As the empty Coke can sitting near my elbow sputters and pops—no doubt mocking me—it’s starting to sound like it knows what I know. In fact, the can may also know what I try to ignore. Namely, that even after the last drop is shaken from its gut, there’s still something in there. Nothing can be finished. Nothing can be stopped. Nothing can end.
Chris Strople blasts forever. Photo: James Cassimus
It’s stupid, yeah, and melodramatic, but worst of all it’s kinda making me sleepy.
Or, wait; maybe it’s making me boring.
Yawn.
Like, “Again with the garbage day and the helloing to strangers and the night turning to day. And now this empty fucking can? Sheeesh.”
So I try to trick myself into looking right through certain aspects of this never-ending storyline. There’s a big box in my closet, for example, filled to the tippy-top with old wheels that for one reason or another I’ve chosen to separate from my trucks, never again to see the spinning and rolling destiny they were once poured into.
Supposedly.
John Lucero manifests his spinning and rolling destiny. Photo: Otisserie
But I can clearly see that the wheels are in cahoots with the gasping Coke can, conspiring to keep going and going and going. Forever and ever. Right now, they’re collecting dust, but one could argue that they’re doing that deliberately, keeping themselves busy while they wait for things to never end.
And, please—if you would indulge me for a few more sentences—direct your attention to figure A (for awesome): The yoots at our nation’s newest food court—the skatepark—seem to be piloting a fleet of aluminum scooters, matte-finish BMX bikes, and coffee-can exhaust pipes purchased from some youth-culture overstock warehouse located a stone’s throw from everywhere. And it’s not their never-ending yet fascinating and very active accessorizing that worries me … at least not this second. Rather, it’s the undead that keeps me up at night, what with all their not dying and inability to cease and such.
Alan Losi arms himself in the face of selective amnesia. Photo: James Cassimus
But they say that if you’re experiencing selective amnesia, you don’t know your future, so who am I to intentionally fail to remember anything? Who am I to ignore the benign, the inane, the unrighteous? If the resurrection of the stupid—even my own stupid—is written in stone, then so be it. And if this fresh round of the newest and stupidest is never fully going away, either, well …I’ll survive.
But I hope that also applies to the things I like.
Steve Keenan breaks down another pivotal moment. Photo: Miki Vuckovich
Skateboarding won’t die. That’s not what I mean. I mean my wants, my abilities, my needs. I don’t really even know what it is that holds me here, thinking about skateboarding, going skateboarding, and liking skateboarding as much as I ever have. But sometimes I am afraid of losing it all. I’ve seen the breakdown happen to others—their skateboarding replaced with life, with age, with relationships, with Detroit steel, with salaries—and it trips me out. It feels real. It feels tangible. It feels like it could happen right (wait for it) NOW!
And try as I might, I can’t ignore that—the fear of it all going away, I mean.
Ron Allen hovers through an Oakland alley way that’s never really far from reach. Photo: Luke Ogden
But nothing’s ending. Look around at all the shitty ten speeds, the Top-siders, the ’78 Ford LTDs. What was left for dead will be unearthed, what was forgotten will be remembered, and what’s clung onto for dear life will never be far from reach.
Good for me, right? Good for all of us: For those of us reading blog posts, looking for new spots, digging up old ones, and not wanting to stop. But maybe it’s also good for those who’ve been waging their own attempts to ignore destiny—those supposedly empty cans who’ve walked away from skateboarding. Because there’s still gotta be something inside them, right? You can’t live through tre flipping a ten-stair or smacking down a gigantic Madonna and then just disregard it any more than you can disregard a massive head injury.
What’s does it all mean?
Adrian Demain sputters, pops, and gasps along with the rest of us idiots.
Photo: Dobie Campbell
Something like this: If you’ve ever really skateboarded, you’re fucked. You’re doomed. You’re in this thing forever. And if you think you’re gonna just walk away, forget it. Something will always bring you back, sputtering, popping, and gasping along with the rest of us idiots.
No punchline ender here. Sorry.