1) The lyrics Elf Shot Lame Witch emanated from the holes of the dull speaker. If you put your nose up to the plastic you could smell a micro atmosphere of hot battery exhaust that kind of reminds you of Christmas when you were a kid, when drugs stores, toy stores still sold toys that needed batteries.
2) Guy said to get switch crooks back 80 out, you have to aim for the inside of axl. That's like the trade secret. It's virtually impossible to s/back 80 out on the outside off the Adventure, because you can't really stand up on it, so you will never not on a jot get any stable footing, will only just flail about on it. (And also, it's nothing the same as trying to figure it out just standing in place on the corner, I mean, don't be an idiot, there's like, no velocity, and it's that velocity that makes what you're doing what you're doing, instead of say, I don't know, playing Chinese checkers.)
3) Guy didn't play Chinese checkers though, but he did play Chinese rocks, well, not Chinese rocks exactly, but you kind of get what I mean . . .
4) You cannot imagine switch crook back 80 Hubba Hideout '94-'95, I mean just the rill be run sparkling speed phenomenology of it all, like, the pov of it, turning 2 forwards in the arms of the air towards and onto the dented bricks. To be generous, there were at the time, let's say, maybe, perhaps, I don't know, like ten people at the extreme most on the planet capable of even doing that (and probably not even that). But to be realistic, Guy was the only one who actually did do this here and now, because think about it, he's the only one who did do it there and then, and like, well, no one else since ever has.
5) So think about it again, there really is nothing wrong with Guy giving himself permission to vaporize baby teeth after innovating Hubba. This is how he makes a living, and it would certainly be in an ennobling gesture to even consecrate such into say, like, an iconographical symbolic order, to say, by like, I don't know, wearing a necklace of tiny casted Hubba shape charm, or like a casted stem charm , along with the requisite Aries charm (Guy's and my sign!), along with, of course a casted micro-machine skateboard charm. Sure, it makes no sense to you as mere plebe, but Hubba really is/was his coworker there and only through such temerity, such tenacity of sustained and continuous build-a-beaver-dam prodigy innovation, that which is indeed his cultural contribution to the world writ large (Lucas Puig is only but a sop to Guy). And then think about it more, in a way like, in Guy's case, it would actually be in poor taste to like, not go to the Tenderloin and siphon gravel through tube glass afterwards. And besides, its actually safe to spark plugs in downtown SF, because the nights are eternally 1930's ambient, it's atmospheric sheen protecting you ensconced in imperial architecture, almost wanting you to get high,
6) The thing that they didn't say in Guy's Epicly Latered' was Guy was famously, a colossal gambling addict, he was involved in running a small, but intricate little racket through the same opium den hotel downtown on 5th Street. He wasn't just into rock candy (though the lifestyle was most of it), it was the gambling, the gambling was the thing, had to be sixty, I don't know, seventy five percent of it all? And with the Calloway intervention, I can tell you for a fact, with the gambling thing, he was really not ready to let go of it ever, and you can tell he put more emphasis on the crack issue as to distract Mike, Rick, Meagan, Gina, everyone else. Sure, I'll go to rehab! He, even hyperbolically painting himself as some kind of junky, which practically could not be more exaggerated: Guy wasn't literary enough for junk.
7) I met Guy when I was practicing alone is a school yard on a veritable Victorian high noon, and this was like, right when I migrated from San Angelo. Nearly flirting close to flinty destitute, alone, all to myself, renting a room all the way out in San Pedro, and I knew not even but one soul in the entire state, except for maybe Dill. I imagined I would see people resembling people I knew in Texas, where my brain would immediately mistakenly think it was them, but here in Caliland, even that never happened.
8) I alone, was trying to krook a picnic table in hopes of building up from there—I was thinking (for inspiration) about my old girlfriend's cousin, who I was always lo-key enthralled by. In LA, I just had a problem of not being able to segue into a productive warm up, that was kind of my problem, and looking back now, this can clearly be seen as disastrously fatal to any aspirations of engineering post Ternasky fin de siècle cartridge ride away documentation montages. If I would have been more conscious of this, this problem of being bad at warming up, I could have used this as barrier to get through, barrier to jump through, barrier to jump into the high as moon level needed, but it was a barrier nonetheless I just could not, could never warm up past.
9) Like a rosebush on the moon, Guy randomly shows up alone (without a board, carrying a small hand towel) and ends up being like super, super friendly, real real talkative, and also there is no one in the school yard except me, but you can tell he's super nice anyways—Guy, not at all the spectre of enigma I imagined. I suspect he was meeting someone at the school yard, but they may have never showed up,
10) He even gave me his number, we even made plans to actually like go out surfing in the next couple of days. Where I was watching the new 411's like racing forms, befriending Guy out of no where was by far the best possible thing that could have happened.
11) You could tell Guy liked to party though, by virtue of him liking to talk frankly and openly about partying:
I asked him about that sw back taile'd in Vanc, he was like, yeah so psyched, afterwards we went to Gastown, someone offered to shell me a baby tooth right there on the street, I figured why not, celebrate being the first persons to back tail switch a real rail, ya know? And there's like a lot of headshops out in that section too, I broke away for a minute, no one really noticed, went into one, bought flower stem, a tiny cheap torch.
12) I was a bit perplexed by Guy's candor. And to think, when I beat myself up for smoking grass first thing in the morning everyday for fifteen years, and that's probably for sure why I wasn't a prodigy, or talented and was thus resigned, consigned and left un-sponsorable. Guy began relaying what would then evolve into his little way of celebrating after a never been performed in the history of the planet, roller roller-derby roll away from the most historically crazy of tube rip rides. Thinking about it later, after he left, I thought about, I always think about, how not only do you get to switch nosegrind a ten stair in DTLA off 6th street and relish in the spellbinding feeling of such memory, but then Guy caps it off (literally) by celebrating by distilling milky white freebase beneath the spires and shadows of enchanting California Back 2 the Future night.
13) That was Guy's methodology and it worked better than steroids. At one point filming for thunder, you'll just start fiending for your celebration boost later, and then you are just going to make yourself roll away at any and all cost. That's Guy's genius, though I had a feeling he learned this from Hosoi, Hosoi's Jesus meth performance enhancer sacrament.
14) Though I must say I went along with, was prompted by Guy's lead, when he started talking about getting high there, in a way where I was implicating myself in also being future head . . . At the time I was frightened of anything harder than powder, but now, I could feel myself entering, veering into a new kind of personal territory just by faking agreeing with, entertaining all of Guy's drug talk. Just talking about it, released some chemical reaction unfurling . . .
15) I imagine the same thing happens to thousands of people who innocently move to the golden state - tentacles longer than night, corruption by contaminating proxy of what lies around the bend on and upon gold coast, as opposed to the unrealistic expectation of somehow innovating in LA in some unpreceded unparalleled historical way under ideal un-tenable circumstances, that's honestly, just not really all too realistic to expect from oneself (or LA for that matter), when really, in LA you will only most likely disappoint yourself by the same inadequacy you disappointed yourself with countless times in your own hometown, but it's only worse in LA though, because at least in your home town any contempt you feel towards your environment is earned by virtue of being a local - in Caliland, you moved here to be spit on on your own dumb volition, no one asked you to come out here . . . .
16) That first time we linked up, Guy flowed me a Media deck (Guy truly was a sweetheart), their wood they use is like real good too, he says and it was hard to imagine Guy saying anything bad about any board co ever. A board could snap seven seconds into the session and you could see Guy talking about how the underwhelming stock series graphic was so sick anyways.
17) Guy knew I wanted to be sponsored, without me in the slightest expressing any desire and again that's a small sprinkle of Guy's genius, Guy being sharper than you would think. Though I'm sure he's seen it all and it's not too much of a leap to conclude just by knowing I moved here from out of state alone, and he sees me skating a recess table at 1pm in the depressingly stark overhead shadowless Sun.
18) Guy not even knowing me for a week, yeah I think I could probably get you a little spot on Media if you're like down . . . they have a sick little team too, a sick little team, remind me of Menace actually . . . I'll call, can talk to Thackery . . .
All possibility opens up, and sure I'm not good enough to be sponsored, but that's hardly the point now when such opportunity beckons . . . The trick, my trick is moving to LA . . . Getting good later . . .
17) When I first met Guy, I was a bit silently invisibly, like secretly just a tinge turned off by his perpetually positive attitude, like sure it's easy to be easy when you're a child star and everyone jocks you up, I'd think. But Guy's positive attitude was the not so secret secret to his success for sure.
18) The one time Koston showed up changed my mind about Guy's its-easy-to-be-nice-when-you're-on-top-demeanor though. I, with no real basis, except for what I incorrectly perceived of Koston in slivers of video tape, really thought that Koston would be like some nice dork and Guy would be some dangerous unapproachable hoodlum. Which in the first three seconds of meeting both of them, it could not be more apparent it was quite the opposite. Except for dangerous that is, there was nothing dangerous about Kosten, except him not saying hi to you, he not even but recognizing you existing there, making you feel exactly like an out of state refugee to his princely rebuff. The grotesque morphology of skateboard culture at this point, where extreme dorks like Kosten could wield dork power and make one feel so the faceless consumer, when there used to be at one point actual glamorous California celebrities like Elvis or James Dean who did this, was not lost on me in this very certain, very specific post structuralist, postmodern moment, I found myself mired in like spider web, where I now found myself, where I was now ready to try to play my near empty hand upon the vacant cultural landscape (think: an outsider from out of state, who's not good, getting on Media from just word of mouth).
19) Getting into Guy's Pathfinder, leaving the school yard,
Yoo, what's with Kosten. . .
Ah, yeah, Eric, Eric, can be that way with people. I'd say, like don't take it like personally, ya know what I mean, Guy saying through pure heart of gold.
That's just like Eric, he like puts like a lot of pressure on himself, I really think it affects how he just deals with people, ya know.
He was such a dick!
Yeah, I know, I'm sorry man, Guy steering out of the parking lot, exuding a brother's keeper piety looking out navigation gaze while turning the laminated woodgrain wheel of the Landcruiser now . . . Lets go to the tavern, drinks on me . . .
You don't have to do that, I say, even though Guy did have to do that, because I could not afford even but a round, Guy knew this, but was always his extremely don't-mention-it-generous . . . In the span of knowing him, Guy paid for everything for me . . .
20) Second chalices of elixirs arriving at Ye Olde, transmogrifies the unremarkable din of the dim dining area into being perversely charming and I could see even maybe comforting and familiar after enough velvety ferment . . . Fresh buzz buzzing, Guy goes, you know what would be sick, you know what would be kinda sick, you know what you should do, or like what would reallly like get people's attentions . . .
No, do what pray tell dear homie, sopping foam with my finger congenially from my lip in a way that elicits an air of false pragmatism . . .
Sanch grind picnic table, demonstrating with his two fingers riding on a fork on the table . . . Guy suggesting in a specific California way, that is a serious suggestion, but also flippant and maybe even playfully condescending.
Yeah, um, that would be realll sick dude, so would, I don't know, building a subway to Venus, founding a colony at the bottom of the sea, anything else?
No, no, it's possible, you could do it . . .
I can barely front nose it, which, by the way, you think you can film me getting one next time . . .
No no, problem, Guy helping himself to a pile of tiny potato chip crisp fries from a basket onto a soon to be greasy paper towel, exuding a partaking heartiness, reflecting the bountifulness of the land, the time and place we now found ourselves in . . .
Don't you think maybe you should try something else? I mean, Gino did had the hardflip line and front nose press on already. . .
Indulging myself unnecessarily, and still holding Guy's over-generous attention span . . . Well, no, here's the thing . . . Listen to this: Front nose, like a solid front nosel, like come out extra fast and then, what? A surprise no push rolling tre flip! The clip abruptly ends, and then that's a good set up sequeway into chorus of montaged singles?
No, but really you could do it . . .
What, what Sanch a table? Wincing.
Finishing my beer, bottom of the chalice up in the air with buzzed over emphasis, Really Sanch . . .
It sure would set you up nice . . .
Yeah, no no yeah, I'm sure if would set me up real nice!
No, no it would . . . No one's done it . . .Well, not yet . . .
There's no . . .
It's not like about strength, if it was, Rocky Norton, Valley would have done it alreadies. . .
What's it . . .
Commitment mainly, physical but also like psyhiclogical
Psychological . . .
Yeah that! Psy what did you call it -co-logical?
What ya mean, man . . .
It's like tricks ya know . . . It's easy to think, like, you like, squeeze out tricks . . . Its just function of, of squeezing muscles, but it's not really. It's more like, uh, shopping cart . . . You push the shopping cart over the handicap ramp, but in a way that's more guiding than flexing on it . . .
Go on . . .
Pretend there's a ramp next to the ledge, you can do that . . . So you're like ramp riding off onto the ledge and not like this pure ollie fulcrum thing, which everyone gets wrapped up in, I know I have . . but Gonz taught me this . . .
You have all the space and picnick tables to like practice on. You know what I mean? Go to Los Feliz when no ones around, play around on it. Spend hours just jumping and diving headfirst sliding onto the table on your back . . . Then start controlling your dives . . .You got to commit your shoulders to Sanch, well, like with all tricks are committing down onto your front shoulder, like buckling down onto a raft jumping over a tiny waterfall, ya know . . .
Perplexed, but slightly overwhelmed by the info and still stuck on my front nose line, not really considering Guy's advice, like Guy's important clue . . . Oh yeah, vacantly drunk-ish,
No, I'm like serious, if you want to get it, I'll like even help you get it . . . Even if it takes months, I'll even subsidize the clip, if you get it I'll like show it to Rick . . .
Totally, yeah, but also, next time though, I do actually want to film that front nose line I was just telling you about . . .
20) What do you think you're doing man, what do you think you're doing, Dill made fatal sounding extra air suck slup slurps after he sucked down drags . . .
I been just . . . been chillin' with Guy, chillin' with Guy, that's all why . . .
An, nothing poor chap, but you should really stay away from him, stay away from Guy, like really . . .
Shut up the fuck up Dill . . .
No really, Guy's bad news, not like good news, perilously calamitous . . .
Yeah, good idea!
You don't, you don't know . . . Look at him, Paulo.
Paulo? Paulo kooked out from what it sounds, looks like . . .
Paulo was always a kook, it wasn't just that . . . It was . . .
Oh, ok . . .
No, no he was, he is . . .
Listen Dill, Guy is like, like, a fuckin' prince, a real prince, a sweetheart, really—probably my best friend out here . . .
Guys degenerate gambler, sex addict . . .
Oh sex addict? A sext addict! I guess I'm not a sex addict then! Yeah, oh, ok, . . . Whatever you say Dill. You know what? Whatever you say man . . .
You'll see buddeee, you'll see . . .
Ok, how about that, I'll just stop hanging out with . . . with Guy! Stop hanging out with Guy, because you, because you, you say so Dill? If you say so because you like, I mean c'mon man.
Nevermind he's flowing me Media anyways.
Guy's getting you Media, Dill says back like a doctor being told the results of a biopsy that he had read hours previous, but also, like he's talking to someone while talking about me behind my back, in a way that reveals he thinks I'm a fool . . .
Yeah Media, Media, so what man . . .
Have fun with that!
Well, not everyone gets be you Dill. Not everyone gets to be you, not everyone gets to like sit on Natas' lap while he edits their part. Yeah, I might start getting Media, and you got a problem with that . . .
Look man, I'm just saying, look, you can, why don't you, you can, like just come, just come out with us one day. I'll give you a couple of Workshop decks . . .
Sod off Dill,
Go home Dill . . .
21) Carissa was like what Foucault said about the archive: a system that governs the appearance of statements. I met all your sins Carissa through Guy, Carissa was Guy's friend. Before I met her, Guy would mention her offhandedly, always shoe horn her into the conversation, like always, or like a lot. He just talked like they were buddies and I never thought much of it, but she was practically, like a near constant presence in her absence. Carissa was going to be in a movie playing the part of Maribelle in the movie Kids. There's a scene at Tunnel, when Maribelle's friend Portnay is talking to a group of ravers from Jersey, not much paying attention to Maribelle and there's a moment, there's a moment when Maribelle is left alone in a lingering shot within the dark ambient throbbing club atmosphere, where like nothing really happens, but it is this subtle, very distinct, really transformative moment that is slice of life 90's club scene New York captured, which ended up being this iconic 90's movie moment. So that's Carissa, but when I met her, it was like before Kids, well before Kids. But when I met her, I was pretty instantly, not like obsessed, but lets just say, the fabric of this dimension opened up with new previously unknown possibility and splendor. Though, there must be a French word for the impression Carissa made, impressed upon me. She wasn't Guy's girlfriend really, but it kind of didn't even have to be mentioned directly that I should keep her bound on the other side of Guy's life.
22) Forever your queen Carissa after the bar could hardly qualify as late afternoon colleague drinks with Vance Bourjaily at his rental house after teaching a writer's workshop in Iowa.
But have you even been to Guy's house . . .
No, no, I guess I never have . . .
Well then, I guess you can't say you really know him then . . .
I know enough, I mean what about him . . .
That's like the problem . . .
What, what problem!
With people, or how you know somethings aloft . . .
Well, I mean . . .
They either insist on always hanging out at their place and nowhere else, or
Or what . . .
You never see where they live . . .
That's just like LA, I mean that's LA, commute . . .
You don't have any friends out here, so how would you know, look I'm tying you off first before I get off, Carissa coming off cheap in regards to her actions, and she didn't have to say that, doubly petty in spirit was she. Carissa, precariously flourishing in the stealing water land that let her, Carissa was so beautiful, but it afforded her no tolerance for any sort of mental discipline or emotional rigor or restraint conditioning. Carissa was so beautiful that she had the worst taste in everything, as if her beauty refused to let her annex anything even the slightest bit aesthetically pleasing, all because of the lazy thinking that the Californ not only let her extract, but also all insisted and thrust upon her.
The purposefulness on her face made me think she looked bibilical, she had a biblical face, looked like Mary Magdeline, the sins of the world afford poetic self regard bathos in such a splendid certain, very specific Los Angelino way . . . And she had that enabling face in this cheap weak apartment top light now, Carissa less attractive now, maybe like Talia Shire in Godfather 2, Godfather 3, but Carissa, boy could she give a near flow rider boner.
Dam, we're out of bottled water, we'll have to just use tap, the pipes rusty . . .
Telling me we would be injecting rust in our veins, you could kind of tell Carissa didn't really even like me, but yet here she is tying me off in someone's apartment, like she's doing me some soft skill favor like cutting my hair or piercing my ear. I didn't even have money to throw in or down for dope or spring for new works. And that I know now, that she knew Guy was friend-zone-enthralled with her and it would hurt him, would just kill him that we were hanging out without him (or us getting off together on junk) hardly factored in the gale of all her permanent vacation boredom. It would have driven Guy absolutely mad, and it all really said she was so poor in character as was in spirit, as she was so captivating by private detective telephoto bay view . . .
23) It's hard to describe what junk feels like, but I say it feels immensely quaint—like an old sweater. Good dope is like an old sweater. And it's charming, it's got personality. Dope has this character, or I mean dope has character. That's the best way I can think of saying it. There's no denying the appeal. The fact that you live on a plane of existence and you can put this fluid, this hot juice, this medicine into your veins and you come out feeling so terribly splendid, really says a lot about god. God wants you to feel so grand and why would he not?? Shooting junk is like French kissing god.
24) That's the thing about being a head though. Shooting junk is the most sensual thing there is. Sex no longer matters. If your woman is getting off with someone else, with some other guy, it's actually worse than if she was or were having sex with him. Not like Clarissa was doing it to say, like, get even at Guy, or to prove some point in a way only a woman can, or to be deliberately mean to him, she was doing it out of pure irresponsibility, pure thoughtlessness, out of a debilitating promiscuous boredom, and that kind of actually makes it worse, because if she did it purposefully, there would have at least had been some reason. Tragedy happening this way, for no other reason, except for casual incidental going with the flow was a distinctly California troupe.
25) Coming so hard on junk, subsumed under the junk's weight, I can make my joints pop in a way that is natural, with an automatic entitlement instinct of child enjoying dessert, or like Lawnmower man taking to automatically acclimating to the virtual sphere of which he realizes he is god. I felt now like I had achieved something worth celebrating beyond anything I have otherwise ever done in regular non-junk life. I turn to Clarissa right next to me on the couch, and kiss her and she lets me, but she doesn't really kiss back and her breath was hoth, and she just lets it happen because she was under the same aphrodisiac of spell, but just not as much as me apparently.
26) Hey are you gonna like get this, Guy low on patience, when otherwise known to be usually over accommodating.
Sorry man, sorry, I just, I don't, I'm having, I . . . Sweat graves its traces landing on the soft blacktop like rain.
It had been nearly a week since I tripped with Carissa and I still felt off. I didn't mention this to Guy though, and who knows what he knew. And Guy was not exactly enthused on my line either, he seemed even a bit sallow about it, since I just wasn't up for his crazy Sanch challenge. I mean, I'm like, I'm sorry, its probably easier, more realistic to engineer Michael Hizer's Levitated Mass for christsakes, than to go on Guy's Sanch a giant kindergarden picnic table adventure.
Even if I was to get one roll away out the front nose, it still wouldn't compare to Gino's. Talent aside, Gino's front nose opener line in Trilogy was also this culmination of landing situations where each previous reinforced the next and cascaded into forging the svelte methodology by which his ascension differentiated him from the sea of Austyn Gillete music projects, Jeremy Rogers nickel bags or Brandon Novak's open and public dialogue with his mother after getting clean. If I was to even get my little front nose line A) it had already been done better in Trilogy B) the frame of impossibly exacted and executed diamond mined barely attemptable trick selection ,that was done before and would be done after Gino got his front nose line, was something I myself would never in fifty years be privy to or possess for myself C) I had over-examined Gino's Trilogy part to where the practice I forged on with was influenced by what was an incomplete picture into his otherwise un-tenable methodology, dumping me into developing my own paper clips and bubblegum bastardization practice direction, influenced by Gino's and those clips lacking-any context, the only clues of the semiotic imperative of his dangerously deceiving California media images.
You get this line and I got a surprise for you, Guy, with his cigarette, flatly, trying to muster if only just a morsel of hype, but not really too enthused either way, mentioning a reward with the most luke-warm dishwater sink propinquity.
27)When ledging a ledge there's three points you need to look at at minimum. The spot on the ground you start pushing down on to start rolling a pop, the spot where you actually pop to push off into the air, and the spot on the ledge where you are to land. Though talented need never really exact such methodology, this overthink does help deconstruct the trick: where you start poping, where you actually pop, and where you land.
28) Guy was such a nice guy, you couldn't imagine him ever doing anything bad, and if you did see him do something bad, you just thought, 'Well even perfect people are not perfect.'
I never got the front nose line, but I we got the reward anyways. Guy conceded it and we just went back to his place, the first and last time I had been to his apartment.
I knew what his surprise was, like right when he said it, but as hard as I tried, I still couldn't complete the task at hand. Instead of reward, it would be consolation.
Melting baby teeth with Guy though, I saw that side of him now. No longer an innocent nice guy everyone liked, but now a corrupt actor, a fuck up son, a dysfunctional immediate family member, an unaccountability West Coast embodiment. There was something simultaneously biblical and 80's about Guy. Fleeing the garden of Eden just simply as result of boredom, why would Michael Jackson go through such extreme and grotesque lengths to stave off boredom and enabled complacency? Wasn't being a child star, at the top of the entertainment field fun enough? Where at least in the seventies, people had slightly long hair as not to look hair cut neutered, a plain clothes-ness that lent an almost timeless like literary quality. Now it's the neoliberal postmodern architecture of LA that's still beautiful on Pacific sunset laced with interiors laced with fiber optics commercials for Die Hard pagers. Teleology riven to the fascism of the close shave and too short cut, the anti-artness of the 80's nylon jump suit that was as elegant as a Big Mack. The howling nylons implicated the more-is-more un-subtlety of omnipresent base smoke, that trumped any romance of no longer good enough destination drug marijuana.
29) I was gonna, gonna wanting to ask you something. . .
What . . .
Carissa . . .
Carissa?
Yeah, what's with Carissa?
What's up with Carissa?
Yeah, I mean, I mean are you, you . . .
Are what, we . . . what . . .
Nothing, I just thought, wasn't sure if . . .
A perplexing blankness prized apart, echoed the look on Guy's complexion.
I mean, if you're asking me, if you're asking, if she's I . . . She's not . . . She's . . . She's no one's . . . . . . Why are you asking me this . . .
Guy knew precisely why I was asking him this, he just said it in a flinch like a nerve was crooked. But there was a never before sharp sober plainness that he was now using.
No, no, no reason. It's just that I . . . Look, I feel bad not saying anything . . . Not telling you . . .
Oh, telling me now . . .
Yeah, I ran into her at Pen Bar, and in the pink grisaille of the early evening we had Dry Gulch pints and then, then, she invited me back to her place . . .
The air of easy going rapport that every interaction between us was otherwise delightfully saturated in, had been all but sucked up and rung dry as a stone, leaving vacuum blowing out the friendship candle, but I persisted, I persisted anyways . . .
I was just asking, I was just asking because we hung out and I don't know, I don't, maybe . . . I wanted to know first if . . .
Oh, now you're asking me . . .
I'm glad you told me, but she told me, said you two got off together . . .
No, I just . . . What did she say . . .
There was an unshakable woundedness that Guy couldn't conceal. I should have known, I mean I did know better. But it's worse than my naïve optimism let me deceive myself into thinking, of course he cared.
The sociopolitical impasse of their situation came into sharper fore now—you're the prized street skater of the history of the solar system only to get friend-zoned by vipress Carissa. She states plainly to you she's friends, only friends, but still you live in all the wilted flirty no-man's land of statements they carafe out thoughtlessly or tactically or with a thoughtless tacticality and maybe also just accidental. You want to be around for them to reserve their right to come around. You hear of stories of persistence and success, but mostly it's wrought with a shrinking, debilitating peril, it's a never ending demo where you keep looking back at the audience—did you see that, did you see that, did you see that— no, look I front one eightied switch crook reverted the handrail— oh, yeah, yeah, oh, that's nice. Clues of her co-opting your interests, clothes, slang, music only means nothing, they are vampira, and though they take what they like about you and cast the rest of you aside, just wait to see the vehemently unremarkable whom they chose instead of you and it's all remarkably unfair. The worst thing about not getting what you want, is seeing somebody else get it.
Guy just looked blue as hell now, staring centimeters forward blankly into the space . . .
Now feeling the very sorry worst since I got out here . . .
I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry man . . . I'm an idiot. I'm just an idiot. I'm so stupid, I'm so stupid, please, please please . . .
No, no it's fine, it's fine . . .
No, no. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry man, please forgive me . . .
Nah don't worry about it, it's. . . It's not a big deal . . .
No, it is a big deal, it is a big deal and I fucked up and I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean . . .
I said its fine. I can't even get you on Media, what makes you think she would want anyways, be interested in you . . .
30) The main character in this story is the 7.5 prototype for Girl deck, that had a mock up of a turtle graphic Spike Jones drew and faxed to Xtra Large on accident and which one of the graphic designers turned into a silk screen and printed on delam. Guy gave it to me back then, and at the time it was just a generous gesture, like a random surprise novelty—Guy felt he had no use or room for it, and just knocked it down to me one of those days he met up with me at Los Felis. It's in near perfect condition and I'm even taking it to Deck Aid in Philly, for a special skateboard deck exhibition they are having at the crafts center. What can I say, but because of this board, I have become a bit of a celebrity around here. I'm taking time off from work (I manage a small miserable wretched Vans store all the way out near Missouri City), so I can fly to Philly and finally meet with some of my new friends from off the wire. And don't think I have not had any offers for purchase, as I can assure you I've had. I'd never dream of selling it though, or I would sell it, but the price would be so high, no one surely would apprehend to indulge it's purchase. Like I said, people know about it, talk about it, and I've heard or I've been told about kids who weren't even born at the time, saying it's fake. But its not a fake, and I can prove it. It's a warped skinny football like shape (the shape that was the tranisiton to popscicle), turn it over and what do you see?, it's an old Plan-b logo for Feltson Porter misprint. So if you think it's indeed a fake, then why in god's gracious name, would I ever so much go through all the dam trouble to locate an old pristine Plan-b deck, remove the graphic with smelly spirits and silkscreen a graphic and make up such an asinine and convoluted story. The answer is is, I wouldn't. The answer is, I did move to California on a lark, the answer is, I was actually for an LA minute friends with Guy Mariano, the answer is this, this skateboard deck, this relic is all but the very best thing to come out of it all.
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1 comment:
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