and peoplewatched in the neon glow of the bay window while we munched on their most famous and celebrated delicacies: onion rings, Caesar salad, and tomato-artichoke bisque. The street musicians were out in force around the square; the sounds of banjos and mandolins filled the air everywhere you turned your ear. My first impression of Prescott was that it’s a far more happening place than I might have guessed it would be.

 

Left: The campsite. Right: The early-morning view from the back of the micro-camper.

 

The campsite was about ten miles from the city center. We got there really late of course, and the pitch black of the high desert night all but guaranteed that we wouldn’t see a damned thing. The only thing that I could perceive in the darkness was the strained whir of the Yaris’ little fourbanger that immediately indicated we were ascending and descending into and out of some impressively steep terrain; what it was, exactly, remained a complete mystery to our eyes. There wasn’t really much to do at that late hour once we arrived at the campsite but to turn in for the evening and start making some hay. The persistently high temperatures, the continuous squeal of hyperactive little camper kids, and the relentless onslaught of gigantically annoying flying bugs, however, made that uncomfortably impossible to pull off.

We woke up way too early to bright rays of daybreak flooding the camper interior. We had left the rear doors wide open in a valiant (but vain) effort to get some cooler air circulating around; all we got in the exchange were horse-sized flies and moths taking up residence in our sleeping quarters while we slowly and steadily sweated our asses off. I wiped the crusties from the corner of my eyes, asked Renee what time it was (her reply: 5:30 am), and wondered aloud why in the hell we were awake at such a ridiculous hour of the morning. She answered by lazily pointing out the door in a “Hey, check that out!” sort of motion.

Mountains! And tall pines…! Well, I’ll be damned. The GoogleMaps aerial perspective made this campground look like a flat, featureless desert scrubland. I was really reluctant to even book a site here, because I thought it would be painfully ugly and insufferably boring to look at. But whaddya know, this place is remarkably rugged and ridiculously gorgeous. My persistent good fortune really does astound me sometimes.

 

Clockwise from top left: the Yavapai County Courthouse in Prescott’s city square; Hugh Slayden painting hanging at the Lone Spur Cafe in downtown Prescott; Volkswagen bus and Ford Model A parked on the courthouse square, illustrations by the author. 

 

Everything in Prescott revolves slowly around the central courthouse square. It’s the obvious destination, the place to be, and the life of the party at all times. Even in the wee hours of the morning, the courthouse is still brimming with activity. We were starving, of course, so we did like everyone else does and made our way to the heartbeat of town, parked right across from the city square, and made our way to The Lone Spur Cafe for breakfast. I’m normally a pretty adventurous bloke, but some of the stuff on their menu looked downright deadly. Bacon steaks, cowboy skillets, and a thousand things slathered in sausage gravy looked devilishly delectible on one hand… but like a sure-fire recipe for indignant indigestion on the other. We played it safe this time around, although the pepper-rubbed bacon slabs that came with my belgian waffle were pretty damn delicious. In between bites, we were well-entertained by a bevy of beautiful, western-themed Hugh Slayer impressionist paintings, and a posse of cowboys and sherriffs parading through the dining room, complete with clanking boots and rattling spurs. For a skateboarding city-slicker, this was akin to exploring and experiencing a whole new planet.

 

Mike Fann Community Skatepark, Prescott, Arizona.

 

I had some serious time to kill before the contest, so I figured that a little bit of skating might be in order. The Prescott park was the natural first stop; surely the contest festivities would rule out any casual skating there for the balance of the amateur-contest weekend. I was super impressed with the quality build of the park… which is quite excellent, especially considering its small-town setting… but not so much its overall design and layout. It’s super tight; it immediately felt like a sardine can of skateboard obstacles. Everything is over-efficiently shoehorned in there, making the overall effect feel cramped and restrictive. It’s smooth and fast, but maybe just a little too quick for my mellower tastes.

 

Prescott Valley Skatepark.

 

Prescott Valley is only about twelve miles away, and much more up to my speed and style. The small bowl complex there was superbly enjoyable, with lines all over the place and unintimidating heights for the newbies and geezers that live in all of us. The much bigger, faster, and scarier snake-bowl right next door was a superb challenge, making even simple backside grinds on its roller-coaster kink sinks a pretty manly proposition. But I still got up and got some of it, so it’s all good as far as I’m concerned. Between runs, I had the company of a wide-smiled older chap named Doug… “older chap”, relative to my 44 years aged, means he was pretty darned old… happily engaging me in enthusiastic skateboarding small-talk and tales of his own skateboarding travels. He was a really friendly fellow. The kids remained stubbornly aloof, as always.

 

 

Left: The Smoki Museum, Prescott, Arizona. Right: An observant woman reads the racist history written on the walls of the Smoki Museum.

 

When we returned to the Prescott park, I decided that I wasn’t quite up to scorching in the sun watching sequential slams just yet. So I spontaneously decided to follow Renee into The Smoki Museum across the street, and learn a little bit of local lore. The “Smoki People” take a little bit of explaining; that much I know. How in the hell to explain these people, however, still somehow escapes me, a full four days later. Explaining them in “politically neutral” terms is even harder… because what these “people” really were, at the end of it all, were whiteys dressed up in Indian garb and “redface” (a word I just invented to illustrate the Native American equivalent of “blackface”) to entertain other whiteys for money. Money that was then spent to fund and propagate the local rodeo; the world’s longest-running rodeo, to be accurate. So, basically, it was for-profit racism.

Naturally enough, the whiteys saw it as “a sincere and noble effort to honor the culture and the customs of the indigenous peoples”. And naturally enough, the indigenous peoples saw the whole thing very, very differently.

 

 

The Prescott Skate Stop doesn’t play around. When they put something together, they do it right and they do it with f’n gusto. There were a heap of sponsors for the event; I was suitably impressed. Some sent along buckets of prizes, while some of the more saavy (small) companies made their presences felt in a really big, really professional way. The big difference here was that the brands who had a presence at the event got to talk face-to-face directly with thier market, and sell some of their latest and greatest product… some of them even sold completely out of product, if you can believe that bullshit… while the prize-sending contingent got an honorable mention on the bottom of the flyer, and over the intercom airwaves. It just goes to show, nothing (and I mean nothing) beats having a personal presence. Once The California Contingent gets that all figured out, they’ll start to see some serious (and sustainable) market share growth again. But not before they figure that out.

As a magazine guy, I love having the opportunity to sit, smoke, and chat with all of these small-company guys. I’ll save the details for the next round of Small Company Field Guide segments… those should be a whole lotta fun… but suffice to say, there’s still a lot of vibrant energy to be found floating around the skate scene, as much as the market analysts, the doomsdayers, the negatroids, and the naysayers will breathlessly blabber all over themselves in an effort to full-force deny it. Skativity isn’t being stopped, or even subdued; it’s just floating up out of your pocket, and into somebody else’s. That’s revolution at work. That’s skateboarders taking skateboarding back, bitches.

 

Iron Springs Cafe, Prescott, Arizona, illustration by the author.

 

There’s a cute little train-depot restaurant on the north side of town called Iron Springs Cafe that I just had to sample some lunch at. First of all, it was scorching hot outside and the humidity was climbing off the charts; an air-conditioned interrupt felt like a heavensent rest and relaxation opportunity. But then we had the adorably inviting board and batten architecture of the former Santa Fe, Prescott, and Phoenix railway depot itself, which had been relocated and renovated from its original siding in Hillside, and surrounded on its present plot by lazy, inviting benches and white picket fencing. The menu is top-notch, and the service was far beyond friendly; it’s no real surprise that they both consistently rate near the top of somebody-or-anothers Top Ten foodie-fun hit list. The tastes might be best described as “Southwest Cajun Culinary Fusion”, or something along those sorts of pretentious mouthfuls. But I’m a super-simple skating stiff at heart, so I’ll just call it well worth taking the time to experience.

 

Left: The BJ Johnson Muffler man. Right: Hugh Slayden painting hanging at the Lone Spur Cafe in downtown Prescott.

 

“Ohmygawd, look at that Renee! It’s a real-deal Muffler Man…!”

Only I would get excited about such obscure roadside novelties… but once you experience the Muffler Man phenomenon for yourself, trust me on this one kid, you’ll become a connisseur too. Muffler Men always came, quite literally, out of the same fiberglass mold; you can spot their trademark hand-holding position a mile away, maybe more on a clear day if you’re fully awake and paying attention. Designed to hold fast to a Paul Bunyan-sized axe, they’re sometimes posing with such ample-sized oddities as mufflers (obviously), hot dogs, swords, tires, picks, sticks, rifles, or even rockets. They’re epic Americana, super-sized to absolutely outlandish proportions, marvels of yesteryear marketing and outsized self-promotion. The BJ Johnson Muffler Man turned out to be the only Roadside America tourist tip in town, and here I’d managed to serendipitously stumble into it all on my own. I must be developing a finely honed radar for this sort of swanky stuff; maybe the travel-geek in me has gotten entirely out of hand.

 

Left: Paul Bacher, alley-oop out of the extension and back into the bowl. Right: the schedule (and the sponsors) for the weekend’s festivities.

 

Back at the contest, stuff was really starting to heat up and bubble over. Thank goodness for the cloud cover that rolled in; without that, we would’ve all been a bunch of goners out here. There were lots of standouts, almost too many to list really. But I actually managed to work a little bit and take some serious journalistic notes, so here’s the rapid-fire: Chris Roberts and his bio benihanas; little Tyler B (riding for The Sk8 Haus) drawing long lines all over the street course; Ericson (from Flagstaff) ollieing the pyramid to flat, and backside blunting the weird little hip out of the really big corner; Vincent McLaughlin (my pick to be the winner) switch boardslide into the channel hip, and a vertical nosestall to frontside 360 revert that left the Raoul Duke-channeling contest announcer stammering and stuttering, unable to figure out what the hell just happened there; Dev The Dog ollieing the hip to a solid stand-up corner fifty; David Sparrow flying all over the place between puffs on his cig; Jerrett’s tre off the platform and straight into the flat of the bowl; and Alec Martinez’s bigspin front board on the tall rail, “the best trick of the day” according to The Duke. I’m not going to get into who the final winners and losers were, because they’re always winners in my book. They put on a pretty good show. Prescott’s got some seriously legitimate talent floating around that small city.

 

 

The post-party shenanigans revolved around the city square once again, as Renee and I sauntered into town to sample some local treateries, lay out under a shade tree on the courthouse lawn, and enjoy a couple hours’ worth of bluegrass revival. The whole scene felt a lot like being a little kid in a candy store; having a legitimate treat shop right across the street from the courthouse certainly didn’t hurt the cause a single bit. They had free-to-sample popcorns, everything from caramel to kettle to to cinnamon… yes, candy-coated cinnamon popcorn is a taste reality, folks… to cheddar, to chocolate covered cheddar, to Ohmygawd that stuff’s f’n amazing everywhere. The ice cream flavors were equally eccentric; of course I can’t remember them all at the moment, because the maltball flavor that I bought totally blew my brains away. It was epic awesomeness, that much I do remember. I probably gained about five solid pounds of fatass on this trip.

 

 

Sunday morning was a virtual replay of Saturday’s bright rays of sunshine, without the luxury of cloud cover to keep things comfortably cool. Same stunning view out the back door of the camper; same slow scenic route into town; same impressionist paintings at the same Lone Spur Cafe, on the same sunny square that we walked around yesterday. But today, I’m feelin’ frisky. That Cowboy Skillet is callin’ my name, all two eggs, hash browns, sausage, bacon, ham, and gravy of it. If that’s not mean man enough for ya, I also opted for the biscuts-and-gravy side plate, just to speed up that inevitable heart attack into supersonic screech mode.

Three hours later, I’m befuddled and hopelessly stranded in a stinking stall of an outhouse at the Prescott skatepark. Something that I ate attacked my tummy with a vengance, and now I’m paying for it in the worst of unimaginable ways. The stainless steel toilet was torture enough; now I have a stubborn door to unsuccessfully contend with here. I’m locked in, and I can’t get the damn thing to budge; talk about maddeningly frustrating situations. Thankfully, somebody on the other side of that damned door had to shit even bigger than I did, and lended me a heap-sized helping hand to free me from my potty-pants predicament. The sun was scorching hot, and there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky to protect us from it’s baking rays. I was exhausted, I was frustrated, I was grumpy, and I was spent. It was time to go home.

 

All of the sincerest apologies in the world go out to the intermediate and advanced bowlrider battles that I missed… especially the over-40 competitors that I really wanted to support with a few extra-enthusiastic yells… and even bigger apologies to all the fine ladies and gents that I never got to say a proper thank you and-or goodbye to. Renee and I won’t be strangers to the Prescott skate scene for very long, though; I’m sure we’ll figure out some fast rhyme or reason to get back up there sooner than later.

 

 

Summer Camper Tour 2016/17 Report Number Eleven: Prescott and Prescott Valley, Arizona

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I had originally intended to do my Yuma trip in the fall, when the weather turned cooler and far more skate-friendly than the typical summertime highs of 118 degrees would allow. Renee, however, had immediate plans to make a weekend trip to retrieve her father’s ashes, and asked me if I would like to come along for the ride. She was aware that I had a tour itinerary already well-planned and ready to go, and offered to be my skating sidekick for my intended misadventures. In addition, she offered to foot the bill for a swanky hotel crash pad for the weekend, if I would pick up the dinner-and-gas tab… an offer that I heartily accepted. Thus, I happily traded the hardships of camper living for plush amenities like a cold pool and a king-size bed for this brief leg of my overly ambitious summertime tour.

 

We were up and at ’em bright and early on Saturday morning for our long haul to bordertown. The itinerary could not have been more packed with diversions. We would be spending the bulk of our time driving straight through the heart of Arizona’s military-industrial complex, a huge swath of southwest desert that have been historically earmarked for training bases, and bombing and gunnery ranges. From the moment that we left the confines of Phoenix, we would be traveling back in time through the widespread and rampant abandonment of World War II and Cold War homefront battlefields.

 

Above: Gila Bend Welcome Sign and RF-101C Voodoos, Gila Bend, Arizona. Saturday, July 8th, 2017.

 

We were in Gila Bend at 7 am sharp. Roadside America had a few fun features on our itinerary. There was the offbeat humor of the “Welcome to Gila Bend” sign that boasted 1917 inhabitants, five old crabs, a metropolis of solar panels, and… curiously… a Volcom Stone advertisement. There were the staunch (but clearly aging) gate guardians at the Gila Bend Municipal Airport, a pair of RF-101C Voodoos that served the bulk of their overseas operational lives together, and were destined to spend their retirements forever married, standing side by side at the entrance of the local municipal airport. There was a massive chunk of the World Trade Center, installed at the main street city park as a 9/11 memorial. And there were several fabricated steel dinosaurs that had been crafted by a local artisan, and prominently peppered throughout the city at a bevy of gas stations and convenience stores. But the real prize of the morning was stuffing ourselves full of breakfast at The Space Age Restaurant, a stylistic and architectural throwback to the Mercury and Apollo missions and the moon-man hysteria of the 1960’s. The ham and swiss omelets here are out of this world. Pun totally intended.

 

Above: Space Age Restaurant exterior (left) and mural detail (right), Gila Bend, Arizona.

 

Above: steel T-Rex sculpture at Eddie’s Tire Shop (left) and 9/11 Memorial Park (right), Gila Bend, Arizona.

 

You can’t see Dateland Auxiliary Airfield from the interstate. From car-window level, the long-abandoned runways and tarmacs are shrouded in thick desert vegetation. Interstate 8 bisects the property; if you keep your eyes wide open and alert for a brief few-tenths of a mile, you might pick out the concrete foundations of the former barracks just beyond the shoulders. A little to the north, though, the runways still remain baking in the sun, left lying undisturbed since they were decommissioned in 1955. The problem is that, in order to see them at all, you have to be either “practically standing on top of them”; or, literally standing on top of them. I’ll give you intrepid guys and gals one guess to figure out which plan I was going with this weekend…

 

Above: “Or lost out there, far away on the road, those lights…”. Dateland AAF, Dateland, Arizona.

 

There are prominent signs at the peripheries of the property that warn of exceedingly grave consequences to trespassers. Death could be imposed as a punishment; these fellows clearly weren’t f’n around. Renee was a little bit nervous, naturally enough. But I wasn’t. I’m a skateboarder and an avid urban explorer; trespassing is old news to me.

 

Above: Concrete bunker (left) and North American B-25J Mitchell (right), the bomber type that was stationed at Dateland AAF, illustration by the author.

 

Up ahead, just off to my right, I spotted a series of large, plastic orange spheres suspended on the power lines that paralleled the road; those were the telltale signs of a nearby runway that I was looking for. Undaunted and unperturbed, I steered the Prius straight onto the old bituminous runway… the “asphalt” has since been reduced to loose gravel aggregate from idly baking in the desert sun for well over seventy years… and proceeded to give her the grand tour of the property.

The place was astronomically huge. The runways approached nearly a mile long apiece, and the tarmac easily held five or six solid city blocks’ worth of real estate. Thanks to my exhaustive research and encyclopedic knowledge, I was able to point out where every hangar, workshop, mess hall, and latrine would have been in 1944. The only building left standing, however, was a sand-filled concrete bunker that had been used to sight and test-fire the fifty cals that were stuffed, sometimes eight to twelve at a time, into the noses of B-25 Mitchell bombers. On the south side of the property was a humongous (and apparently, quite prosperous) date farm, with rows of irrigated date palms standing tall and strong against the bright, blue morning sky. The five-dollar date shake that we bought at the exit-ramp gas station was almost sickly-sweet, the fruit fibers stubbornly clogging up our skinny straw all the way to Yuma.

 

 

Deterrents to adventure abound everywhere. The Bridge To Nowhere was only exceptional in the depth and breadth of its multitude of posted-paranoia warnings. First were the threats of criminal trespassing charges to all that might dare to encroach the peripheries of the property. I just left Dateland, buddy, where I could’ve died; I’m not particularly afraid of your pansy-pants little signs anymore. Next, there were sobering warnings of unsafe and deteriorating road conditions immediately ahead. Apparently, these blokes have never driven around on an abandoned airfield. Then, there were pointed engineering assessments regarding the inherent instability of the bridge itself. Bridges aren’t safe, big deal. Lastly, there were… the bees. Bees…? Are you f’n serious right now…? Well, the sign was certainly trying to look serious and impressive enough, I suppose. But after running the gauntlet of far more frightful dangers, I really couldn’t be all that bothered by the highly unlikely threat of some stinging insect invasion. It seemed like some sort of sick bureaucratic joke, or a governmental attempt at a merry prank. There wasn’t a single bee anywhere in eyesight or earshot, for Pete’s sakes. The spindly little guardrail that was left to stop us was no match at all for my tall legs, although Renee did need a bit of a helping hand to circumvent it.

 

Above: The Bridge to Nowhere; Tiny Church (Loren Pratt’s Little Chapel), US 95 north of Yuma, Arizona.

 

You’ve probably never seen a gun that can lob a small nuclear bomb a mile across a battlefield. I sure as hell haven’t. But this cannon can. They don’t really call them “small nuclear bombs”, of course; that would sound needlessly crass and inhumane. The notion of firing nuclear bombs in such close proximity to our own boys’ boots on the ground would seem foolhardy at the very best, and downright stupid at the very worst. These, right here, are not “small nuclear bomb tossers” at all; they are, in military-jargon-speak, “tactical nuclear weapons”. It’s a perfect example of what our government names stuff when they want to do something really unwise, but make it sound mindlessly bland in an effort to minimize our imaginations into thinking that they’re actually doing something quite noble in our better interests. These guns have been fired, of course, but never at any foreign army or enemy. The only places where these toxic shells have ever fallen is in the desert wastelands of America, also known as the Yuma Army Proving Grounds.

 

Above: our welcome to Castle Dome City (left), and a tactical nuclear bomb-lobber (right) on US 95 north of Yuma, Arizona.

 

Sure, the baking desert sun might be absolutely relentless. But there is still no hell quite like a crowd of loud, annoying, uncivilized foreign tourists. We had passed them in their rental SUV’s, moping along at a cautiously annoying twenty miles per hour, several miles back. If I could have run them off the road into some of that “unexploded ordinance” that the roadside signs continually warned us about, I certainly would have. Now they were right behind us, clogging up the narrow wooden pathways of the Castle Dome Mining Museum. Where are those tactical nuclear weapons when you really need them…?

 

Above: church at Castle Dome City (left), and a creepy manikin (right) waiting in wait, somewhere in the dark corners of Castle Dome City.

 

Renee and I were in a hurry. We were trying to stay one step ahead of the tourist crowd at all times. The temperature hovered in the 110’s, and the sun was high and bright in the desert mountain sky. A slight breeze stirred up dirt and dust that blew through the buildings of this long-abandoned mining ghost town. Besides the tourists and the sole gatekeeper/host/tour guide of the property, the town was completely uninhabited. The only “humanity” to be found on the premises were a series of creepy mannequins, dressed up in period-correct costumes. Every room you entered and every corner you turned, you ran the risk of running straight into one of these un-human characters. Or, a foreign tourist. Same difference, I guess. This place was consistently full of silent surprises. It was hard to imagine people living like this out on the far fringes of the desert. Tiny one-room shanties with small spring mattresses filled the nooks and crannies of this bustling commercial micropolis. There was no air conditioning, little ventilation, few signs of running water, and no showers; it must have been a personal perspiration and hygiene hell. Yet people persisted, and even prospered, out here on the high desert for over a hundred years, right into the mid-1970’s. The tour guide made sure that we didn’t miss the perfectly preserved 1971 Pontiac GTO clone-convertible and the Porsche 911 lovingly protected by the last of the shanty-sheds at the far peripheries of the property. Apparently, the last remaining residents of Castle Dome had remarkably refined tastes in sports and muscle cars.

 

Above: walkway to the sawblade shack (left), and that beautiful Pontiac GTO (right), Castle Dome City, illustration by the author.

 

Kennedy Skatepark was quite a surprise. I’ve never seen a skatepark quite like this in my entire life… and trust me, neither have you. It’s a huge, but sparse, outdoor facility that appears professionally built in some places, and nightmarishly amateurish in others. The bowl was hardly skateable; the Skatelite-surfaced mini-ramp, however, had been built solidly enough that it was still a heap-ton of fun, even in its rapidly deteriorating state. The most remarkable feature, though, was the mellowly graded downhill ditch that ran right through the middle of the park, and terminated at a wide-rimmed bowl at the bottom. This was carving nirvana, and a once-in-a-lifetime skating opportunity for Renee. Here was a place where she could learn all of the basics of carving and pumping in an immensely enjoyable way, and at a bare minimum of risk. It was far too hot to skate it mid-day, of course, so we decided to come back the following morning instead when the temperatures would be far more manageable. In the meantime, she had some immediate skateboard upgrading to do.

 

Above: Kennedy Skatepark, Yuma, Arizona.

 

The local brick-and-mortar skate shop, Bordertown, was just a few blocks away. We went in to get some harder bushings for her brand-new Santa Cruz cruiser complete; the stock bushings were a wee bit too soft and unstable for her tastes. The salesman was immensely friendly and helpful; she really liked him a lot. So much so that she impulse-bought a couple pairs of Vans lo-tops before she left. Most skate shops would never see much of a market in the middle-aged mom demographic. Even fewer would take the time (or the energy) to walk a gal like Renee through the finer points of durometers, barrel bushings, and cup washers. But thankfully, Bordertown is a little bit smarter and more positively enlightened then most skate shops Renee has experienced thus far. And they’re winning. That quick $6-to-$60 upsell was swift, silent, and deadly evidence of that.

 

 

 

San Luis Skatepark, San Luis, Arizona.

 

 

My next two stops, the San Luis and Somerton skateparks, were largely for the benefit of Jeff Greenwood at Concrete Disciples. Both are agricultural towns that reside deep in the heart of boundless cotton fields that extend far over the distant horizon in every imaginable direction, just north of the US-Mexico border; again, skateboarding exists in the most unlikely of places sometimes. I got lost far too many times trying to find the parks, which gave Renee a few mad fits and spontaneous chuckles. The parks weren’t great. They weren’t even particularly good, if I had to be totally honest about it. But searching them out and documenting them for Jeffo made for a fun afternoon of hijinks and high adventure.

 

 

Somerton Skatepark, Somerton, Arizona.

 

“Renee really picked a great one this time. This hotel is the bee’s knees. We drove, walked, hiked, and skated for about fourteen hours straight today through the hottest and sandiest hell that I could have ever imagined, and we’re both sweaty, filthy, and bone tired. But our room features ice-cold air conditioning, crisp white linens, and by far the biggest bed that I’ve ever laid my eyes or my ass upon. Just outside our window, there’s an olympic-sized amoeba pool ringed by tall palm trees and gas grills. The sounds of splashing water and the smells of burning beef are far too tempting to resist. We came, we saw, we cheered, we changed straight into our swimming gear, and now we’re gonna run to that pool as fast as our tired feet can carry us.”

– from my journal

 

Our dinner destination was a swanky Italian joint in Yuma’s historic downtown district called “Da Boys”, a mafia-themed pizza and pasta emporium. The garlic-brushed and cheese-baked breadsticks came with both traditional and meat marinaras for our dipping and dining pleasure; we scarfed through several bowls of each, trying to determine which one was our favorite. By the time the pizzas materialized, we were stuffed… but they looked so damn delectible, we ate them up anyway. We tried to walk off the fat-and-carb overload by strolling around the city center, enjoying the nightlife and the history, but to no avail. That big ‘ol bed was beckoning loudly, and we were so exhausted that we weren’t in any real position to argue.

 

 

The game is on. It’s Sunday morning, and Renee and I back at Kennedy Skatepark, gearing up to get down with some early-morning carving. There’s a low-hanging cloud cover that is keeping the sun’s rays at bay, and the temperatures are remarkably mellow. Renee looks a little bit unsure about this whole inclined-wall business, but my enthusiasm is undeniably infectious. Within minutes, she’s following my intrepid lead and warily rolling into the ditch for the first time. She turns up and across the opposite wall, confidently cruises through the flat, and swiftly steers herself back up to the platform as if there’s nothing to it at all. What can I say? She had it in her the whole time. The gal is a natural.

 

 

“The Hell Hole” is an apt nickname for the Yuma Territorial Prison. Being an inmate here must have super-sucked. There’s a long list of dubious “crimes” that could have landed your unfortunate ass here… polygamy, armed robbery, murder, or being a rebel-rousing union organizer among them… and very few ways out. Tuberculosis, heat exhaustion, exposure, and insanity claimed a number of lives here; the testimonial graveyard sits high on a bluff overlooking the meandering Colorado River. The steel-matrix reinforced concrete and stone cells held up to six men apiece sleeping on steel beds; a small steel bowl served as the communal toilet, and the daily diet consisted of simple bread and water. Yet this prison was considered the height of “humane” and “sanitary” for its time. I’d hate to see what the inhumane and unsanitary prisons looked like.

 

Above, left to right: the guard tower, the cell block, and the (scary) interior of a cell. Yuma Territorial Prison, Yuma, Arizona.

 

As I was busily buying up my usual piles of postcards for friends and family back home, I found one that depicted the gate guards at the Marine Corps Air Station. “Gate Guards”, if you don’t know, are those old airplanes that are mounted up on pedestals outside your local airports and military bases. MCAS Yuma seemed to have quite a quiver of ’em standing outside their gates. I asked the sales guy for directions to where I might find them in person.

“Oh, they’re not there anymore. They’re long gone. Have been for years.”

“Are you sure about that…?” This sounded like pure horseshit to me.

“Sure am, sir!”

“Are you positive…?!” Sorry. It still sounded like horseshit.

“Sure as the day is long!”

“Well, alrighty then”. I put the postcards back in their slat. That would end up being the biggest mistake that I’d make all weekend.

 

 

Above: Ocean To Ocean Bridge (left) and Southern Pacific 2521 (right), Yuma, Arizona.

 

The final mission of the day was to go check out the validity of our postcard salesman’s assertions over at the Marine Corps Air Station Yuma. For some reason, I had my fair share of suspicions that this fine fellow might be completely full of catcrap; once an air base puts up a multi-million dollar “gate guard”, they are generally disinclined to take it down for almost any reason.

As we drove over to MCAS Yuma, my suspicions proved to be immediately founded. The planes were there, alright, baking away in the desert sun, exactly as I expected to find them; you could see them standing proud at the gates from nearly a mile away, for pete’s sakes. F’n postcard salesmen. If you can’t trust them, then who in the hell can you trust in this world anymore…?

Having found my favorite quarry of the bunch… an F-4B Phantom II… I casually approached the perimeter fence with Renee in tow, quietly stuck the lens of my camera through the chain link fence, and silently started to frame up and focus on my beloved subject for my shot. Just as I was getting ready to click the shutter, I heard excited shouts of “Hey, sir! Sir! Sir…!!“ from far off to my far right, in the general vicinity of the guardhouse. I knew right away that those voices were probably directed at me, and that I was probably in some sort of trouble. That happens a lot in my life, so I’m getting pretty used to it by now. I just wasn’t sure exactly why I was in trouble this time around. But I was definitely about to find out.

Renee and I were immediately detained by the Marine Corps. In the nicest of possible ways, of course. We certainly didn’t feel threatened or anything, just slightly perplexed. We were on a public sidewalk, after all, taking pictures of an obviously public display in a pretty public place. So, what in the good grace of God could be the problem…?

The Marines kindly explained that the angle I had chosen to shoot my beloved Phantom also had the potential to divulge “potentially sensitive national secrets”. Put another way: it was the stuff behind the Phantom (that I hadn’t really noticed) that was causing Renee and I our immediate grief. Ahh. I see. Well, would our kind Marines consider maybe escorting me to a slightly less sensitive spot to take my touristy photos…? Is that a possibility, fellas…?

Their initial answer was a pretty solid “No”. Renee immediately started to protest, but I held her at bay and encouraged her to be patient (and quiet); arguing with heavily armed guards is never the smartest of strategies. And besides, I could feel that my perpetual good fortune was about to kick in.

Just then, somebody important… I’m not sure who he was, exactly, but he certainly seemed like somebody you really wouldn’t want to f’k with… came on over and asked the guards what in Sam Hell was going on. The Marines explained the situation, and Mr. Important quietly advised them (in hushed tones) that it might be in their better interests to escort me about the place. I have no idea why this happened, by the way; I’m certainly nobody “important” at all. But I got my escorts, and I got my way, so I definitely wasn’t gonna be the halfwitted dumbshit that raised any protests at this juncture.

My Marine escorts were remarkably fine chaps. They seemed a little hesitant at first… but once they asked me what my story was, they thawed up quite a bit. That story, by the way, is that I have traveled all over the country taking photos of F-4 Phantoms, and have amassed quite an impressive collection of ’em. So, naturally enough, anytime I travel and come across another one, that becomes my big mission of the day. Simply put: I’m a Phantom Phanatic. Apparently my guards were, too, because once they heard my story, they suddenly became a hell of a lot nicer, and infinitely more cooperative. I got a lot of great snapshots that I was pretty proud of. It was a really grand time, and I’d like to thank them profusely for not throwing me in the brig or the pen.

 

Above: The “stealth” shot, and the art. F-4B Phantom II, MCAS Yuma, Yuma, Arizona.

 

The best shot of them all, however, was the very first one that I had silently taken through the fence. Thankfully, nobody had heard the shutter click in all the hubbub; if they had, my camera might well have been confiscated by Uncle Sam Himself. And it was a great photo, definitely the best of the whole bunch.

So, yeah, I was justifiably proud of my well-honed, punk-rock sleuthing skills. Quiet cameras are still the best stealth measures that money can buy.

 

 

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Tucson is a really fascinating place. Established by Jesuit missionaries in 1692, and incorporated in 1877 (making it the oldest incorporated city in Arizona), Tucson is lush with southwest lore and history set against a backdrop of colonial Spanish and Mexican influences. It is also a verifiable cornucopia of roadside attractions and oddities, as my favorite websites, Roadside America and Atlas Obscura, pointed out so extensively. More importantly, it is a modern metropolis of nearly a million people that live squarely in the shadow of the military-industrial complex. The infrastructure required to support this unlikely desert oasis means that the skateboarding opportunities here are simply outstanding. The best part of it all is that Tucson is a mere two hours away from my Phoenix home, maybe three if I manage to hit some traffic along the way. That allowed me the luxury of spending a few relaxing weekends in and around the city exploring the environs, and all of the colorful attractions that they had to offer. Tucson appealed to both the skater and the unapologetic nerd in me in really huge ways. It was, quite literally, the very best of both worlds. This is my photo-journal diary of my exploits and my many misadventures.

 

Photos, top to bottom: A-4 Skyhawk, illustration by the author; the Pima Air and Space Museum in Tucson, AZ; F-4C Phantom II at the museum; P-51D Mustang, illustration by the author; F-4E of the Thunderbirds; B-58/B-57/B-52 panoramic. Saturday, July 30^th, 2017

 

Tucson is probably best known to the outside world for the sprawling Air Force “boneyard” on the city’s far south side that serves as the final resting place for all sorts of advanced military aircraft…

Here, multimillion dollar jets are parked, slowly disassembled for their precious parts, and finally cut up and force-fed to the fiery smelter to be reduced to inglorious aluminum ingots. Sure, I may be an avid skater… but an aviation nerd (like me) does have his own set of peculiar priorities. This had to be my very first foray into the city, my inner geek simply wouldn’t have it any other way. Besides, I had evening dinner plans with Mr. Gesmer to discuss some pretty serious skateboarding business. The last thing I wanted to do was to show up at some swanky eating establishment all sunburned, sweaty, and stinky from skateboarding all day long.

Thankfully, the Pima Air and Space Museum that rests right across the street from the fabled boneyard has four air-conditioned hangars, all filled with amazingly historic aircraft, that offer extended respites from Tucson’s blistering sun. Unfortunately, they also have acres… maybe even a couple of square miles… of outdoor exhibits as well.

Nothing ever really goes as planned for me. I managed to show up sunscorched and stinky for dinner, anyway. Sorry about that, Dan.

 

Photo: Boeing B-29 “Sentimental Journey” and the quiet solitude of an aging admirer; Boeing B-17 “I’ll Be Around”, 309^th Group Museum, Pima Air and Space Museum. Saturday, July 30^th, 2017.

 

Photo: The Corona Calibration Project, Casa Grande, AZ. Saturday, October 28^th, 2017. Art by Juan Paris, courtesy of Premises Skatepark in Tucson, AZ.

 

Back in the 1960’s, spy satellite technology was still in its infancy. Satellites were pretty stupid back then, and were prone to getting lost and/or out of focus.

The answer for the US Intelligence Agencies was to arrange a series of concrete focal points and optical targets in the Arizona desert for spy satellites (and their masters) to use to orient and position themselves before proceeding on their clandestine sleuthing missions over the Soviet Bloc. These concrete targets are huge… at least a couple hundred feet square… yet oddly invisible to passers by due to their extremely low profile, and how readily raw concrete blends into the desert landscape. With a little bit of hiking through overgrown cactus thorns, I somehow managed to track three of them down in the span of about twenty minutes. It felt like something of an accomplishment.

 

Photo: The Domes, Casa Grande, AZ. Saturday, October 28^th, 2017. Art by Juan Paris, courtesy of Premises Skatepark in Tucson, AZ.

 

Just up the road from the Corona Calibration Targets was another abandoned technological wonder…

“The Domes” were erected in the late 1970’s to offer an advanced, climate-controlled structure where micro-electronics could be mass-manufactured out in the unforgiving, arid desert. Huge air bags were inflated, and a mix of concrete and insulating foam was sprayed over them… a foot thick in places… before the air bags were deflated, leaving the caterpillar-shaped buildings to stand solidly on their own. The factory was never completed; The Domes were soon abandoned, their subsequent owners vainly looking for a lot in life and a purpose for them. Ever since, they have attracted vandals, squatters, graffiti enthusiasts, visual artists, intrepid partygoers, photographers, conspiracy theorists, academic researchers, and fringe religious fanatics (including a rumored satanic cult) to their gracefully, yet mysteriously, arched interiors. When you talk inside The Domes, the reverberating echoes relentlessly bash away at your eardrums; the acoustics of this place are absolutely mesmerizing.  Jen, Chris, and I spent quite a bit of time yelling gibberish at the walls like crazy people, and listening to the crumbling walls loudly mumbling back. We are, if nothing else, easily entertained.

 

Photo: The mellow ditch I found near Continental Ranch; Franklin motor car illustration by the author; Continental Ranch Skatepark, Marana, AZ. Saturday, October 22^nd, 2017

 

Now, this is the sort of service that I expect from a publicly owned skatepark.

The landscapers are here, kicking the little Razor scooter bastards out of the skatepark, so that they can blow all of the dust and the debris out of the bowl with their high-powered air compressors. While they’re tidying everything up, I have a rare opportunity to shoot a few photos of the park for Jeff over at The Disciples without any snot-nosed little pukes mucking around in there. It’s a great start to an inevitably awesome day.

This is not a city-owned skatepark. That surprised me. It was built by the homeowner’s association (HOA) for the neighborhood, and it’s professionally maintained by the HOA as well. Thus, the landscaping crew that comes by every day to kick out all the Razor kid riffraff and clean the place up for skaters like me. I never liked the HOA concept very much in the past. But today, I am fuckin’ lovin’ it.

The razor scooter kids are intimidated by my sheer bulk and aloof attitude, just the way I like it. Because of that, I get a bunch of scooter-free runs all to myself in the bowls. The place is quite a handful: steep transitions and tight corners abound everywhere. The roll-in bank also has an abrupt kink right at the base that makes it feel much more like you’re dropping into a janky ditch. It was hard on the ‘ol knees, but it hurt really good.

As I was leaving Continental ranch and making my way through the maze of residential development, I spotted the first of the many ditches that I would discover scattered throughout Tucson’s rich environs. It was a super mellow ditch, but one that required the bare minimum of sweeping to skate… so why not take a moment out of my day to sweep and skate that bitch? There were no fences, no walls, no signs… okay, there may have been a sign, but I probably ignored it because signs are for dweebs and so easily disregarded… and spent about an hour boosting Boneless Ones and sliding Berts around in my serendipitous solitude. I had no way of knowing it at the time, but that little ditch would prove to be the Big Bang Moment for my exhaustive series of seek-and-skate ditch missions. Tucson does, after all, get a lot of rain in really short downspurts. Turns out, all of that wayward water has to get redirected somewhere.

 

Photos: 22^nd Street art, under the I-10 overpass; Santa Rita Skatepark’s bowls; art by Juan Paris, courtesy of Premises Skatepark in Tucson, AZ.

 

I must be at the wrong place. I’m at a city park… or what appears to be a city park, at least… driving around in circles through mobs of homeless people, looking for a skatepark. My map tells me that I’m at the right place, but my eyes aren’t really believing it. It doesn’t make a damn bit of sense. Who in their right mind would put a skatepark right in the middle of an overpopulated homeless camp…?!

Well, apparently, the city of Tucson would. Because that’s exactly what they did. After a few more minutes of navigating through and around an army of meth tweakers, I finally found the skatepark. Solidly surrounded by ten-foot-high, wrought iron fence. It made me wonder to myself whether its real intent was to keep the skaters locked in, or the homeless wanderers locked out…?

As I was walking toward the bathrooms… they were locked down, as it turns out, because of the homeless orgies that were going on inside back when they were open… I heard somebody behind me talking, repeatedly inquiring about skateboard lessons for their son. I wasn’t really sure who they were talking to, at first; when I finally turned around, I was kinda surprised to find that it was one of the homeless contingent, talking to me.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m not from around here. So I don’t have any idea whether this park offers skateboard lessons for your son. I just don’t know anything about it. Sorry.”

“Fucking fatass!”, she replied. “I’ll bet that if I had a goddamned cupcake, you’d be a lot nicer to me!” Then she stormed off, right back to the homeless camp.

Wow. That was a pretty rude bitch trip, right there.

On the other hand: I was kinda starving. So “cupcakes” did sound really good all of a sudden. Maybe I’m a fatass after all. Cupcakes. Yum.

It was a pretty rough start to the day, but the skatepark itself more than made up for the bad-attitude homeless gauntlet. Lots of big, gnarly bowls: an egg, a kidney, and a sprawling, mini-sized amoeba with hips and corners all over the place. I didn’t skate them very well, of course; my feeble mind was still pretty preoccupied with peeing and cupcakes. I did manage to pinch it up and get in a few runs, though. Smooth early-morning concrete shall never be passed by without at least a quick roll.

 

Photo: Kevin Coulthard standing solidly atop a backside tailslide, Santa Rita Skatepark; one of Tucson’s many boneyards that lie quietly in the shadow of the aircraft sprawl at Davis-Monthan Air Force Base; panoramic of Purple Heart skate park at Rita Ranch. Saturday, October 22^nd, 2017. 

 

Another long drive across town, and through Tucson’s infamous aircraft boneyard, brought me to another HOA-funded facility, this time on the extreme southeast corner of the city limits at a development called Rita Ranch, and a skatepark strangely named Purple Heart.

Purple Heart was a real departure from most of the skateparks I’ve visited this summer. Very large in terms of square footage, but very small in terms of obstacle size, this park is clearly built with the beginner skateboarder that is learning the basics in mind.

It’s roomy, mellow, and entirely unintimidating. Turns out, it also appeals to the aging, cupcake-eating fatass that is trying [in vain] to re-learn a few basics of his own.  The scooter kids here were unusually clingy… they were dead, set, and determined to be my best friend in the whole wide world… but once they left, the park was a lot of fun. I stayed for quite a while, and learned a few new tricks along the way. It’s been a while since I’ve said something like that.

 

Photos and illustraitons, clockwise from top left: Felix Lucero bust, Garden of Gesthamane; overview of Tucson from Windy Point Vista on the Santa Catalina highway; detail of Roadside Glowing Cocoon; C-130 “Tail on a Sidewalk”; Boondocks Lounge giant concrete bottle; Datsun 280Z; Rattlesnake Pedestrian Bridge; Little Anthony’s Famous Diner. Saturday, October 29^th, 2017.  

 

Photos: BLX, inside and out. Saturday, October 22^nd, 2017.

 

There are ten “skate shops” in Tucson and vicinity. Nine of those “shops” are either Zumiez, Tillys, or Vans outlets. That leaves a grand sum of one core, independent, brick-and-mortar skate shop anywhere in Tucson. It’s a stone’s throw from downtown, in the culturally rich Fourth Avenue arts-and-entertainment district. I was pleasantly surprised, even before I got to their front door. The neighborhood deserves a day of its very own to go and explore.

BLX… aka, “The Blocks”… is extremely skate-boutiquey. Lots of hipster “skate shoes”- Adidas, Nike, et cetera- and lots of east-coast urban street-skating flavor, circa 1996 or so. Ricky Oyola and Matt Reason would have found themselves right at home at BLX in their heydays. Slightly strange, considering that uptown Tucson is a world away from Philadelphia, geographically. But philosophically, they’re practically next-door neighbors.

 

Photos: Grijalva  Skatepark (above) and St. Johns School Skatepark (below). Saturday, October 22^nd, 2017. Art by Juan Paris, courtesy of Premises Skatepark in Tucson, AZ.

 

Prefab skateparks do exist in Tucson, for better or for worse.

The first one that I stumbled into, Grijalva Park, was the poster park for fucking uselessness.  I suppose that the ledges might have been functional enough… any idiot can build a simple box, after all… but the “quarterpipe” felt like it was way less than three feet wide, which threw a real monkey wrench into the cogs of my skating ambitions. I could envision a million means of getting thrown off the sides and into the air, but only a few functional ways of landing on a skateboard at the end of the battle. I settled on doing a few frontside rocks, just so I could say that I skated it. They scared the shittasticness right out of me, every single time. I’m really surprised that I managed to survive the experience.

St. John’s School was a million times better. Bigger, better maintained, and not nearly as deathly, I actually managed to get a little bit busy here. The ramps are silky smooth; with 92a Bullets under my feet, my board barely made a “whoosh” as I rode up and down the ramps. But black-painted steel isn’t the best surface-finish choice for the searing Tucson sun; my first slam felt like I was being tossed straight onto a sizzling frying pan. This park is probably really great for talented skaters that can bang out long lines of tricks, and never fall.

Old farts like me that bail on every third trick, and land on my ass with a splat? Not so much.

 

 

Photos: The enemy of core skateshops everywhere; classic VW Bug, illustration by the author; a memento of thoughtful customer service. Saturday, October 22nd, 2017.

 

My entire afternoon was a blur of mall-shop mystery-shopping…

Nine mall stores in six hours, whew. The only good thing about mega-malls are the neat cars that you sometimes find parked outside; today’s lucky find was a cherry red, lowered VW Beetle with a nifty roof rack. But once you step inside The Merchandise Mega Matrix, it’s all straight downhill from there.

There was one Zumiez, though, that shocked the shit right out of me. It must’ve been my lucky day, because I got this really great sales kid named Cam that actually knew his stuff. For Zumiez, this is tantamount to witnessing an army of pigs flying straight over a freezing hell. It just never happens. Or at least, it’s never happened  to me until today.

Cam knew decks. He knew what old guys like, and what old guys like are big boards with even bigger wheelbases. Cam pulled a sweet Welcome deck off the wall, and advised me that it might be something that I might wanna check out. He was right; that board was straight up my alley. If I’d had the fifty bucks at hand, and a compromised enough conscience to stoop down and support a mall shop, I might’ve broken down and bought the bugger. Thankfully, my perpetual peasant status precluded me from getting too spendy. That’s how I avoid most of my moral dilemmas these days: by maintaining an empty checking account at all times.

Then, Cameron went even bigger. I asked him if he knew where the area skateparks are. Of course, I already knew where they were; I’d just spent ten hours of my morning skating them, and beating up my own ass in the process. So I would definitely know if Cameron knew his stuff or not. He did. And what’s more, he even wrote them down for me, just so I wouldn’t forget where they were and what they were called. I was shocked plum stupid. I’d never had a Zumiez employee treat me with such friendly competence, ever. Hell, most “core” shops can’t even bring themselves to treat me with that level of genuine customer care and competency. Yet, here it was. Right at the mall shop.

Good job, Cam. Hats off to ya, kid.

 

Photos: A sampling of Tucson ditches, just waiting to be discovered, cleaned out, and skated. Sunday, December 10th, 2017

 

The Big Ditch Mission

Somewhere in Tucson, a quote-unquote “Super Ditch” lays patiently in wait. Cameron didn’t know where it was, although he knew practically everything else. The guys at The Blocks got me pretty close. The guys at Premises Skatepark put me in right touch with Liam Pace… he was out back skating the park when I called… who got me a little bit closer. But nobody seemed to know exactly where it was. And if they did, they definitely weren’t sayin’.

A not-so-quick search of Google Maps got me more data than I could have ever hoped for. There are dozens, perhaps hundreds, of ditches peppered throughout the greater Tucson Metro Area. Some small, some big, but all pretty super-looking from the sky-high view, it became increasingly clear that ditches might well be Tucson’s greatest single skateboarding resource. Yet, the real-deal “Super Ditch” still remained as elusive as ever. Armed with a few dozen printouts of various ditches in and around Tucson, my last weekend foray was at last underway. The thrill of the unknown and the promise of high adventure was beckoning me back south for one last great escape.

Once again, Mr. Gesmer factored heavily into my day, just as he had on my first foray into the city, creating an unintended (but extremely fortunate) bookend to my Tucson travels. We had another business meeting set up, this time over a hearty breakfast at Omar’s Hiway Chef Restaurant on the far south side of the city limits. Apparently, this is the second-best truck stop in the entire country, if their promotional propaganda is to be believed; for Dan, who has never eaten at a truck stop in his life, this seemed like a grand adventure. It looked, and tasted, like a throwback to the fifties; I have rarely eaten so many fats and carbs at one sitting, and damn did they taste good. Dan opted for the healthy-livin’ variety of garden veggie omelet, which got him a little bit of suspicious stink-eye from our tougher-than-the-ages waitress, who also managed to admonish my fat old flabby ass for not eating fast enough for her rushing-trucker timetable. It was a pretty tough crowd, but we weathered it with a few chuckles, and generally had a grand ‘ol time. After a few hours of discussing the finer details of skateboard wheels, socioeconomics, diesel (and skateboard) trucks, and slalom racing, it was high time for me to start on my massive ditch adventure. The concrete was waiting, and I was feeling pretty impatient.

There were twenty-four ditches on my itinerary. That represents more ditches in one day of skating than I’ve previously skated in my entire life. They came in all shapes, sizes, and forms, from uber-crusty, steep walled bastards to smooth, mellow, fast megaliths. A few were absolutely unskatable, a whole bunch of them were filthy… good thing that I brought my own broom, or I would have been sailing straight up shit’s creek all day long… but all were surprisingly accessible to the semi-determined, fun-loving skater. A couple could even be driven straight up to and parked beside, which was the ultimate in lazy lawbending convenience. And the only thing that ever stood in my way all day long were a few vertical poles (that were easily defeated by walking between them), and a couple of pipe fences (that were just as easily crawled through). But those small impediments aside, they were all freely accessible, as if I had an clear open invite to go skate them. Clearly, I took them up on that open invitation.

I intentionally started with the smallest and crustiest of ditches, and slowly worked my way through the city, and up to bigger and more intimidating ditches as the day progressed. When they got head-high, I started getting a little scared; by the time they topped out at ten, twelve, maybe fourteen feet, they were mortifying. Still, The Super Ditch lay in wait, silently awaiting my serendipitous discovery.

I had narrowed it down to three ditches. Only three ditches in the whole city looked like they might have “Super Ditch Proportions”. Surprisingly, all three were within close proximity to public greenways; shockingly, two of the three actually utilized the ditches themselves as part of their walking paths, which led me to believe that they might even be bust-free fun zones. I spent so much time sweeping and skating these smooth concrete monstrosities that I completely lost track of time, and nearly ran out of daylight in the process. As fun as they truly were, the Super Ditch (and its signature integral pipe infeed) remained steadfastly aloof and elusive. I was broken, sore, and exhausted. It was time to head home.

Before I left town, though, I decided to do a little bit of urban exploration. I wanted to see the city from the perspective of the bottom of a ditch, so I decided to follow it from one terminus to the other, just to see what I would find down there in the forgotten underbelly of Tucson’s infrastructural wasteland. A couple hundreds yards downstream, the ditch morphed from a slant-walled skate paradise to a straight-walled, featureless water hellway. The sand started to pile up, and vegetation began to grow in the flatbottom. It was a fascinating hike through the old industrial center of the cityscape, but it wasn’t any good at all for skateboarding.

I was just getting ready to turn around and head back to my comfy car confines when, all of a sudden, I walked around a corner, and surprised myself by finding that my mellow-walled ditch resumed just a few hundred feet further downstream. Not only that, but it looked like a far newer, and much smoother section than the well-weathered bit that I had just skated a half-mile uphill, a half an hour earlier. I threw my board back down, pumped up and down the sprawling walls, and started rolling very, very quickly to the distant footbridge that marked the concrete’s end. As I rolled up to the bridge’s shadow, I dragged my foot to a screeching stop, marveled at the massive cesspool in front of me, looked up toward the sky, and finally spotted my elusive quarry. Three distinctive mini-pipes that spilled into a micro-ditch, that in turn funneled straight into the massive chasm that I was currently standing in the belly of. Tucson’s Super Ditch, the prize of my day, had finally been signed, sealed, and delivered straight to my unsuspecting footstep.

I could finally rest, relax, take a deep breath, and take solace in the fact that my mental and physical exhaustion, my bumps and bruises, and my Tucson misadventures could finally be considered an incredibly resounding success.

 

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Skateboarding and traveling go hand in hand. Skateboarding is all about the new, the now, the unique challenges, and the struggle to succeed in the face of diversity and adversity. As skaters, we are always seeking out the next obstacle to overcome, the next barrier to clear, and the next trick to stick. But there invariably comes a time when you simply run out of things to do in your own town, city, or state, and your surroundings start to become a little bit stifling and inhibiting. You scene gets stale, old, and predictable… faces become a bit too familiar… and things start to get a little bit boring, mundane, and tedious. When that sentiment starts to creep in, that’s when it’s time to get up, get out, fill up the gas tank, hit the road, and breathe in the refreshing air of exploration and adventure.

Back in January of last year, Michael (Brooke, my boss at the time) came to me, and asked me what I had in mind, project-wise, for the upcoming year? Well, I had just gotten a pretty big promotion at the magazine… so what I mostly had in mind was a long stretch of micro-managing the staff, art-directing the upcoming issues, doing a little bit of editing, and basically taking it easy, sticking to the office life for the foreseeable future. Michael, unfortunately, had other ideas for my fate. His gently forceful counter-suggestion was that maybe it would be a really swell idea for me to hit the road again for the summer.

Now, this didn’t go over too well with me at first. I’m 45 years old, dude. My touring heydays are far behind me, good sir. My knees are nearly wrecked, and I live in a constant state of uncomfortable pain (at the very best). The last thing that my tired old ass wanted to do, was to go torture myself all summer long, and make a bunch of (already bad) physical ailments that much worse. No, sir, the office life sounds so much more relaxing and sedate. I think I’d much prefer to stick with that for a minute or two, thank you very much.

 

One of my all-time favorite people, from one of my all-time most memorable summer tours: my Summer Tour 2008 that I documented for Concrete Wave Magazine. Crazy Gary, blunt to fakie at the TOC Skateshop BBQ get-together at the Marshall, Illinois skatepark, Summer 2008.

 

A couple paragraphs back, I used the phrase “gently forceful counter-suggestion”. That was a bit of a misnomer, as I found out quite quickly. That really should have been much more accurately described as a “diplomatically delivered standing order”, because that’s what it ultimately became. There was no “suggestion” about it. Mike wanted my ass back out on the road, and that was pretty much the end of the debate and the dialogue on the topic.

Having lost this first round of our friendly pissing contest, I went back to my corner to get a little bit crafty. That’s when inspiration struck: instead of planning a skateboard tour for myself, why don’t I hook up my beloved micro-camper to my trusty Econobubble for the summer, and plan a camper tour that maybe involved a little bit of skateboarding here and there…? Ahhh! Now, here was a totally slacker notion that I could get genuinely excited about. The “slacker” bit was especially intriguing, because it directly appealed to the old, fat, lazy bastard that lives (and lives quite well) inside of me. Yet, there would be the slightest veneer of “work-related” tinting the whole excursion that would (hopefully) appease Mikey, and keep his “gently forceful counter-suggestions” happy (and at bay) for a moment or two. It was also a really crafty way, of course, of getting the Concrete Wave Expense Account to pay for what would end up being some pretty kick-ass mini-vacations.

 

 

The icing on my lazy cake was the serendipitous discovery of two websites that I stumbled upon one day, while I was busy nerding out over some research. They were, in order, Roadside America (www.roadsideamerica.com), and Atlas Obscura (www.atlasobscura.com). These sites are all about roadside oddities… things like “The World’s Largest Teflon Frying Pan”, for example… and vintage Americana. You know, your basic gee-whiz, how-‘bout-that, touristy-trap sort of stuff. The stuff that is really easy on the eyes… and even better, easy on the knees… because it has nothing to do whatsoever with skateboarding, and everything to do with wandering around all over hell and creation, and gawking around like a bleedin’ idiot. If there’s anything that I’m good at in life these days, then that’s probably it. With a bunch of free campsite suggestions in hand from my other brand-new buddies over at www.freecampsites.net, I was ready and rarin’ to get my summertime started…!

 

The Micro-Camper at Fool’s Hollow State Park, near Show Low, Arizona, Spring 2017.

 

Strangely, my desire to avoid skateboarding at all costs, and to do almost anything in the world but skate, led to one of the busiest skate-summers that I’ve lived in recent memory. Old working relationships were rekindled… namely with Jeff Greenwood at Concrete Disciples, who I lean on to help me find the skateparks along my travel path… and who I, in turn, help out by sending updates regarding those parks, along with the new parks that I stumble into in my wayward wanderings. Because I live in the desert southwest these days- a part of the country where flood control and water diversion are key and critical concerns- I’m also routinely astounded by the impressive concrete infrastructure that I get to unearth, skate, and experience along the way. Just last weekend, I skated seven skateparks… and even better, three surprise ditches… and let me tell you, it was so much fun that it f’n hurt. For an old, fat bastard that’s trying to not skate very much these days, I’m suddenly finding myself skating more than I ever have in my entire life. It is, quite literally, Living The Dream. The skater’s version of “The Dream”, at least.

 

Memorial Park, as documented for our media partner, Jeff Greenwood over at Concrete Disciples. You’ll read more about this trip later in the issue in my “And The Road Goes On” article. Nogales, Arizona, Sunday, March 18th, 2018.

 

April was slated early on to be designated “The Travel Issue”, mostly because I was sitting on so many unpublished stories from my misadventures last year. Out of the thirteen articles that I wrote, I only published four of them [on the Concrete Wave website]. The rest of them sat around collecting dust, waiting on some small, yet significant edits that would polish them off, and make them truly read-worthy. But because I was spending so much time traveling around, skating stuff, doing my tourist-gawking, and wrecking my body, the articles ended up staying static in these various states of almost-completion throughout the entire summer, much of the fall, and well into the winter.

I decided, early on, that this spring would be the ideal time to get those finished, and finally published as they were meant to be presented: as a complete series of stories, chronologically in order. The 2017 stories are all titled “The Summer Camper Tour 2017, Report Number (Whatever)”. I bunched them all together on the site, to keep the navigation as easy and simple as possible.

For the 2018 series, I’ve decided to change the titles to “And The Road Goes On”; you’ll see that with this month’s Sierra Vista piece, and next month with the upcoming Brawley article. That change in working titles reflects a brand-new perspective on my summertime travels: rather than staying on the road for a single year (as Michael and I had originally intended), I’ve decided that these adventures are so stupidly fun that I really should consider making these travel-articles an ongoing project that I can continue to work on, perennially, well into my retirement years. As long as my body holds up reasonably well, and there’s a promise of some neat new adventure out there, just over the horizon somewhere… well, why stop? Why give up on such a fun way of living out the remaining balance of my life…?

 

Believe it or not, I discovered this ditch completely at random while heading back to the highway from an impromptu abandoned-airfield exploration. Being a certifiable aviation nerd really pays off sometimes; you’ll read a lot more about that in my “And The Road Goes On” article, too. Palominas, Arizona. Sunday, March 18th, 2018.

 

In addition to my completed series of summertime stories, we also have Daniel Fedkenheuer’s second installment of his “Letters From New York” series; a Las Vegas road-trip article form the legendary Jim Goodrich; and a 13,000 word literary tour-de-force from Galen DeKemper. Galen’s work could be accurately described as skateboarding’s modern-day incarnation of Jack Kerouac, Hunter S. Thompson, Charles Bukowski… or maybe, most accurately, an autobiographical version of JD Salinger. Galen is, quite fairly, a little bit of all of the above, and yet not quite any of them at the same time. You can squint and see the influences here and there in his work, yet he still has a unique style all his own.

Some people… the “Nagging Naysayer” contingent of pansies and pussies, as always… will surely question the wisdom of presenting such a lengthy leg-stretcher of an article online, in a day and age when people generally eschew reading even the tiniest of thought tidbits. To that criticism, I say, “Fuck It”. Everything Skateboarding exists to expand boundaries, push buttons, and try new stuff. That is, after all, what skateboarding is all about.

Enjoy the issue, see you next month.

 

Bud Stratford, Executive Director, Everything Skateboarding

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I had a pretty amazing month last month. Throughout March, I received quite a few e-mails and messages from really talented skaters, asking if they could write, photograph, paint, or draw for Everything Skateboarding. Now, I knew that sooner or later, Everything Skateboarding was going to become a destination for these sorts of super-creative people… okay, wait. Maybe it would be far more accurate for me to say that “I hoped that, sooner or later, Everything Skateboarding was going to become a destination for these sorts of super-creative people”. I didn’t really “know” anything about it at all; rather, I had a guesstimated sort of hunch that it might occur, eventually. But never in my wildest dreams did I ever think that “eventually” would happen in our third month of existence. Third year, perhaps. But, third month…?! That’s just crazy.

When people started sending in their submissions, I was blown away by how subdued and humble their tones were. Almost to the point of sounding bruised and wounded. They’d write things like, “Hey, I know this might not be your kind of vibe, or the sort of article you’re looking for… but I’d be so honored if you’d at least give it a read, and consider publishing it.” Apparently, these people didn’t quite get the memo regarding what an anarchic, troublemaking fucktard I really am at heart; they must have mistakenly assumed that I was some sort of “professional” or something. In any rate, the submissions came largely from people that clearly weren’t very confident about their chances of being successfully published at Everything Skateboarding. My job, last month, was to basically give those people mojo. That’s what made my job last month so damned epic.

 

Art embellishments by this month’s Featured Artist, Carson Smith. See the rest of the featured artworks, and learn more about the immensely likable fellow behind them, here.

 

Now, don’t think for a minute that we’re slacking on our standards over here. Oh, no sir, don’t even think that for a fucking second. I am a super mega-bitch about quality content, and I have extremely discriminating tastes to the point of being massively obsessive-compulsive about the most insignificant things, like how many commas were in “this” piece, or having to create a sludge-tossing stinkfest over a single word in “that” submission. It just turned out that we had really good, solid, quality articles come floating in this month that didn’t require me to play The Bitch Card too much. Just a smidge, as the poor staffers will surely attest to. But not too much.

The quality of the submissions actually surprised me a few times. In those moments, I felt compelled to actually ask the writer, “Hey, if you don’t mind me asking… but why didn’t you submit this to somebody far bigger and better paying than my stupid little website will ever be…?” The answers were fairly consistent, which was another strange surprise: nobody picked them up. These were the unwanted articles that were coming my way, the rejects of the skateboarding mass media, the red-headed stepchildren of skateboard literature. Yet, in my world, they were golden. I was constantly left in a confounded, head-scratching state, asking myself why the skateboard mass media had up and lost its fucking mind, and how I got so damned lucky all of a sudden. The answer, of course, is that our beloved skateboard media… just like so many other things in the world of skateboarding… has it’s very own “Cool Club” at work.

 

Art embellishments by this month’s Featured Artist, Carson Smith.

 

The problem with Cool Clubs, as we all know, is that they are exclusionary by nature. It’s just how they operate. And with many Cool Clubs, exclusion is the whole point of the exercise; that’s what they specifically exist to do, almost by definition. Their whole goal is to create a world where we and our snot-nosed little elitest fuckhead buddies get in, and “they”… the squares, the nerds, the geeks, and the kooks of the world… don’t. It’s an ethos that’s basically rooted in insecurity and self-loathing, of course; anyone that has to make themselves feel better by cutting everyone else down has some real problems on their hands and in their heads. It’s basically an emotional, intellectual, and philosophical shit show, which is why I tend to hate Cool Clubs so hard. Because they’re rooted in so many levels of dysfunctional narcissism, and only perpetuate envy and evil every bleedin’ step of the way.

Here at Everything Skateboarding, I’ve sort of evolved into The Ultimate Yes Man. I spent a lot of time last month saying things like, “Man, this is really great! How much do you want for it?!” Which, depressingly, seems to take everyone seriously aback at first exposure. People were so blown away, they simply could not believe what they were hearing (or reading). “Ummm….. did this chap really just say ‘yes’ to me…? And then, on top of that, actually offer to pay me for my contributions…!? Wow. I’m really not sure how I should be handling that right now.” Man, that’s a real kick in the nuts when you realize (as I did so may times last month) that people are actually so used to being shit on and beaten down these days, that anyone that shows even the slightest bit of encouraging, empowering, and engaging empathy is genuinely surprising, to the point of actually inspiring shock from the recipient of said positivity. What the fuck does that say about modern humanity, when one simple, slightly enthusiastic “yes” can have such an outsized effect on people…?

 

Art embellishments by this month’s Featured Artist, Carson Smith.

 

The best part of my job, is hearing the steaming enthusiasm that comes chugging down the tracks, once people fully realize that some pseudo-important dorkmeyer actually said “yes” to them for a change. Even when I bear the bad news that The Editorial Bitch (that’s me) is gonna make a few (generally small and insignificant) changes to the article- that’s always okay! They’re still stoked! Because now, they get to work with somebody in a collaborative manner, which is still far better than being shunned and ostracized by a bunch of Cooler-Than-Thou Cockwaffles. Even better: they get to work with like-minded and like-spirited artists that have also been ostracized and shunned, and now have a happy home where they can freely frolic, and do whatever they like to do, and do it well, with a bare minimum of fuss and intrusion from Yours Truly.

More than a neat little niche web ‘zine, we are building a prototype of a brand new kind of Cool Club. One that is actually cool to other people, and outwardly embracing and encouraging of their quirks. It’s inclusionary… there’s that Michael Brooke influence, again… which is the exact opposite of exclusionary. The only “rule” of this Cool Club, is that you have to have it in your heart and your head to actually be cool to other people in return. Pay it forward. That’s all. It’s pretty simple, and easy to do. It’s so easy to do, in fact, that I openly wonder sometimes why the rest of the f’n world can’t seem to figure simple shit like this out.

If you can pull “legit cool” off, and you do it with style and gusto, then you’re in, kid. Welcome to the nicer, kinder, and cooler cool club. We’re so happy to have you on board, we’re actually giddy about it.

Bests, as always-

 

Bud Stratford
Executive Director,
Everything Skateboarding

This essay is dedicated to the staffers, the contributors, and the advertisers that are making all of this possible. You guys and gals are the best of the best. Thankfully, you’re also the future. That means that the future is looking pretty f’n bright right about now. Cheers to each and every one of you.

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The Newsletter is here to keep everyone in the Phoenix skate scene up-to-date and in-the-know about upcoming events and happenings. Below, you’ll find the February and March community calendar with detailed information about each event. If you have an event you’d like to add (or corrections for any of the events below), please e-mail the information to budstratford@aol.com. Thanks for supporting your local skate scene, and your local skate shops…!

 

 

 

Last Sunday of every month, 9am to 1 pm (or so):
The Sunday Sessions

Presented by the skate shops, skate companies/brands, and the skate media of the greater Phoenix Metro area
Held at various local skateparks around the valley, 9 am – 1 pm every Sunday (or Saturday evening if Sunday will be too hot)

Contact: Bud Stratford (or any local skate shop or skateboard company) on Facebook

Cost: Free for anyone to come, skate, and have fun.

 

Mark your calendars! The first of The Sunday Sessions will be happening on Sunday, May 27th, 2018 at Litchfield/Goodyear skatepark at 3151 N Litchfield Rd, Goodyear, AZ 85395.

The Sunday Sessions are intended to be free-to-attend, open skate sessions for skaters of all ages and abilities, held at the various Phoenix local skateparks on the last Sunday of every month (or Saturday evening, in the heat of the summer). The idea is to rotate them through all the local parks throughout the year, starting on the far west side, and working our way clockwise through the valley. Designed to get skaters together and to build the strength of the local skateboarding community, these events will be hosted and funded by the local Phoenix skate brands and shops, and will feature team riders, “Learn To Skate” sessions, spontaneous mini-contests here and there (for those that are competitively inclined), dork trick sessions, bar-b-ques, and prizes and giveaways from the participating brands and shops.

The goal here is to keep the community tight, and to keep skaters stoked and hyped on skating via regularly-scheduled get-togethers.

 

Tentative 2018 Locations Calendar:

The Sunday Sessions (Goodyear) Sunday, May 27th 

The Sunday Sessions (Rio Vista) Sunday, June 24th (or Saturday the 23rd)

The Sunday Sessions (Surprise Farms) Sunday, July 29th (or Saturday the 28th)

The Sunday Sessions (Union Hills or Paradise Valley) Sunday, August 25th (or Saturday the 24th)

The Sunday Sessions (Eldorado Park/The Wedge) Sunday, Sept 30th (or Saturday the 29th)

The Sunday Sessions, Special Road Trip Weekend! Lake Havasu City, AZ, weekend of Saturday and Sunday, October 20th and 21st

The Sunday Sessions (Freestone) Sunday, October 28th

The Sunday Sessions (Pecos) Sunday, November 25th

The Sunday Sessions (Cesar Chavez) Sunday, December 30th

 

 

Every Sunday morning at 9am:
Sunday Morning Mass
At various local skateparks, 9am every Sunday
(Typically Foothills/Union Hills Skatepark, 5752 W Union Hills Drive, Glendale, AZ 85308)
Contact: Prevent This Tragedy or Adam Richards on Facebook

Skaters of all ages congregate at local area skateparks every Sunday morning in and around
Phoenix. Free for anyone to come, skate, and have fun.

 

Every Wednesday, 3 pm – 6pm, and 6 pm – 9pm:
All-Girls Skate Session
91 West Skatepark
8550 N 91st Ave, Unit 54,
Peoria, AZ 85345
Phone: (623) 236-3033

Open to all girl skaters, $5 per participant, this is a chance for girls of all ages to skate together. Air conditioned comfort in the summer is an added bonus.

 

Every Thursday, 7 pm to 9 pm, $11.00:
Old-School Skate Night
Kids That Rip (aka KTR)
1927 N Gilbert Rd, Mesa, AZ 85203
Phone: (480) 844-9600

Open to all skaters, $11 per participant, 7-9 pm every Thursday.

 

Every Friday Night, 7 am to midnight, Free:
Friday Night Sessions at Gobber’s
Contact: Chris Gobber via Facebook

Free weekly skate session at Chris Gobber’s private backyard skatepark. Happens most Fridays. You must do this at least once, or you just haven’t lived. Fun for all ages and abilities. Friend him on Facebook to get updates and an invite.

 

 

 

 

Lifestyle Skate Company Presents:
Chill-N-Grill
Saturday, April 21st, 2018
The Wedge at Eldorado Park, 2311 N Miller Rd, Scottsdale, AZ 85257
2 pm to 8 pm (or so), $3 entry free for competitors, Free for everybody else

The guys at Lifestyle are putting on another of their super-fun “Chill-N-Grill” events, this time at The Wedge at Eldorado park in Scottsdale. We went to the last one at Hudson Park in Tempe, and it was a total blast! Hot dogs, cold Cokes, free pizza (provided by Spinelli’s Pizza), and a relaxed, mellow skate contest format that allowed participants to go off and really show the best of what they can do, this event is sure to be a raging time for both the contestants and the spectators.

 

 

Everything Skateboarding Magazine Presents:
Phoenix CitySkate 2018
Saturday, April 14th, 2018
Meet at the Central and Camelback Lightrail Station/Park-and-Ride
9 am to Noon (or so), Free

It’s that time again! Time to announce the first of the CitySkate cruises for 2018. Just like last year, the date is set for mid-April; Saturday, April 14th, 2018, to be exact.

If you were at last year’s CitySkate cruise, the itinerary is almost exactly the same as last years’. If you weren’t, here it is:

We’ll be starting at 9 am at the Lightrail stop at Central and Camelback. We’ll make our way south on 3rd Ave, using the bike lanes of the Sonoran Bikeway, through the historic neighborhoods of Medlock Place, Pierson Place, Yaple Park, Midtown, and Park Central. At McDowell Road, we’ll traverse over to 5th Ave, and continue south through the Willo Historic District. We’ll stop for a rest and water break at Encanto Park, where you can feed the ducks and the pigeons (if you’re a birdfeeding sort of soul), then continue through the Encanto-Palmcroft, Kenilsworth, and Roosevelt toward the central city. For this year’s cruise, we might skate over to the Capitol Building before heading back to the Lightrail station at van Buren and Central. The Lightrail will take us back to our starting point; bring $2 (cash or credit/debit) for the train ride back.

The whole cruise is roughly 7-8 miles one way. The gradient is slightly (but imperceptibly) downhill the entire way, and the route is very skate-safe for all ages and abilities.

Lunch will (again) be at Joyride, 5202 N Central Ave, Phoenix, AZ. This is an “upscale Mexican” restaurant with excellent (and affordable) taco plates, delicious enchiladas and burritos, and awesome sides. It’s also remarkably vegan friendly.

There will be demo boards on hand, provided by our event sponsors: Carver Skateboards, Seismic Skate Systems, and Loaded Longboards.

All attendees will get “Thanks For Attending” prize packs, filled with goodies provided by our our sponsors: Concrete Wave Magazine, Carver Skateboards, Seismic Skate Systems, Loaded Longboards, Orangatang Wheels, Bamboo Skateboards, Abec 11, Concrete Disciples, along with local skate shops Scottsdale Sidewalk Surfer, Freedom Boardshop, State Rideshop, and Cowtown Skateboards.

 

 

Concrete Wave Magazine Presents:
Phoenix Roll For Peace 2018 (Morning)
Sunday, April 22nd, 2018
Meet at Morning Squeeze, 4233 N. Scottsdale Rd, Scottsdale, AZ
8 am to 10 am (or so), Free

This years’ “Roll For Peace” event, spearheaded by Concrete Wave Magazine, is happening again on Sunday, April 22nd, 2018, at 8 am.

If you were at last year’s Roll For Peace cruise, the itinerary is almost exactly the same as last years’. If you weren’t, here it is:

We’ll be starting at 8 am at Morning Squeeze, 4233 N. Scottsdale Rd in Scottsdale, AZ. From there, we’ll make our way around old town and downtown Scottsdale to check out the sights and sounds for a couple hours, finishing back at Morning Squeeze. This is a casual, no-itinerary roll, using city sidewalks; skaters of all ages and abilities are encouraged to participate.

There will be demo boards on hand, provided by our event sponsors: Seismic Skate Systems and Loaded Longboards.

All attendees will get “Thanks For Attending” prize packs, filled with goodies provided by our our sponsors: Concrete Wave Magazine, Carver Skateboards, Seismic Skate Systems, Loaded Longboards, Orangatang Wheels, Bamboo Skateboards, Abec 11, Concrete Disciples, along with local skate shops Scottsdale Sidewalk Surfer, Freedom Boardshop, State Rideshop, and Cowtown Skateboards.

 

 

Edited…! New details below (in bold):

 

 

Concrete Wave Magazine Presents:
Phoenix Roll For Peace 2018 (Evening)
Sunday, April 22nd, 2018
Meet at the Van Buren and Central Lightrail Station
5 pm to 8 pm (or so), Free

This years’ “Roll For Peace” event, spearheaded by Concrete Wave Magazine, is happening again on Sunday, April 22nd, 2018, at 5 pm.

If you were at last year’s Roll For Peace cruise, the itinerary is almost exactly the same as last years’. If you weren’t, here it is:

We’ll be starting at 5 pm at the Lightrail stop at 1st Ave and Jefferson. From there, we’ll make our way around downtown to check out the sights and sounds for a couple hours, finishing the evening at The Rose and Crown Pub, 628 E Adams St, Phoenix. This is a casual, no-itinerary roll, using city sidewalks; skaters of all ages and abilities are encouraged to participate.

There will be demo boards on hand, provided by our event sponsors: Seismic Skate Systems and Loaded Longboards.

All attendees will get “Thanks For Attending” prize packs, filled with goodies provided by our our sponsors: Concrete Wave Magazine, Carver Skateboards, Seismic Skate Systems, Loaded Longboards, Orangatang Wheels, Bamboo Skateboards, Abec 11, Concrete Disciples, along with local skate shops Scottsdale Sidewalk Surfer, Freedom Boardshop, State Rideshop, and Cowtown Skateboards.

 

 

Everything Skateboarding Magazine Presents:
Phoenix CitySkate 2018 Indian Bend Wash (May)
Sunday, May 20th, 2018

Meet at Chase Bank, 8999 E Shea Blvd, Scottsdale, AZ 85260
7 am to 10 am (or so), Free

The Indian Bend Wash Greenbelt is a long, smooth, paved greenway (that doubles as a flood control diversion ditch) that runs from Shea Road and 92nd Street, all the way to Tempe Town Lake, through McCormick Ranch, Chaparral Park, Camelback Park, Indian School Park, Continental Golf Course, and Eldorado Park, before continuing through Vista Del Camino Park and Rio Salado Park to Tempe Town Lake. It rolls steadily (but imperceptibly) downhill the whole way, and winds through some of the most beautiful scenicscapes in all of the Phoenix Metro.

This particular cruise is about nine miles in length, and ends at Eldorado Park, with multiple options for shorter lengths; there are bus stops at Chaparral park and Camelback Park for the less-ambitious and -adventurous of us. We get an early start, of course, to avoid the mid-day Phoenix heat.

For those that make the whole nine, the typically tired and hungry crew heads to Denny’s at 7605 E. McDowell Rd. to tank up on Grand Slams before catching the bus at the Hayden and McDowell bus stop to head back to the cars. 

All attendees should bring $2 in exact change for bus fare, plus money for the after-cruise breakfast. This cruise is open to skaters of all ages and abilities, and all are encouraged to attend. The cruise is extremely relaxing, and far less taxing than you would think, given the ambitious mileage involved.

There will be demo boards on hand, provided by our event sponsors: Carver Skateboards, Seismic Skate Systems, and Loaded Longboards.

All attendees will get “Thanks For Attending” prize packs, filled with goodies provided by our our sponsors: Concrete Wave Magazine, Carver Skateboards, Seismic Skate Systems, Loaded Longboards, Orangatang Wheels, Bamboo Skateboards, Abec 11, Concrete Disciples, along with local skate shops Scottsdale Sidewalk Surfer, Freedom Boardshop, State Rideshop, and Cowtown Skateboards.

 

 

 

Everything Skateboarding Magazine Presents:
Phoenix CitySkate 2018 Indian Bend Wash (June)
Sunday, June 17th, 2018
Meet at Chase Bank, 8999 E Shea Blvd, Scottsdale, AZ 85260
7 am to 10 am (or so), Free

The Indian Bend Wash Greenbelt is a long, smooth, paved greenway (that doubles as a flood control diversion ditch) that runs from Shea Road and 92nd Street, all the way to Tempe Town Lake, through McCormick Ranch, Chaparral Park, Camelback Park, Indian School Park, Continental Golf Course, and Eldorado Park, before continuing through Vista Del Camino Park and Rio Salado Park to Tempe Town Lake. It rolls steadily (but imperceptibly) downhill the whole way, and winds through some of the most beautiful scenicscapes in all of the Phoenix Metro.

This particular cruise is about nine miles in length, and ends at Eldorado Park, with multiple options for shorter lengths; there are bus stops at Chaparral park and Camelback Park for the less-ambitious and -adventurous of us. We get an early start, of course, to avoid the mid-day Phoenix heat.

For those that make the whole nine, the typically tired and hungry crew heads to Denny’s at 7605 E. McDowell Rd. to tank up on Grand Slams before catching the bus at the Hayden and McDowell bus stop to head back to the cars. 

All attendees should bring $2 in exact change for bus fare, plus money for the after-cruise breakfast. This cruise is open to skaters of all ages and abilities, and all are encouraged to attend. The cruise is extremely relaxing, and far less taxing than you would think, given the ambitious mileage involved.

There will be demo boards on hand, provided by our event sponsors: Carver Skateboards, Seismic Skate Systems, and Loaded Longboards.

All attendees will get “Thanks For Attending” prize packs, filled with goodies provided by our our sponsors: Concrete Wave Magazine, Carver Skateboards, Seismic Skate Systems, Loaded Longboards, Orangatang Wheels, Bamboo Skateboards, Abec 11, Concrete Disciples, along with local skate shops Scottsdale Sidewalk Surfer, Freedom Boardshop, State Rideshop, and Cowtown Skateboards.

 

 

 

This is the definitive list of every skatepark in the Phoenix Metro. It’s in geographic order, starting at the far west suburbs and working clockwise around the city.

 

Buckeye Skatepark
299 N 9th St, Buckeye, AZ 85326
8 am to 9 pm every day

 

El Mirage Skatepark/Gateway Park
10100 N El Mirage Rd, El Mirage, AZ 85335
6 am to 10 pm every day

 

Surprise Skatepark/Surprise Farms Skate Park
15798-15826 N 175th Ave, Surprise, AZ 85388

 

Goodyear Skate Park/Litchfield
3151 N Litchfield Rd, Goodyear, AZ 85395
7 am to 10 pm every day

 

Dust Devil Park
10645 W Camelback Rd, Glendale, AZ 85307
5:30 am to 10 pm every day

 

X-Court BMX Park
6101 N 83rd Ave, Glendale, AZ 85303
9 am to 10 pm every day

 

91 West Skatepark
8550 N 91st Ave, 54, Peoria, AZ 85345
(623) 236-3033
91westskateparkpeoriaaz.com

 

Desert West Skateboard Plaza
6602 W Encanto Blvd, Phoenix, AZ 85035
5 am to 10 pm every day

 

Peoria Skatepark/Rio Vista Park
8866 W Thunderbird Rd, Peoria, AZ 85381
8 am to 10 pm every day

 

Foothills Skatepark/Union Hills
5752 W Union Hills Dr, Glendale, AZ 85308
9 am to 10 pm every day

 

Anthem Community Park
41703 N Gavilan Peak Pkwy, Anthem, AZ 85086
6 am to 10 pm every day

 

The Refuge Youth Center
401 W Deer Valley Rd, Phoenix, AZ 85027
(480) 226-2019
therefugeyouth.com

 

Paradise Valley Skate Park
17642 N 40th St, Phoenix, AZ 85032
8 am to 9 pm every day

 

McDowell Mountain Ranch Skatepark
15525 N Thompson Peak Pkwy, Scottsdale, AZ 85260

 

Fountain Hills Skatepark
10441 N Saguaro Blvd, Fountain Hills, AZ 85268
Open 24 hours

 

Eldorado Park/The Wedge
2311 N Miller Rd, Scottsdale, AZ 85257

 

Reed Skate Park
1631 E Broadway Rd, Mesa, AZ 85204
8 am to 10 pm every day

 

Fountain Plaza (New!)
417 E Southern Ave, Mesa, AZ 85204
Open daily 7 am to 10 pm

 

Kids That Rip – Mesa, AZ
1927 N Gilbert Rd, Mesa, AZ 85203
(480) 844-9600
kidsthatrip.com

 

Apache Junction Skatepark
1097-, 1135 W Southern Ave, Apache Junction, AZ 85120
8 am to 10 pm every day

 

AZ Grind Skatepark
8743 E Pecos Rd #136, Mesa, AZ 85212
(480) 888-0499
azgrindskatepark.com

 

Queen Creek Skate Park/Founder’s Park
22360-, 22426 S Ellsworth Rd, Queen Creek, AZ 85142
8 am to 10 pm every day

 

Freestone Skatepark
1045 E Juniper Ave, Gilbert, AZ 85234
5:30 am to 9:05 pm every day

 

Chandler Bike Park at Espee Park
450 E Knox Rd, Chandler, AZ 85225

 

The Bridge
824 W Germann Rd, Chandler, AZ 85286
(480) 326-2247
bridgeccc.com

 

Snedigar Recreation Center/Chandler Skatepark
4500 S Basha Rd, Chandler, AZ 85248
8 am to 10:30 pm every day

 

Kids That Rip Chandler/KTR Family Action Sports Center – Chandler, AZ
1050 E Pecos Rd, Chandler, AZ 85225
(480) 718-5872
www.ktr-centers.com

 

Copper Sky Skate Plaza
44345 M.L.K. Jr. Blvd, Maricopa, AZ 85138

 

Tempe Sports Complex/Tempe Skatepark
8401 S Hardy Dr, Tempe, AZ 85284
Open 24 hours

 

Esquer Park
2407 E McArthur Dr, Tempe, AZ 85281
6 am to 9 pm every day

 

Hudson Park
1430 S Cedar St, Tempe, AZ 85281
6 am to 10 pm every day

 

Mitchell Park Skatepark (New!)
S Mitchell Dr & 9th St, Tempe, AZ 85281

 

Pecos Skate Park
17010 S 48th St, Phoenix, AZ 85048
7 am to 10:45 every day

 

Hermoso Park
2030 E Southern Ave, Phoenix, AZ 85040
Open 24 hours

 

Cesar Chavez Skatepark/Cesar Chavez Park
7858 S 35th Ave, Laveen Village, AZ 85339
5:30 am to 11 pm every day

 

       

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“I make artwork in a lowbrow, illustrative style. I gather inspiration from many things including modern art such as skateboard graphics, and the environments I have grown up in including the ocean and the desert. With my illustrations, I try to create little worlds that I’d like to live in or explore. The characters sometimes represent people in my life, but mostly they are random dudes, dudettes, and animals that are just having a good time and being amused by the simple things in life!”

– Carson Smith

 

 

Carson is one of my all-time favorites. Once again, I met Carson at Phoenix’s First Friday festivities. If you’re starting to get the impression that Phoenix is a burgeoning hotbed of independent art, well, you’re pretty spot on the mark with that assessment.

Carson is a ton of fun. The highly saturated, colorfully whimsical characters will make you stop, look twice, and chuckle to yourself. Carson’s art makes people happy, and that is a damned admirable trait these days. Carson, the human, is a lot like his animated canvases; mellow, humble, and just the genuinely nicest kid you’ll ever have the pleasure to meet. I never walk away from the guy with a frown on my face; every time I see him, I end up having the time of my life.

Carson’s definitely going places. He can chalk up a recent artist profile in Concrete Wave Magazine, and his first show at The Sk8 Haus in Surprise, Arizona as most recent accomplishments, along with launching his own board brand, Taffy, which you can read all about here. The future looks bright, just like his illustrations. I can’t wait to see what the future has in store for him.

– Bud Stratford, Executive Director, Everything Skateboarding

 

 

 

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There’s been a bunch of stuff sitting in my inbox collecting dust over the past few weeks. So, with that finally (and reluctantly) acknowledged, I decided it was high time to peck out a quick Newsworthy segment. Let’s have at it:

In Concrete Wave Magazine news, the “Mystery Contest” is well under way. I’ve been playing along, and it’s been a real hoot. I just got this update a few days ago:

“We have now given away the following:

– Vol 1 No 1 of Concrete Wave
– Frank Nasworthy’s URETHANE WHEEL
– A Flying Aces deck with over 40 legendary signatures
– A personal letter outlining my vision of the next 20 years of concrete wave

We are now ready for our next giveaway. Per Welinder, the legendary freestyler who was a pioneer of street skateboarding will be sending our lucky winner the following:

– Welinder t-shirt
– A personal letter signed by him

Check out these ground breaking moves from 1985:

So, now you know the prize, tell me why you want to win it.

Note: if you have already won, you can’t win again – but you can definitely bring in more people to this contest. We have a few more openings. You have until March 15 to enter.

My sincere thanks to you all. Good things are brewing in CW land.

Cheers, Michael”

This might be something that you’ll want to jump on, especially if you’re a freestyle fan. Simply e-mail mbrooke@interlog.com to enter.

 

 

The fellas over at Loaded always put out the funniest press releases! Here’s the latest:

“For Immediate Release:
Culver City, CA – March 2, 2018

Once a legend, now a mystery, his signature style and outlandish personality inspired a generation. We know you miss him, and we do, too. He has not been forgotten, and neither has his truck.

Now the legend is back—at least his truck is, anyway!

Available in limited quantities, Paris (re)introduces: The Adam Colton Signature Paris V2 Truck

Get noticed and enhance your longboarding trickery by 1,000%. Available now at your favorite Paris Truck Co. dealer (quantities limited, so act accordingly).

Taking you back to those simpler times when chopping wood was the only one-footed trick, early grabs were full of grunts, and the best way to improve your balance was by skating more… Check out the crew pushing these monsters in classic Adam Colton style!

Specs:

– Paris V2 180mm, 50° truck
– 90a Paris bushings
– Signature Adam Colton original artwork”

See Adam’s re-ish, and the rest of the Paris lineup at www.paristruckco.com.

 

 

 

I always have the funniest exchanges with Ally Redmond over at Turner PR (the firm that handle’s DC’s media outreach efforts). Today, I got this from Ally: a head-up that DC Shoes is re-releasing some of their iconic ’90s skate styles, including (from left to right) the Stag, the Syntax, and the Kalis, in a multitude of colorways (not just the white shown below). We also discussed “Dad Shoes” (apparently, a hot thing in the sneaker world right now), and male uniboobs (hopefully, not a hot thing anywhere). Maybe someday Ally will submit to that interview I’ve been begging her to do, ‘cuz she’s such a sweetheart. Until then, check out the rest of the ’90s footwear re-pops at www.dcshoes.com.

 

 

Like The Label, H-Street sends over regular updates on their newest as well. This time around, it’s the new rider from one of my favorites, Dave Hackett:

“Hackett Slash Deck/XL

It’s back in stock, with new colorways. The artwork was originally done by Marc McKee for a benefit to raise money for the Hackman when he recovered from a serious bout with cancer number of years ago. It was then issued on a popsicle board, and didn’t really show the whole graphic as drawn by Marc.

We love his artwork and saw an opportunity to work with Hackett and Deathbox and put this amazing artwork on a board that Hackett can actually ride, which is 34 x 9.5, with a 6.5 Nose and 7.3 Tail, in a 16 Wheelbase.

The XL is made with the Thick Bitch layup of 5-2, which will support the gnarliest, heaviest duty pool skaters out there.

It comes with Watson’s famous hand silk screening, where the grey on the board is a metallic silver, which is hard to tell in the photo but looks super killer when you see it.

This is a very limited run, only 60 boards in total are made. We’d also like to congratulate the legendary David Hackett for making it into the 2018 Skateboarding Hall of Fame, much deserved.”

It’s about time the Thick Bitch made a comeback; they always make for a great ride, don’t they? I might have to up and score one of these puppies for myself…

 

 

Also from Deathbox: the newer, smoother, less abrupt David Hackett “Rocket” Model. Now, this is something for me to get really excited about; my old Purple Heart model is wearing a bit thin, and the new Rocket looks a wee less harsh than the previous, much more angular version was. Look to see a What We’re Riding on this one sooner than later. See them here, or at http://www.h-street.com/category/deathbox-by-h-street.

 

 

 

 

Black Label sends over weekly updates, which is super-duper nice of them to do. Below is my pick of the month, the Jason Adams deck featuring his signature spray-can stencil art on a slightly rounded, Jeff Grosso-esque shape. The Kid is always a winner in my book. Jason also has a neat new clothing line out on Thee Teen-Aged called “Tough Kid”; peep the promo video below. God Save The Label; check out the rest of the current offerings at www.blacklabelskates.com.

 

 

Scott Oster. Now, there’s a legendary name in the skateboarding world. If you don’t know, Scott Oster was- hands down- one of the most stylish skaters ever, if not the most stylish skater ever. He has a re-issue coming out this week on Dogtown, here’s the full release:

“When you hear the name Scott Oster, the first thing that comes to mind is style. Style on board, and style on land! His frontside and backside slashes are as good as they come to this day, and his G-turns are classic. He is a contributing member of the 1980’s Venice Pavilion street evolution, along with Eric Dressen, Aaron Murray, Jesse Martinez and Christian Hosoi.

We are releasing a Limited Edition run of 45 signed and numbered, custom-sprayed, silk-screened Scott Oster reissue decks Made in the USA. The Jim “Red Dog” Muir custom spray has five coats of paint, and features a pearlescent white to Yves Klein blue fade. The Wes “Bull Dog” Humpston graphic art design is hand-screened with custom colors. We will be dropping the boards first come first serve at www.dogtownskateboards.com on Thursday, March 8th at 12:00pm”

Check out the Dogtown x Suicidal website at www.dogtownskateboards.com, or email info@dogtownskateboards.com.

 

 

I received an extremely mysterious press release from Seismic regarding a new race wheel they’re currently taking pre-orders for. Strangely, there were no pics of the wheels, themselves- just this pic (below) of the beasties in use. Although somewhat vague (and probably intentionally so), you can clearly see that this is a very large, and very wide wheel with an unusually large, almost-centerset core. Here’s what the (very descriptive) press release has to say about it:

“A Big Step Forward in Race Wheel Engineering
The Seismic ALPHA

Introducing the 75mm x 63mm Alpha Race Wheel:

– Stout S-shaped lip profile optimizes edge support, maximizes edge-hold under extreme G’s, and ensures predictable slide initiation & hookup
– 0.5mm concave running surface pre-loads lips, heightens rebound, and enhances in-slide feedback
– 2% offset for progressive lip engagement and more consistent wear

Debuting our proprietary Fusion Core!

– Measures a whopping 46mm x 44mm – making it the largest & most supportive hub on the market for a wheel of this size!
– Deep “saddle” profile minimizes lateral wheel flex and creates outstanding mechanical lock w/urethane
– Unmatched edge support
– Robust bearing lugs
– Fiber-reinforced 85D – the strongest, toughest hub material in the industry

Poured in two Proprietary Formulas!

Defcon:

– Guinness World Record roll speed
– Directional slide
– Long-lasting grip
– Slow, consistent wear

BlackOps:

– Balanced rebound & grip
– Comfortable & predictable
– Extreme traction fresh
– Buttery & smooth broken-in

Email info@seismicskate.com for pre-order info & pricing!” 

 

 

Here’s a tidbit from my buddy Jason Renn, with NeverWas Skateboarding (the ‘zine we reviewed last month, here) news:

“Maybe you’ve been wanting to check out what this whole NeverWas Skateboarding hubbub is all about. Maybe you just like old school ‘zines. Maybe you just like stickers and t shirts. Either way, here’s your chance:

Thanks for all of the writing you guys did over the past few days. The ‘zine is shaping up nicely and will be ready to print April 1.

If you would like to get a copy, please check below for more information:

JUST THE ZINE: $2
ZINE and 4 STICKER PACK: $5
ZINE, STICKER PACK and NEVERWAS T-SHIRT: $20

I will use some of the funds to pay for material costs of making the zine. The rest is going to the StupidFest Scholarship Fund.

The shirt that will ship with the zine is the image below. Just PayPal me at rowhouseghost@gmail.com. DM me if you want to use Facebook Pay instead. Include your mailing address and t-shirt size if you are getting one. I will repost this in April when the ‘zine is finished.”

 

 

That’s it for this month! Laters…!

 

 

 

 

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