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Not so much anymore.

Now he’s just my pal.

Lately, just my email
pen pal.

I haven’t seen him in what seems like
a long time.

He lives in Florida.

My life has been rather preoccupied
lately with total bullshit.

He understands.

I don’t.

Not anymore.

When I was little he was my hero.

No one could kick his ass.

He worked for Burger King and I thought
that that was the greatest thing
in the world.

Free burgers and fries for us…
We were one lucky family.

As I got older that wasn’t something
to brag about so much.

And then he got in my way.

He had a lot to say about things he
didn’t know shit about —
Skateboarding and punk rock music.

All he became was a barricade in my road.

I skated right around him.

But…

He wasn’t wrong.

He was just being my dad.

He made me fight for and earn
every inch of concrete that passed
under my feet.

When I split town, he was planted
firmly in my rearview mirror.

I set off to make the old man proud.

But…

California is a fucked up place.

And…

When the sun finally set over the Pacific
and I was washed up on the rocks –
Broken but still breathing.

My dad wrote me a poem.

I don’t know if he’s ever written
a poem before —
I highly doubt he has.

But he wrote one for me now.
When it mattered.

And with it he wrote me a note…
Saying that he was proud of me.

Life’s funny.

When I was a kid –
I took on my father and I won.

I showed up the first day of the class –
And stuck my head in the door –

– I’m Mike Vallely — I’m suppose to be
in this class but I refuse to take it
because I’ll never drive a car –

The teacher and students just
stared at me.

I then walked down the hall, out
the back door of the school and
went skating.

Fuck it.

The thing is…

I grew up in a town obsessed with
muscle cars.

Mustangs and Camaros.

It was like a Bruce Springsteen song
gone wrong.

Way fucking wrong.

There was nothing romantic about any of it.

Just a bunch of fucking morons
driving around in circles calling
me a faggot every time they drove by.

I wanted nothing to do with it.

I dedicated every waking moment to
my skating.

It was the only thing that mattered to me.

I turned pro and dropped out
of High School in May of 1987.

People told me I was making a mistake.

Seemed like a greater mistake to waste the
best years of one’s life on meaningless studies
that lead to absolutely nothing.

But what about having something to fall
back on?

Falling back on nothing is still nothing.

No thanks.

Steve Rocco pulled into town
in a mini-van and I left on my
first tour.

From there…

I started traveling the world.

I got a different kind of education.
One that was open to the sky.

Along the way I met a girl.

She lived in California.

None of the girls in New Jersey
ever really gave me the time of day.

So…

It was time to get the fuck out
of New Jersey.

And you know…

I really thought I’d never drive.

That is until I had money burning
a hole in my pocket — And the setting
sun lighting up the horizon.

And I knew…

She was out there.

So…

I bought a Mazda RX-7 and
blew the fuck out of town.

My buddy Kevin rode shotgun.

We were California bound.

The car had a 10 disc CD-Changer.

I didn’t own any CDs yet at that time –
So, I went shopping.

The first CD I ever bought was
Hüsker Düs Warehouse: Songs And Stories.

I fucking loved that CD — I still do.

It seemed like there was a song for
every emotion I’d ever felt or for any situation
I ever found myself in…

I would turn to that CD over and over
and over again.

Kevin and I burned down
the Eastern Seaboard
banking West in North Carolina
into Tennessee…

Warehouse: Songs And Stories was in
regular rotation.

We drove across the United States
eating junk food and drinking soda pop.

It was the late autumn of 1988.
I was 18 years old.

We rolled into Phoenix, Arizona
and met up with Mark Gonzales
and Jason Lee.

The four of us holed up in a room
at the Embassy Suites hotel.

We stayed there for 10 days.

It was 10 days of some of the
best and most important skating
ever done.

The days in Phoenix were sandwiched by
the NSA Amateur Championships
one weekend and the Pro Championships
the next.

We skated every night out there in abandoned
strip mall parking lots and through the
streets of downtown Phoenix.

New tricks were invented from moment to moment.

Our focus was pushing each other and pushing
street skating — Just because it was there to be done.

But I also had a girl on my mind and the
awkward part of that was that she was Jason Lee’s
girlfriend.

But that was coming to an end.

He knew it, I knew it and she knew it.

She was driving out to Phoenix to hang
out with him… But really she was driving
out to see me.

The tension was high but nothing was said.
It came out in our skating.
I never saw Jason skate better.
I never skated better.

Our competition wasn’t as much
about skateboard tricks as it was
about a girl.

I won.

I left Phoenix a better skater and
with a girlfriend — My first real girlfriend –
Ann — Who has now been my wife for
20 years.

I lost my friends along the way but
it turns out I didn’t really need them.

After staying with her folks in
Redondo Beach for a bit, Ann and I
eventually got our own place together in
Huntington Beach…

A condo on Lake Street.

Huntington Beach had a heavily
localized skate scene and the local yokel
skaters didn’t really take kindly to some
pro from the east coast moving
into their town.

Like I gave a fuck.

Everywhere I went the vibe was thick.
These kooks thought they were tough
with their “Locals Only” pose.

They tried to intimidate me at every session –
But not one of them ever stepped up for the
beating they surely would have gotten.
They talked the talk but they NEVER
walked the walk.

Fucking pussies.

Our place on Lake Street was a
sanctuary.

We bought some cats, a big ass TV,
a Nintendo Entertainment System and a top
of the line stereo music system.

I quit Powell-Peralta, helped form World Industries,
put out the Barnyard Board, got my first tattoo
and got regular prank phone calls from Mark Gonzales.

I was making more money than I knew what to
do with and still found a way to spend it all anyway.

I decided one day that I didn’t want to fly anywhere
anymore. So, I bought a Ford Bronco and Ann and I drove
to every skate event across the country.

We were constantly criss-crossing the country…
Warehouse: Songs And Stories was always a part
of the soundtrack to our travels.

We drove to a contest in St. Petersburg, Florida.
I was doing new tricks on the street course and the
vert-ramp — Taking everything to fakie –
To disaster — Everything going blindside –
Tricks no one had ever seen or done before.

Frank Hawk told me my girlfriend had to sit up
with the general population while Tony Hawk’s
girlfriend was hanging out down on the arena
floor with the skaters… I told Frank and anyone
else who got in my face where they could stick it —
Ann stayed by my side.

Gator walked up to me and looked me over…

– Mike, You’re not a little kid anymore –

Nope.

I didn’t go to the after parties –
I only cared about the skating –
My skating.

Professional skating wasn’t my job — And it
wasn’t some fraternity I cared to join…
It was simply the ultimate expression of who I was.

Back in Huntington Beach…
I’d sit up all night writing poetry –
Trying to bleed through onto paper.
Hour after hour.

It felt so crucial.

In the morning when I’d hear the street-sweepers
in the distance and see the fist light
creeping in through the blinds…
I’d put the pen down and crawl into bed
with Ann and our cats.

Everything in my life was completely fucked up
and yet at the same time everything in my life
was just fine.

I had my girl and my skateboard.

And the 80′s became the 90′s…

But the dream I never dared to dream was to
skate for Powell-Peralta — The Bones Brigade.

By my estimation, they were best team and company
in all of skateboarding.

It was not something that could ever happen.

Not to a kid from New Jersey who did streetplants.

It was out of my league.

So, I never even entertained the idea.

I figured I’d skate for Zorlac or Alva…

That’s what my day dreams were made of.
And I was happy.

So, when my heroes Lance Mountain and Stacy Peralta
asked me to ride for Powell-Peralta in June of 1986
in Virginia Beach, Virginia –
I initially said no.

I told them that local Virginia Beach ripper
Andy Howell was a far better skater than me —
That Andy was more deserving than me.
And I really believed it.

It just didn’t seem right that I could get sponsored by Powell-Peralta —
Not with all the talented skaters that surrounded me at that time.
I didn’t see how that was fair.
I just didn’t see the connection.

The offer alone somehow made me feel like I’d skipped a step
somewhere along the way.

I wasn’t ready.

Stacy and Lance looked at me in shock…
Was this kid saying no to The Bones Brigade?

– Andy’s great —

They said

– But we want you –

I didn’t understand how this could happen.

How a dream that one never dared to dream
could actually come true.

But I couldn’t really refuse this opportunity —

Could I?

Would you?

Hell no.

I reluctantly accepted and because of that…

I suppose I always felt inadequate and out of place.
And under pressure.

I tried to fake it —
To rise to the occasion —
But it wasn’t in me.
This wasn’t my dream.

I found out for myself.

Riding for Powell-Peralta between 1986 and 1988
was like a slow suffocation.

I was told how to skate, what to wear,
who to hang out with, what stickers to put on my board —
I had no freedom to just be me.

Everything was pushed on me
and I felt like a fucking puppet.

In September of 1988 George Powell came to New Jersey.
In one hand was a check for $10,000.
That check represented the first month of board sales
for my brand new pro-model board.
The problem was that I was not actually under contract
with Powell-Peralta yet.
So, in George’s other hand was a contract he said
that I needed to sign in order for him to give me the check.

Apparently, I hadn’t earned that money yet?

My dad and I sat there looking at the check for $10,000 —
More money than either of us had ever seen in one place
at one time —

And then there was the thick contract
full of language we didn’t speak.

My dad looked at me…

– Sign it I guess –

I signed it.

George handed me the check.

I bought a sports car.

A few weeks later Lance Mountain informed me over the phone
and in great pain that what I had signed was a ten year contract —
Giving Powell-Peralta permission to trademark and own my name.
He said that all of the other skaters — Tony Hawk,
Steve Caballero, Tommy Guerrero etc… –
Had all refused to sign that very contract —
That it was bullshit.
That I had made a major mistake.
That George had taken advantage of me.
That I had easily allowed George Powell to own me and everything I did.
That all George Powell really wanted was power and control over all of
our lives and careers –
And that I had stupidly given it to him.
And that this would make things harder for everyone.

I was shattered.

I thought I was suppose to sign that contract.
To be grateful for the opportunity.

I found out for myself just what a mistake it was.

Skating for Powell-Peralta destroyed my love of skateboarding.
Everything that I had valued about the company as a kid and
as a fan was non-existent as an actual team rider.

It was not as advertised.

The Bones Brigade videos had forged my identity as a skater
and what I thought professional skateboarding was all about.
Skating for Powell-Peralta had dismantled that identity and those
ideals. The business of skateboarding was a soul crushing ordeal.

That night as I walked out onto Ocean Blvd. alone –
Skateboarding would never be the same again.

I didn’t know that.
I just knew that I did what I had to do –
And I did it for me.

George Powell however was not so willing to let me go so easy.
I had a ten year contract with his company and despite what Stacy
had said to me that night in Long Beach —
George planned on holding me to that contract.

He tried calling me where I was staying in Redondo Beach –
I refused his calls.
He called my father threatening to take legal action against me.
My dad told him that Stacy had verbally agreed to free me of my
contract and that for us that was good enough —
And that we believed it would hold up in a court of law.

George tried other tactics…
He called his buddies Larry Balma
and Fausto Vitello –
And asked them to blacklist me
from their respective magazines.

If he couldn’t do away with me legally,
he’d try to ruin my career underhandedly.

They refused him.

Skateboarding was changing —
I represented that change.
George was trapped in time.
That ten year contract was good for nothing
except for maybe wiping his ass.

That should have been the end of it.

But…

In 1993 I was dead broke and in desperate need of a job.

Stacy Peralta along with every other important skater that
had come through the door at Powell–
Had followed me out and had abandoned
George and left him to flounder.

But my career was also floundering…

And so…

Desperation forced an unlikely reunion…
And in September 1993 I returned to
Powell Skateboards.

I swallowed my pride —
I put my head down and I went to work.
I was glad to have a job –
To have security.

I gave of myself to Powell,
to George, to our team, to skateboarding.
It was a hard and difficult but rewarding time.

And through it I formed a working
relationship with George that felt meaningful.

I wasn’t suppose to be a pro skater anymore.
I was suppose to be a team manager, a brand manager
a marketing manager — I was suppose to sit at a desk –
I was suppose to babysit the next generation of pros.
But the thing was — I had unfinished business.

In 1995 I won the 1st Annual Tampa Pro Street Contest
and my career was greatly revitalized.

Powell Skateboards began to regain market share…
My presence in the market was as strong or stronger than it
had been in the 80′s…

As I helped rebuild the Powell brand I also
rebuilt my career.

At the end of 1997 Etnies Footwear offered me a signature model shoe…
Putting the exclamation point on the unlikeliest of comebacks.

I went to George humbly and asked for him
to do the right thing….
To let me continue to grow and evolve creatively.
Like my peers Ed Templeton and Jamie Thomas –
It was my dream to have my own brand.

It was the right time.
I had paid my dues.

I had given him and his company my all —
For four years –
I had flown his banner —
His flag –
And I did it unflinchingly —
With all my heart and soul.

I had singlehandedly brought his company
back from bankruptcy –
I had saved his brand, his name and
his place in skateboarding.

But I found out for myself that none of that
really mattered to him.

George replied to my request by saying…

– Why should you have your own brand?
Skateboarding has enough brands.
What you need to do is to understand your place
and be content with it.
It’s time for you to begin the next chapter of your life.
But that is not having your own brand –

He continued…

– I’m an engineer, I went to college,
it’s people like me who own companies.
Your a skater, you’ve had a great career but
you should now focus on how you can continue to
contribute here. Take your ego out of it and do
what’s best for your family.
I’m offering you a good salary, heath insurance — Security.
There are new skaters coming along, better skaters and your time
is almost done.
It’s time to be realistic –

I was devastated.

After all that I had done for him —
He saw me as nothing more than a fucking pawn.

So, I told him where he could stick his “security”
and I quit his fucking company again.
It was 1998.

But…

Time is funny.
It heals wounds.

For all the shit George had put me through –
Even after all of the terrible things he had said to me…
As the years went on I found myself
often thinking fondly of him and my time
working with and for him.

I remembered the good times and forgot
about the bad.

But I found out for myself…
There were things that I shouldn’t have forgotten.
Things I shouldn’t have let go.

In 2010 at an event in Colorado I saw George Powell
and spontaneously approached him.

– George, I just want to say —
Nothing for nothing, of all the people I have worked
with in this industry, you are the best guy
I ever worked for. Though I didn’t agree with how things ended
I appreciate what you did for me and I just wanted
to let you know it –

And I meant it.

A few years earlier Powell had begun to
reissue my classic Elephant Board and so
extending myself at this time and rebuilding a bridge
just felt like the right thing to do –

I wasn’t going to hold a grudge.
I’d gone on to have a long standing and
meaningful career.

The past was the past.

George and I shook hands.

I felt good about it.
I thought that would be the end of it.

That should have been the end of it.

Ten months later I had a meeting in Santa Barbara
with George and his right hand man Michael Furukawa.
Michael had basically replaced me as the marketing and
brand manager when I had left Powell back in 1998.

George and Michael enthusiastically told me
how Stacy Peralta had begun work on a Bones Brigade
documentary film and that they were relaunching the
Powell-Perlata brand in order to be in a position to capitalize
on the excitement the film would certainly create.

They then offered for me to return to the Powell-Peralta team –
Praising me — They said that they saw me as a crucial piece of the puzzle
because of my ability to speak to the past, present and future of skateboarding
and the Powell-Peralta brand.

I saw this too.
Their words humbled me.
It was a great honor.

Although I had never dared to dream of skating for Powell-Peralta as a kid –
I couldn’t help but feel that now, this time I could somehow make it all alright.
That I could make good on all that had come and happened before.
That this was an opportunity of a lifetime.

I was finally ready.

And it WAS actually a dream of mine in the here and now —
To be reattached to the Powell-Peralta brand —
I wanted to do it —
I had to do it –

I wanted nothing more than to bask in the glory of what was
and also be an integral part of what would be.

To work with George and Stacy again…
This time as as a perceived equal —

Time had leveled the playing field.

That’s what I believed was on the table.
That’s what I understood.

And so…

I dropped everything I was doing…
I severed relationships with friends and business partners —
People were hurt —
I felt bad but they didn’t understand what this meant to me –
Returning to a reunited Powell-Peralta —
It was everything.

And…

It was a lie.

George and Michael had no use for me other than wanting to rent my name.

They rejected all attempts on my part to truly integrate myself into the company.
I offered to be the Powell-Peralta brand manager —
To commute to or even relocate to Santa Barbara and to take a desk job —
I offered to do any and everything I could to help guide the brand
into the future while also paying respect to it’s glorious past.

I was the man for the job and I knew it.

And so I was willing to step into those shoes
and do whatever it took.

But…

They refused me.

They ignored me.

On top of that…

They paid me next to nothing –

They just wanted me to simply ride their boards, go do
some demos and shut up.

At 41 years old they just wanted me to be a “Legendary Team Rider”
but this time with a starting pro’s salary.

I had been mislead —
I had thought I was going to be an integral piece of the puzzle.
Instead, I barely mattered.

I couldn’t even get these fuckers to return an email or a phone call.

This couldn’t be happening.

I was devastated.

Then I heard that George was buying a team airplane and that he
planned on flying the “The Brigade” to demos himself.

What the fuck?

A team airplane?
Really?

Then the team filmed a bad karaoke segment at The Berrics.

Next up Michael sent me an email proposing to put my name
on a Ripper board.
What the hell?
That’s something Element would do.
Put my name on a generic logo board.
No thanks.

This whole thing was feeling really lame.

The things that were happening were completely
uninteresting to me –

But the things that weren’t happening were even worse.

Nine months of knocking at a door and no one answering is long enough.

What was I suppose to do?

I hit the lowest point in the road…
It sucked.
I took a look in the mirror and I asked myself
some really difficult questions.
It hurt but I accepted the answers.

So…

I resigned from Powell Skateboards for a third time.
That was October 2011.

Michael Furukawa responded…

– Wait, is there no way we can continue to work with you? You are an integral part of
our past, present and future. We’d love to maintain a bridge with you and continue
to do your reissue boards and have you be a part of the Powell-Peralta heritage somehow.
Can we work something out? We understand that you are going to go and do your own brand
but we’d still like to have you be a part of what WE’RE doing –

Wow… It made sense.

Freedom to do my own thing but still maintaining
a connection to the Powell-Peralta brand?
It was as if the planets were finally, truly aligning.
Maybe this could all work out after all.

I’d get to have my cake and eat it too?

Ha, ha… Oh man, I should’ve known it.

I extended myself a fourth time and said that I was game.

I enthusiastically agreed to maintain ties despite starting
my own company. It just somehow made sense —
It just felt right.

My connection to the Powell-Peralta brand regardless
of what I’d go on to do for the rest of my life was
undeniable. Might as well maintain good relations —
Right?

So Michael said:

– Great, I’ll get with George, we’ll figure something out
that works for everyone and I’ll get back to you — We just didn’t
realize that you wanted your own brand –

I didn’t.

I had actually left my own brand to return to Powell-Peralta.
So why would that be a condition of my returning?
It wasn’t.

I never asked them for my own brand.
I never wanted to do a brand with them –
That was not a part of our negotiations ever…
I never put that on the table.
I only ever wanted to be an integral part of the Powell-Peralta brand.

And when I decided that I had to leave Powell-Peralta –
I never asked for nor did I expect to maintain any kind of
relationship with them –
THEY offered that — THEY pushed for that.

It felt like a worthy consolation prize.

I guess I’m a sucker for those.

I waited two months for Michael to get back to me –
All the while I worked on creating Elephant Skateboards.

Michael never got back to me.
He once again stopped responding to emails.

Then…

I received a certified letter from George Powell
accepting my resignation.

I had resigned over two fucking months ago —
You’re just getting around to accepting it now?

And as far as maintaining some sort of working relationship?

Nope.

In that letter he went on to say that there was no way he could maintain
any kind of working relationship with me as I was now a competitor of his.

What a fucking asshole.

His letter was condescending and hurtful.
Always condescending.

He also accused me of being disingenuous
in my returning to Powell-Peralta.

He couldn’t be more wrong.

When I returned to Powell Skateboards for the 3rd fucking time…
I expected it to be my finest moment in skateboarding.
I was primed for it.

He and his company could never have found and never will again –
A more enthusiastic or passionate supporter.

Others had tried to warn me –
But I was blinded by my desire to make it all alright.

I really believed that this time it would work.

I found out for myself that nothing had changed.

George hadn’t changed.
George will never change.

What George and Michael had done is take advantage
of my enthusiasm and shit all over it.

They hurt me and they hurt my family.

And at this stage in the game…

Why?

The whole thing is a bad joke.

There is no Powell-Peralta —
Not really.
It’s just a brand name that’s been strategically
positioned to capitalize on a film –

To capitalize on nostalgia.

There’s no substance there.

There is no here and now.

There is no soul.

It’s all a fucking sham.

I found out for myself.

I should have fucking skated for
Zorlac.

My wife Ann and I checked into
the hospital the evening before
Ann’s labor was to be induced.

We had a well appointed
labor and delivery room to ourselves…
And at that point it was like the
nicest hotel room we’d ever
been in.

Ann was readied for morning labor
and given a sleeping pill to help
get her through the night.

We were 22 years old, in love
and excited about starting a family.

While Ann slept in her
bed, I was given a comfy
recliner to stretch out in.

I was nervous but ready.

I had gone to Lamaze Classes…

I’d read:
What To Expect When You’re Expecting

And I sat up at night rubbing Ann’s belly
enthusiastically awaiting the birth
of our child.

Ann had made a beautiful nursery
at our rented home in Huntington Beach.
She had restored, painted and stenciled
some old furniture (a dresser and a rocking chair)
that we’d bought at a swap meet — And my
parents had bought us a beautiful brand
new crib.

Ann went into labor at around 8AM and
Emily was born at 3:13PM.

Ann held Emily in her arms for the
first time as the rain lashed the
windows of our room –

It was the proudest moment of my entire life.

A bit later Ed and Deanna Templeton
along with Ethan Fowler came in to visit.
They were the first of our friends to see
Emily. We were all amazed.

She was here.

Then the nurses came to collect Emily –
Our visitors were sent away and our
accommodations were downgraded
to a shared recovery room.

Ann slept heavy in her bed as I curled up
on the floor. We slept for a long time…
Too long — Through the night.

Emily was never fed by Ann –
She was never brought back to us.
We woke up to the sun crashing down
into the room, confused.

A social worker entered the room.

– We have tested your baby and have found positive
signs of barbiturates. Your child is now in the care of
the State Of California. I’m here to discuss what happens
next but it will probably be at least 6 months until you have
a chance to even see your child again. –

I was still on the floor where I had slept.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

I had woken up into a nightmare.

I rose up, rage pounding in my veins.

– What the fuck are you talking about?
We don’t do fucking drugs!!
Get us our baby right fucking NOW!!! –

The social worker just looked at me and
smiled smugly —
She was in the right and I was wrong.

Nurses entered the room to try to defuse the
situation.

I looked over at Ann — She was in a state of
shock. She just sat there trembling, tears
streaming down her cheeks.

I asked her what the hell was going on?
Ann — How could they think that we are on drugs?
How could Emily have drugs in her system?

I yelled at her:

– Ann, what the fuck is going on? –

She snapped back to reality.

She picked up the phone and called
her OB/GYN.

The doctor was confused.
The doctor knew us —
She knew we weren’t on drugs.
There’s no way that this was happening to us.
There’s been a mistake.

– Wait — Did they give you a sleeping
pill last night? –

– Yes –

–That’s it. They must not have written it down. –

The doctor hung up and called the hospital.

The social worker just sat there looking
at us with disdain in her eyes.
A couple of fucked-up druggies trying to
dig their way out of a hole.
Fucking fat ugly bitch.

She kept talking, we didn’t listen.
She didn’t fucking exist to us.

She left the room.

A little while later…

The head nurse and social worker
returned with our baby and bearing gifts —
Gifts quickly plucked from the
hospital gift store.

– We are so sorry.–

Our doctor told us later that
barbiturates aren’t even a usual part
of the drug screening process…

But yet those fuckers at Hoag
took one look at us –
Determined us to be riff-raff and
went searching for something.

And then due to their own mistake –
Found something — Passed judgement –
And started a process that crushed
our souls and put my wife right into
postpartum depression.

This was my second run in with these
fuckers. Back in July of that same year
I had spent two weeks in that hospital
with a bleeding ulcer and had been
given terrible care and had to deal with
their judgements then as well.

So…

Ann got herself together and we checked the
fuck out of Hoag an evening early.

Getting home that evening was one
of the most welcome feelings in my
entire life.

I closed the blinds and locked the doors.

My wife, my child and our lives together
were all I wanted — Were all I needed.

Ann and I climbed into bed together, our baby between us.
She would never use that nursery, never use that crib.
We kept her safely between us every night.
People would tell us that this was not healthy, that
sleeping with your baby was not right.

She’s a loving and caring daughter and
big sister — She is in love with life and
the world is at her feet.

So… All that to say:

Fuck Hoag Memorial Hospital.

And for that matter…

I just wanted to get back to some kind of beginning
But I’ll always be a stranger in this town
They say you can’t go home again
That’s two times now

My mistakes get shot down in pieces
But those are pieces of my heart and soul
Dreams I dared to dream
Flowers that have been trampled

I just wanted to get back to the basics
But the basics no longer really exist
The past is an illusion, The future just confusion
So it’s time to live in the present tense

And…

That night I took off running
Running from this faithless town
I took flight above the boulevard
And I said — I’m never coming down –

– I’m never coming down –
– I’m never coming down –

Down

And now…

My tendency is and always has been
to turn inward — To turn away from others —
To avoid social situations.

To this day I have to force myself out –
To open up to others.

I spent most of my childhood in my bedroom
listening to records and reading comic books.

Or in front of the TV watching Kung-Fu movies,
and professional wrestling.

Or in my own backyard acting out the fantasies
I’d found on those records, in those comic books or
in front of that TV.

Before I entered my freshman year in high school
I was still playing GI Joe’s with the little kid next door.
And I actually preferred it to trying to fit in at school
or trying to have a girlfriend.

I’m really just a comic book nerd at heart —
By nature.

I did play some team sports growing up and
And although I held my own on the baseball field and
on the wrestling mat…

I was never one of the boys and never wanted
to be.

I didn’t fit in and didn’t want to.

What I wanted was to get home to draw, play, write,
listen, watch and dream —

I was a weirdo — A misfit.
And I liked it.

The world of my solitude and my imagination
was always the world I preferred.

And the times that I did extend myself —
That I tried to be like others –
To be around others, to befriend
others — The times I opened myself up –
Are the times that people hurt me.

And they were also times of great conflict.

For even though I was terribly shy –
I had a greater sense of justice.

I don’t know if was all the movies that
I’d watched or the comic books that I’d read –
But very early on I vowed to myself that I would
never let anyone push me around.

My heroes didn’t take shit –
Neither would I.

I hated bullies.
And I lived in a town filled with them.

And I stood up to them… Each and every one.
And I got my face punched in many times
without any regret.

Self-respect was all I had –
And it was and is ALWAYS
worth fighting for.

When I discovered skateboarding and punk rock
I came out of my shell a bit.

It was hard but it was worth it.
For the first time in my life I had a
like-minded peer group —
Or at least people who had some of the
same interests.

In private I had always been extremely hyper
and easily excitable and this came out in and
found a home in my skating.

On my skateboard I felt free…
Free to be myself.

And skateboarding was all consuming.
It became my identity and my vehicle
for expressing myself — And it was through
skateboarding that I interacted with the rest
of the world.

Sounds beautiful right?

The problem was that in the mid-80′s
skateboarding was not a welcome visitor
to a small-town filled with small-minded
people.

I found myself on the wrong side of cool.

You wouldn’t really believe me
if I told you what I and the other skaters
I grew up with had to go through on a daily basis
just to ride our skateboards.

The harassment from our peers was one thing –

But when it was adults, business owners and
police officers harassing you –
Physically harming you, making your life a daily
living hell —

That’s something else.

It wasn’t like today — It wasn’t just a matter of
skating being a public nuisance — There was
a deeper prejudice.

Skateboarding was a threat.
A threat against the status-quo.

We — Every skater in my town and I —
Were determined by THEM —
Every jock, burn-out and pedestrian –

To be — “Faggots” — “Homosexuals” –

And the wrath that came with that determination
and description was terrifying.

We got our asses kicked daily — Just for being
skateboarders.

It was enough to make a person want to quit –
To throw in the towel — To go buy some cool
clothes and just fit in.

Most did.

I loved skateboarding too much.
So, I fought back.
And I refused to be a victim.

Somehow that decision –
To stand up and fight back –
Has stuck with me.

And it’s created a paradox —
A paradox that others have
only ever seen as a flaw
or a mark against me.

And then there are those who champion
what they also perceive to be some
tough guy bullshit —
Such people actually sicken me worse.

I’m no Alpha-Male… Nope.
FYI… I fucking hate MMA.
I hate jocks.
I hate mobs — Gangs — Crowds.

I like skateboarding alone –
Under a single street light.

I just refused to be the prey.

If I laid my hands on you that means
you either laid your hands on me first –
Ran your big fuckin’ mouth –
Or you fucked with my friends or my family.

I’ve never started a fight in my life –
But I’ve surely ended a few —
No apologies there.

Does that sound “tough?”

It’s not meant to…
It’s a matter of self-respect —
Of honor.

When I meet some people for the first time
I will often hear something ridiculous
from them like…

– You’re Mike V? I thought you’d be bigger. –

I usually don’t have very long conversations
with people who talk and think like this.

These are people who spend too much time
on the internet or watching TV.
Or for whom certain tongue in cheek
appearances in certain videos and TV shows –
Where I played a character of myself in a
skit — Are taken as the gospel truth.

On my best day I’m 5’10 and weigh 175 pounds.
That gives me no physical advantage over anyone.

Don’t mistake my willingness and my passion for
anything other than willingness and passion.

And don’t think you know me because you saw
some shit in a video or read some shit
on the internet.

When I first broke on the skateboard scene
in 1986 my shyness was nearly crippling.

When I was on my board I was fine.
It was the times off my board —
When I had to interact with my peers,
or with fans and sponsors that it
was really hard for me.

I had terrible acne and bad teeth.

And there was a spotlight on me.

This made me very self-conscience.

I wore a hat pulled down to my eyes
to try to hide my face and I never, ever
smiled in photos.

This created a stigma that has haunted me.

– Nothing is really forgotten or forgiven –

The fuckers keep trying to stick it to me
and keep wondering why I write them off.

This has all made for a very strange career.

Being that guy — Who beat up those four guys –
In that video — On the internet — Is a drag.
It’s just not something I value or care about.

I didn’t do it for posterity…
I didn’t do it to prove how tough I am.

It was simply a matter of choosing
to be the victim of aggression or
choosing to fight back.

I chose to fight back.

But because it appears that I won –
People interpret the whole
thing so differently.

I wasn’t looking for it.
It found me.

What if it was a video of
four guys beating me up?

It very well could have been.

The fact that it ended up on video
and distributed around is another thing –
And perhaps a mistake.

But the moment itself —
The moment itself was one
of action.

Still, people on the sidelines will judge,
criticize and offer cutting opinions.
But they are never the ones
actually in the arena…

My actions have never been ones of machoism
nor have they been inspired or filled with
the rhetoric of football coaches…

I’m no tough guy.
And I deplore such a distinction.

Actually, it makes me laugh.

Once the dirt, gravel, grime and shit were washed away –
And the bruises, scraps and sprains healed –

Once I was done staring at my GORUCK TOUGH
patch and basking in my own individual sense of
accomplishment… I realized —

Something greater had happened.

My individuality had been crushed
and was then reborn and enhanced…

— An evolution of spirit and character –

And as for all of that sweating and training
beforehand –

All the preparations, from the physical to
the actual packing of the bag –

What to put in it? What to bring? What to wear?
What to eat? What exercises to do?

It all meant very little.

It truly is as they say — “All mental.”

Inspired by Special Forces training —
The GORUCK Challenge really is more so
the challenge of a group of individuals
becoming a team and creating systems
in order to accomplish certain objectives TOGETHER —
As opposed to a mere individual physical challenge.

And yet, it was probably one of
the more physically demanding things
I’ve ever done in my life —

But really in the end, the individual physical aspect
is dwarfed by the mental team aspect.

She has several guitars in her
quiver — Including a
Dean: Dimebag Darrell
Signature Model.

Needing a good all-purpose
electric guitar for her
school’s Jazz-Band —
But one that she can also
rock her favorite Beatles
and Tom Petty songs on —
I took her shopping at
Guitar Center in Cerritos, CA…

It was time for Lucy to get her
first Fender Stratocaster.

There’s nothing quite like
going shopping for your first
guitar or skateboard –
And I was glad to have this
day with my kid –

Truly, It was awesome.

He landed the 900º and released his
first video game — And just like that –
The entire landscape changed.

I hadn’t really spoken to Tony since a
disagreement back in 1996 –

But I saw the open door and I heard
the call of duty and so I stepped
forward.

I built a bridge to Tony and he
reciprocated.

Within a year I found myself on tour
with Tony — A tour televised on ESPN –
And I was also featured in his video games.

Thanks to Tony there was now a heightened level of
attention being paid to me and my skating –
And I enthusiastically embraced all of the
opportunities that came with it.

…I was traveling the world at an
elevated level –
Promoting skateboarding as I always had —
But with more focus and energy than ever before.

From there I landed my own television show on Fuel TV.
A show that was a natural extension of who I was and what
I represented — The positivity in and of skateboarding.

I had heard my calling and found my place.

Up until that point I had been a pro skater
for 15 years with very little fanfare outside
of the skateboard world –
Suddenly, it all changed.

Overnight it seemed as if
I was unable to walk down the
street without being recognized.

It was a strange season of life.

Police officers would stop me on the
street and instead of hassling me
they would shake my hand and get their
photo taken with me.

Business men on airplanes and in
hotel lobbies would approach me
humbly — And instead of looking at me
with suspicious and damning eyes —
They would praise me for my “toughness”
and my “fearless” riding. They referred
to me as an “athlete” and told me I was
a “hero” to them —
And more importantly a “hero”
to their kids.

It was then that the manager, agent and lawyer types
started sniffing around.

Everyone seemed to think I was…

“The Next Big Thing.”

They’d say:

– There’s Tony Hawk, Bam Margera and… YOU!!! –

– Okay –

All I had ever done my whole life
was follow my dreams and interests —
And from a young age I was determined to
carve my own way through life –
I never wanted or needed anyone’s
help or assistance and I didn’t do any
of it for anyone’s praise or approval.

Now, all of a sudden — All of
these things that I had done seemed
to matter to so many people —
People who hadn’t been around for any of it.
And these folks propped me up on
pillars of hype and “The Hype”
became a part of some perverted story
“We” were trying to sell to Corporate America —

And I was told:

– It’s all just part of the game, baby –

And that…

– Corporate America is hungry for
“The Next Big Thing.” We just have to package
it right. We’re all gonna’ be rich! –

Except that this “Next Big Thing”
needed a little polishing.

And so “We” went to work.

By 2005 things were really starting to
heat up and then…

I broke my leg — Skating.

— Oops –

Plan B: Build a music career.

The problem with Plan B was that it was going to
cost ME money — A whole hell of a lot of money.

I had to basically start over –
And in doing so — Invest generously
in myself and my music –
And gamble that anyone would care.

I mean, I cared about it –
And I was genuinely enjoying myself…

But I didn’t start skating thinking anyone would care
so it felt strange to start a band HOPING people
would care — NEEDING them to.

Hey, some did… Most didn’t.

That’s cool… Managers, agents and lawyers get paid
anyway.

These guys kept telling me…

– You’re a business man, not a skateboarder.
Start thinking like a business man! –

– Huh? –

More polishing.

Then…

MTV came a calling.

Family reality show?

– Uhhh, okay. –

In the meantime I landed a movie role and another –
Both opportunities just falling into my lap.

The manager, agent and lawyer types were drooling…

– This is it!!! You’ll be “THE NEXT BIG THING” –

I can’t tell you how many times some guy in a suit and
with dollar signs burning in his eyes has said to me:

– You’re like the bad boy version of Tony Hawk.
You’re gonna’ be HUGE!!! We’re all gonna’ be rich! –

– Really? –

My biggest fault all along was feeling beholden to
all of these people.

The managers, agents, lawyers –
The corporate sponsors and supporters —
The publicists –

I wanted to succeed FOR THEM…

Because they all seemed to really like me
and believe in me so sincerely —
I thought that they were my friends.

And I was a good soldier and I wanted to do right by everyone.
But sometimes I forgot about doing right by myself.

I can’t tell you how many valuable hours I’ve wasted in
meetings, on the phone and in email exchanges with
people who ultimately could care less if I lived or died.

Then…

MTV passed on the show.

And I could feel the attention slip.

– Oh well
It was a fun ride –

And when I stopped and
did the math:

All that I’d really become on THEIR watch
was…

— That guy who threw the tuxedos out
in The Hangover –

Not quite
– “The Next Big Thing” –

And the funny thing is…
THEY didn’t even get me that gig.

Everything I got, everything that ever came
my way was because of personal relationships
that I had with people.

No fucking manager, agent, lawyer or
publicist ever did shit for me except
syphon my dough.

But still THEY all believed…

– We can build on this!!! –

(Being the guy who throws out the tuxedos)

A drunken, over-served MAN, stole a souvenir
given to my eight year old daughter right out of her hands.

So…

I gave him the ass-kicking he had coming.

But in a politically correct society where laws
and lawyers dictate everything —
Where there is no ethos — No spirit of character –
Where doing RIGHT is WRONG…

I was the bad guy.

Not the drunken, callous thief.

No, the father who was just standing up
for his family was the one vilified.

People were really disappointed in me.

I guess being the guy who throws the
tuxedos out in The Hangover should
have given me some Buddah-Like grace –
And that I should have just allowed this
drunken fool to have his way and steal
from an eight year old little girl –
Instead of taking immediate action I guess
I should have just meditated or something…
Society it seems would have preferred that story.

How dare I deny them a happy ending!

This all played out on television and became
a momentary international news item.

And in that moment…

I was no longer that beloved character
who tossed tuxedos in that outrageously
funny movie…

Nope.

I was just a father doing what he felt he had to do.

And for that –

I fell from grace…

And the world turned cold.

But my wife and daughters stood by me.

So, FUCK everyone else.

Some people did support me in private but
very few would dare to utter a positive word or go
on the record in my defense publicly.

For many others… This was the final straw.
I had confirmed everything that they had
ever wanted to believe about me.

And…

The phone stopped ringing.

People looked at me differently.

They still do.

And I found myself…
In debt —
And for the first time in 10 years
without any promising prospects
in front of me.

The door that Tony Hawk
had kicked open back in ’99
was suddenly slammed in my face.

I was no longer welcome
to the party.

I was no longer…

– “The Next Big Thing” –

I was just me.

A father, a husband and a skateboarder.

The floor of truth.

And I’ll tell you what…

I like being — Just me –
A whole helluva a lot better.

This I guess is what is called “fame.”

You know, it doesn’t matter who
you REALLY are…
No one can ever truly know you.

And they’ll never really have the chance.
Not with all of the filters that fall in-between.

If it’s written, said or caught on video –
Well, it must be true.

No one around here ever gets
the benefit of the doubt.

I’m just a Google search between love and hate.

And the case against me is impressive.

Hey, I could be convinced to hate me too –
If I didn’t know me.

The scathing diatribes are one thing…

But the lies… The lies cut even deeper.

I was recently informed by the father of a young fan
that his son had wanted to get a photo with me –
But that he had read on the internet that I did not take
photos with fans and would in fact get pissed off
if I were asked…

What the fuck?

Where does this shit come from?

The things that have turned up about me are mind boggling.

The things that have been written about me –
About my family –
On message boards and blogs –
– Just the few items that have crossed my desk —
That I’ve made the mistake of looking at…
Have been heart breaking — Soul crushing.

Who are these people with so much venom
to spew? And why?

They say it comes with the territory –
That it’s the price of “celebrity.”
But when I dreamed of being a pro skater…
I never dreamed of being hated –
Of being anyone’s whipping boy.

If I’m guilty of anything –
It is a guilt assigned to me by others –
By spectators.
The guilt of action.

And where I’ve erred I’ve erred on the side of passion…
And if I was wrong, I was wrong with all of my heart.

And for that I can not apologize.

And so I am a target and easy prey –
For the wagging tongues of parasitic
critics — Those lurking in the shadows.

And the internet is little more than a place where
people go to talk shit — Most times anonymously.

And as for those of my detractors
who officially publish their hateful
assassinations with their signature
attached and an exclamation point…

To you I say:

– Bravo! –

The information super-highway
is a seething, sprawling snake –
Slithering through slums –
Littered with hitchhikers…
Infected with negativity and lies.

It sure would be nice if everything they did,
every choice they made, fit snugly into the
framing that we’ve created for them in our
minds eye.

It would be nice…
But it’s not reality.

Reality is that a professional skateboard
career comes down to rather convoluted
matters of employment.

For twenty-five years now I’ve had to
balance my love for skateboarding —
My pursuit of skateboarding —
With my need for employment…

And it hasn’t always been pretty.

My sponsorship career has seen me
whirling round and round…
At times like a total fool.

Like a dog trying to catch his own tail.

Somehow trying to reconcile my skating
with the business of skating.

And along the way I have erred…

Muddying the waters.

But still MY skating has always been
there for ME —

A meditation amid the chaos.

And although I can’t say I would
or could have done any of it differently —

The reflection sometimes stings.

Having chunks of my life –
Seasons of true inspiration and creativity –
Filed away under the banner of some
meaningless corporate vice-grip just
seems grotesque to me.

It always has.

All those times that I had to go begging for
a job.

All the rejection — The hurtful words –
The indifference, the suffering — It weighs on you.

The groveling of pride.

Desperately needing a job but yet trying forcibly to
hold on to some sense of independence, of self…

Of truth.

All I ever wanted was to skate… Freely.
But I’ve also needed to be employed –
And in doing so I’ve paid a high price.

Having to put food on the table doesn’t change
who I am and it wasn’t ever done to change who I am…
It’s just a reality.

My best foot has always been put forward…
Always.

But along the way I’ve stepped in some
soul crushing snares. And although many times
I should have known better… I didn’t.

And…

There’s no worse feeling than when people
who have played the role of your friend suddenly
dismiss you, your contributions, your work, your life and
your family as yesterday’s news.

They will tell you…

– It’s just business –

And that somehow makes it all okay.

Venomous phone calls.
The penned words of assassins.
Knives buried in the back.

– It’s just business –

Or they will tell you…

– You’re over the hill –

Oh yes, that old chestnut…

This coming from people who never climbed it.

And then others will proclaim…

– You’ve sold out –

This from people who’ve never had the
balls to go for anything…
Who just want skateboarding to be a
gray, small, limited ghetto.

And the contracts burn — Their ashes
blowing in the wind.

– The good soldier always gets
the short end of the stick –

Then there’s the manager, agent and lawyer types.
Those who do nothing but blow hot wind of artificial
hype and tell you everything you NEVER wanted to hear.

Opening your door to these types is
opening your pockets — Is being a slave
to THEIR bottom line.

And they are the nicest, most well-meaning
leeches you’ll ever met.

Just a bunch of nobodies…
Wanting so desperately to be
somebody…
Riding on your coattails…
Sugarcoating turds and forcing them
down your throat.

The baggage becomes burdensome
and the closet overflows with lies.

Yes…

We really wish our skateboard heroes
could have perfect storybook careers…

But the contradiction of art and commerce
is just too wide for some to straddle gracefully…

Me.

And I’ve lived the sickening life of a mercenary…
A gun for hire.
An artist of paradoxes.

My skating…
My skating speaks for itself.

There were no short-cuts,
no trick-tips, no camps, no schools
no leagues, no parks and
no standard.

Just me and my board.

And before I had my own board
I begged, borrowed and stole…

I did whatever I had to do to ride.

Just the moment and the concrete
unfolding in front of me.

There was a quality and feeling
of action in every movement…

Emotional content.

Sincerity.

Each moment a meditation.

I didn’t skate to turn pro
I turned pro because I skated to skate.

It was September 1984.
I had just discovered punk rock music.

Don Bruno and Keith Hartel made me a mix-tape
that would change my life.

Rise Above was track #1.

– Jealous cowards try to control –

– Try to stop what we do
’cause they can’t do it themselves –

In Keith’s basement my hair was sheered off.

I went home and bleached my jeans.
My parents and siblings cringed.

The next day at school I went from
blending into the gray walls to being
a threat — A target.

I quit the wrestling team and
started skateboarding.

My life got tougher and I liked it.

We rode out of Edison –
Flipping the school off as we
passed by — Bound for Trenton.

City Gardens.

Punks from all over the state
and region were camped out
in the parking lot, outside of
their cars, waiting for dusk –
For the doors to open…

Waiting for Black Flag.

Some punks were skating
around the back of the venue.
We went to investigate.

Keith says — You should see
this kid on a skateboard –

Some punker pushes his board
towards me —

I step on and start thrashing.

A crowd gathers.
My first demo.

I knock over a tar bucket and do
a boneless over it.
Jaws drop.

I push at it again…
This time for a 180º.

I feel the eyes of the gathered crowd
move from me to something behind me.
I land the boneless facing where
I had just come from…

Henry Rollins is walking down the street
carrying grocery bags.

He makes eye contact with me.

– Yea man –

The crowd parts as Henry wades through.

No one can believe it.
Henry acknowledged me –
Acknowledged my skating.
The parking lot is abuzz.

The sun goes down and the doors open.
Punks pour into City Gardens
and the room is charged.

Black Flag hits us like a clenched fist…
Like a runaway fuckin’ freight train.

Greg Ginn, Bill Stevenson, Kira Rossler
and Henry Rollins…

It doesn’t get heavier.

Something explodes in my brain…
An awakening.

Whatever I do in my life, for the rest of my life,
must be done with this kind of intensity.

– We are born with a chance
And I am gonna’ have my chance –

The stage clears, the hall empties…
The floor is littered as if a tornado
had come through.

I walk towards the merch stand.
I buy a Slip It In T-shirt (that will get
me thrown out of school a few days later)
and a Henry Rollins chapbook entitled “20.”

Living is expression.

MY Skating
MY Music
MY Writing
MY Life

I buy the My War LP at Vintage VInyl
in Fords, NJ. I listen to it in my room
endlessly… The most significant record
I’ve ever purchased.

Black Flag
Skateboarding
My War
The squeal of Greg Ginn’s guitar
The writings of Henry Rollins
The golden autumn of 1984…

I can still feel it.

Not vert skaters.

Not freestyle skaters

Not street skaters.

Skateboarders.

I didn’t see a distinction.

But I became a distinction.

A marketing tool.

A signpost.

A reluctant puppet.

Art and commerce collided externally –

Internally.

My only escape from skateboarding
was skateboarding.

But there had to be something more…

More than the gloss of hype –
Or the smear of the back pages.

And I had to find it.

So I stepped out…

Into the wilderness.

Out onto a limb with
all the axes swinging.

And time shuffled the cards…

Again

and

Again

and

Again…

…and Again.

And I was lost
and I was found.

Again

and

Again

and

Again.

And I was greeted with love
and I was greeted with hate.

But I pushed on…

And

I push on…

It wasn’t a Redline frame and it had a crack in it.

He ripped me off.

Before he became my best friend
he was the first person that I ever saw
with a real skateboard.

It was a Sims Christian Hosoi Rising Sun
Pro Model. — He was carrying it in his hands.

He was a poser.

Before he became my best friend
he showed me Thrasher Magazine
for the very first time.

He held the magazine up through his back porch
screen door and turned the pages for me
from behind the screen. He wouldn’t actually
let me touch the magazine.

He was a dick.

Before he became my best friend –
One day while I was trying to learn to ollie –
I fell and my board shot out and launched up his back
while he and the other skaters sat around on the
ground talking. — It was an accident.

He became enraged and told me that I was
a loser, a pauper — That no one liked me
and to just go home.

The next day I waited for him after school –
I was going to kick his ass.
But instead of just facing the music
he changed his tune quickly —
He apologized profusely and invited me over
to his house to watch skate videos.

In that moment instead of getting his ass kicked
he chose to befriend me — If only to save his face
from fists of justice.

I should have just kicked his ass and been done
with him.

He was a coward.

Before he was my best friend he goofed on
me for my unorthodox style, for the way I dressed –
For any and every thing possible. The joke was
always on me.

That is until I started getting good on a skateboard.

…And when I emerged as one of the best skaters around –
He became my best friend.

He was a fucking leech.

When he was my best friend I was jumped
by two dirtbag burnout losers who gave me a royal
ass-kicking.

My best friend and nearly twenty other
skaters stood by and watched me get kicked and
punched over and over again as I lay injured
on the ground.

I told you, he was a fucking coward.

When he was my best friend I bought him
dinner, clothes, movie tickets, plane tickets,
a walkman — all kinds of shit.

One night I put twenty dollars in quarters down
on our favorite video game machine — We played all night.

When it came down to the last quarter
he got into a fight over it with another one of
our friends.

He threw a fucking hissy-fit over a fucking quarter. –
It was MY fucking quarter.

He was an ungrateful little bitch.

When he was my best friend he drove with
me from New Jersey to California —
We were going to get a place together.
Well, I should say he was going to live
in my place and loaf off of me.

One night Gonz told me that it was time for me
to move out — I said that I understood, that it
wasn’t a problem and that my best friend and I would
find a place and be gone ASAP.

He said — No, your best friend is staying, just
you have to leave. —

What the fuck?

My best friend sold me out for The Gonz —
And THEY became best friends.

He was a fucking traitor.

…It was all a long time ago and as I think
back on it now…

All I can really say is:

What a fucking asshole he was –
And I’m glad I traded him in for Ann.

Then there was punk rock.

Then there was Morrissey.

Like a ten-ton-truck Morrissey came crashing
into my life in 1987.

The first Smith’s song I ever heard was
There Is A Light That Never Goes Out…

– Please don’t drop me home
because I haven’t got one… anymore. –

This was how I felt.

I was 17 years old and completely
alone in the world.

I fucking hated jocks — Frat boys —
Worthless mobs.

Groups of people with their group identities.
Assholes — All of them.

I never belonged in a locker room.
I never trusted people who needed a crowd –
A social justification — The need to be a part
of something.

– Hoist me from the herd –

I left team sports behind for skateboarding and punk rock music.

My social awkwardness, my shyness, my sensitivity and
my struggles as a young professional skater…
– Tortured by my art (my very reason for living)
colliding with commerce —
…It all found a champion and a defender in Morrissey.

Heaven Knows I was miserable… And it felt good.
Better than being one of THEM.

Meat was murder, pretty girls made graves and
that joke wasn’t funny anymore.

Morrissey’s solo record Viva Hate landed
in 1988 at the toughest time in my young life —
And in some sick and twisted way it helped
me through.

I went on a cross-country drive alone
with just this one cassette tape in my
Ford Bronco II.

From California to New Jersey, across the US on
Interstate 40 and back across on Interstate
70, I rode with Morrissey.

Through the desert, to the Grand Canyon,
through Oklahoma City, Fort Smith,
West Memphis and the Great Smokey Mountains.

Up the coast, to my hometown.

– I was born here
And I was raised here
And I took some stick here –

Into Pennsylvania, through Columbus
and Indianapolis, across Missouri and Kansas
into the Rocky Mountains and across the
Continental Divide.

It was just me, my Bronco II
and Kill Uncle…

— Sing Your Life… Sing Your Life…
Step right up to the microphone and
name…

All the things you love
All the things you loathe. –

The sun would rise and the sun would set
and I would drive on.

Soon marriage, kids and bouts
of maturity would come crashing in like
a double-decker-bus and Morrissey and his
music slowly faded into the background.

I had my own poetry to write.
And the years rolled on.

And though perhaps it would seem that
Morrissey and his music couldn’t last…
I can tell you now, truly…

She was walking up the stairs outside of the Bren Events
Center at UC Irvine.

She had on black and white striped stockings and her hair
was braided.

My heart sang at the sight of her.

It was truly love at first sight –

The problem was — She didn’t see me.

From what I could gather she was being
picked up on, and rather aggressively, by three
certain pro skaters as she attempted to make her
way up the stairs.

These guys were my friends, teammates — Even
heroes of mine –
But I hated them at that moment.

I had never seen them act that way before —
Like predators, like jocks. No class.

And if it had been anyone else hounding her,
I may have violently attacked them
and freed her from their clutches. — A hero.

Skate Rats who had flocked to
Irvine to spectate the Vision Skate Escape
were out in full-force strutting
the newest moves.

This was the first time I ever saw
Ed Templeton and Jason Lee skate.
They were unknowns and they were
fucking good.

She was with them.

She was with Jason Lee.

I sat down pretending to be
interested in the skating but I
was watching her every move.

My three peers — from the stairs –
Suddenly finding themselves in the
general population, retreated quickly away
from the autograph hounds, while I dug in
and made myself comfortable.

Wherever she was — That’s where I wanted to be.

I knew right then and there that I wanted to
spend the rest of my life with her.

Over the course of the day and night
I stalked her each and every move.

Everywhere she went — There I was.

She was friendly with some weird
band called The Red Hot Chili Peppers
who were apparently playing at the
event.

I hung around, recognized the
bass player as the guy from the movie
Suburbia, but I didn’t know or care
at all about their music — I just
wanted to be around her.

So if she was hanging with
The Red Hot Chili Peppers,
well then so was I.

As the event came to an end,
I was skating the warmup mini-ramp
that was built backstage for the
competing skaters to get loose on.

Security, in an effort to clear the building,
approached the ramp and told me and the other
skaters still riding to get down and to stop skating.

Most of the other skaters meekly stepped down off of the
ramp. I instead, dropped in for a final run.

This blatant defiance rubbed Mr. Security Guard’s
sense of self-importance the wrong way and he
immediately stepped onto the ramp and clotheslined
me as I came full-speed across the flatbottom.

My head hit the floor hard, blood filled my mouth
and my ears rang.

I guess this big dumb musclebound fuck-head really
thought that that would be the end of the story.

Instead, he became the first chapter.

I immediately got up and began to pound his
stupid fucking face with rights.

He was wearing eye glasses that shattered
across the bridge of his nose — Glass cutting
into his cheeks.

A whose who of professional skaters and
industry intelligentsia looked on in
disbelief.

Wait, the kid who does handplants
is beating the shit out of a linebacker?

I continued to rain punches into
this fuckers face while he turtled –
That is until his much needed backup
got there and greatly outnumbered
me.

Five or six large men scooped me off the ground and
carried me off past the faces of many
of my heroes and friends — People
who would never look at me the same way again.

They carried me off to the backdoor
of the building, where they used my head as a
battering ram — Throwing me out onto the asphalt.

Fuck it.

I got up.

I stood there a minute.

I stood there two minutes.

I was alone.

Fuck it.

But wait… what about her?

Shit… there’s an after party — INSIDE!!!

She’ll be there.
I need to be too.

She was sitting with Jason Lee
up in the arena seating.

I approached them and in my best
Mark Gonzales impression asked
– Are you guys like
boyfriend and girlfriend? –

I couldn’t have picked a worse introductory
line or delivery — Total fuck-up.

They looked at each other confused and
slightly disturbed…
Jason said that yes they were boyfriend
and girlfriend and oh, by the way:
– It’s a pleasure to meet you, you’re one of my favorite
skaters –

Okay. Fuck.

Feeling like an idiot, I got lost quickly.

It felt like I should probably just pack it in
and head back to New Jersey with my tail
between my legs.

You know, just forget it.

Well, that’s what it felt like.