sick of working

So damn sick of working with these fools,
Somehow little old me doing the work of two,
Miss Sandy and Amy sitting on their ass,
Wish I could leave but I need the cash,
Maybe Slakjack was right all along,
Staying in one place just feels so wrong.
I’m just killing time until the shift is done,
Gonna grab my board and have some fun,
Skating has become my drug of choice,
Being on the board makes my soul rejoice,
Questions and worries fall away,
Living life for real, just day-to-day.
It’s so simple, seems too much so,
Shutting off the mind and going with the flow,
Maybe I’ll move to Montana just for kicks,
Living only for my skateboard fix,
I’ll go snowboarding when the snow starts to fall,
But you and I know that I ain’t got the balls.
I live vicariously through so many of you,
Out there skating bowls, ramps and pools,
Trying to improve a little at a time,
But I know that I’m past my prime,
Stoke is something that can’t be quantified,
Even though sometimes it feels like suicide.
I can almost boneless up on the pyramid,
Getting a new trick makes me feel like a kid,
So many years and miles and regrets,
But I’m beginning to cleanse, beginning to forget,
Starting again almost with a clean slate,
Don’t think too much, just feels so flipn great.
I’m lowering my expectations and living my life,
There’s one person only that brings me strife,
It’s all on me and no one else,
Need to stop running away from my self,
So I guess Montana will just have to wait,
Cuz I need to work on getting my head straight.
Simple and uncomplicated even though I want otherwise,
Sometimes life needs to wake me up, make me recognize,
Reality check and bring me back down to earth,
Make me realize what this life is really worth,
There’s no amount of money that can make you great,
Only blood, sweat and tears if you wanna skate.
No hiding from yourself or the reality of the now,
No shortcuts, no game cheats, just the Tao,
Only I can live my life, no one else,
No matter how much I wanna put it on a shelf,
No yesterday, no tomorrow, just today,
A finger pointing only shows you the way.
We are servants of the board one and all,
Battered and bruised from taking our falls,
But the concrete is reality and sometimes bites,
Doesn’t stomach liars or fanciful types,
Too real for some but just enough for us,
Living on the edge until we return to the dust.
Life knocks you on your ass just like that,
Just like falling from the lip to the flat,
But you have to get back on that board,
Learn from your mistakes and keep moving forward,
Nothing worth having or doing comes easy,
But that’s the price we pay for being free.
I think I’ll shut up now and get on my way,
Plenty of sunlight left for me to play,
Hopefully I’ll stay on the board this time round,
Can’t really say I enjoy falling down,
But come what may, come tomorrow I’ll do it again,
A small price to pay for keeping me sane.

couple of pics

miscellaneous pics

circe of the seven-plys

I like them thick, what can I say,
Nice and wide, with a big old tail,
Big fat juicy wheels, 60’s at least,
Nice and grippy and super soft,
I’m starting to drool just imagining,
All the things I could do,
Lay that baby down on something smooth,
Cruising along the hips,
Bushed concrete better than satin,
Gotta get me some, just a taste,
Feel the cool breeze on my face.
Man, how wide is that wheelbase,
That’s just insane, didn’t know they came that way,
Don’t mean to covet my brethren’s ride,
I’ve just never seen anything that wide,
Holmes, your set-up is so fine,
I wish I could push and carve and fly high,
On that beautiful board all of the time,
Maybe I could just take her for a spin,
I swear I’ll bring her back without a nick,
A ride like that is something I gotta have,
This itch just won’t stop without a scratch.
She looks like she’s built for speed,
A piece of that is what I need,
I’ll try not to get too attached,
Play around a little, but won’t fall in love,
Even though you and I both know,
That I’m full of shit and I will just the same,
Try as I might, she’s stuck in my brain,
She’s got this old man sprung,
I’m even willing to share, just don’t care,
Wherever she goes, I’ll be there.
Brand new paint job looks so nice,
Wrapped in a swath of griptape,
Showing just enough, making me want,
Shiny metal trucks peeking from underneath,
Like a glimpse of something forbidden,
Big round wheels to carry me away,
Play your cards, let the chips fall where they may,
Enchanted and entranced and upside down,
Shapely and lovely, these seven plys of maple,
To the untrained eye nothing more than a board,
But to some of us old men it is so much more. . .

the diner

Cars filled up the parking lot,
Window full of faces staring back,
Restaurant filled to capacity,
I walk in and walk over to the counter.
Waitresses collecting drinks,
Placing them on their trays,
Four cooks crammed into a ten by five space,
Pressed up against the stainless steel grills.
Stream rising from a mound of potatoes,
Eggs and bacon splattering grease,
As the waitresses jockey for tables,
Jockeying and trading responsibilities.
I sit down on a stool out of the way,
Trying to remain inconspicuous,
Trying to avoid the blame,
But then I remember I’m only passing through.
Asian cook-black straight hair peeking under cap,
Next to a tall white guy, mid-twenties both,
Latter with a Detroit cap on, ½ inch gold necklace,
Next to two older black men, shorter than the first.
Looking around the place, see so many faces,
Aging hippies, young alternative-types,
Colored hair and pierced faces,
And construction workers on the way to work.
Amidst the noise and tumult someone asks,
“Have you been helped?”
I look up at the waitress, answer loudly,
So she can hear me, so she won’t misunderstand.
I always assume they don’t understand,
Maybe I speak too softly,
Maybe I don’t enunciate my words,
Maybe they expect broken English.
Raindrops cling to the windows,
Half-suspended, half-expectantly,
Through otherwise clear glass,
No sign of fog, despite the heat inside.
I feel exposed and vulnerable,
I can’t hide from the cars whizzing by,
The late summer rain offers no reprieve,
Too cold, too late, crops dead in the fields.
The waitress brings my coffee,
I shut all else out and pour in half-and-half,
I stir in a thermos worth of sugar,
Warm my hands and warm my soul,
Holding onto the Styrofoam like life itself,
Before heading back out into the freezing rain.

the avenue

Empty avenue stretches toward downtown,
Dimly lit blacktop four lanes wide,
Echoes of a storied past,
Rumors of a hopeful future,
Scant cars slide stealthily by.
Used furniture store to one side,
Beauty salon and shops on the other,
Prostitutes stroll down the sidewalk,
Looking every which way for their next trick,
No one has a good reason for being here tonight.
An awning stretches out across the walk,
Built in better days long since gone,
Offers a short respite for the homeless,
Trekking on foot or by bike,
From the shelter to the southside.
The avenue disappears to the north,
Swallowed up by the city center,
Multi-storied drab monuments of gloom,
Used and forgotten like so many lovers,
Bricks fading like dreams long forgotten.
Hovels and crackhouses hide off to the east,
Sandwiched between the river and the highway,
Street lights broken and dimmed,
By too many years of hard living,
Too many promises made but never delivered.
A Harley splits the silence for a moment,
Revving and roaring away from the clubhouse,
The noise fades away and is replaced,
By the sounds of industry across the river,
Of the GM plant making cars for other folks.
My dreams or my reality, which is worse,
Running and running all the time, all the while,
But at the same time, standing dead still,
In the same place I’ve always been,
Realizing that there is no place to go.
So what lies do I tell myself,
To make it all seem so worthwhile,
To silence my doubts, hide the truth,
Looking and longing but never going,
Standing still in the middle of the avenue.
Momentary pleasures taken and given,
Countless ounces and bottles,
And concrete flying past my seven-plys,
A long, slow caress to wake me up,
Living half-awake in the half-light.

absolutely nothing

Summons delivered mid-afternoon,
Like a body slam, blow to the head,
Some guy hiding behind mirrored sunglasses,
Still didn’t look at me, did the deed and fled,
Whatever—just trying to pay his bills too.
Capitol One not wondering what’s in my wallet,
They want the whole damned thing,
But they need to queue up,
So much on my plate already,
So far behind sometimes makes me wonder.
Little red vee-dub about to fall apart,
Dumping oil all over the drive
Wheels barely on, rickety-rackety rack and pinion,
And the house itself up for sheriff’s sale,
Meanwhile a leak in the waterline soaks my basement.
And all the zhooniya ($) tied up elsewhere,
Money already spent two weeks in advance,
Credit destroyed and spilling into everything,
Kwe and everyone else got their own issues,
So I deal with mine 12 ounces at a time.

Showed up to the skatepark all alone,
Bunch of kids running around acting up,
Kid with the Mohawk bitching about gangbangers,
Usual crew huddled in the corner,
Pissed and upset about some visiting rednecks.
I roll down the bank and start hitting the walls,
Anger fused with alcohol fused with desperation,
Pads on my wrists and arms and knees,
Bald head glistening in the fading daylight,
Hitting everything hard and fast and with urgency.
The coping is still sitting there mocking me,
Two, three inches off from my kickturns,
Just above my carves, close enough to touch,
Came off the wall pretty shaky a few times,
Came so close to biting it and face planting.
Hit the vert wall high and fast,
Staring down at the coping off to my right,
Nearly did a manual from seven feet up,
Shifted my weight to the nose and crouched,
Somehow someway stayed on and rode it out.

All padded up and ready to fall,
Wanted to leave whatever it was on the wall,
Or in the corner or in the egg bowl,
That nameless something eating at my soul,
Just a stain on the concrete and my memory.
Mexi-Dave once said to me half-seriously,
That I had an old school soul-surfing vibe,
Not exactly positive about what he meant,
But I’ll take that little nugget as a compliment,
And keep carving and searching for that elusive something.
I keep searching and looking for what I don’t know,
At least I’m doing and not happy with just being,
Living my life stuck in my head,
Living my life vicariously through the TV,
Or lost somewhere in the interweb surfing.
Life comes and goes at its own pace,
Don’t get too bent out of shape,
Gotta figure out steps one thru three before,
Figuring out that step number four,
So it will go as it goes just take it slow.

The bowl continues to beckon me ever so seductively,
But I know and she knows that I’m not quite ready,
Watching the other shredders take her on,
Dropping in and hitting the deep end,
Only to lose all their momentum in the shallow.
I can wait until my pump gets better,
Don’t want to be just another flash in the pan,
Need to ride her right and do what I can,
Hit her high and keep my speed,
Making promises I intend to keep.
Meanwhile I’ll just admire her from afar,
Until the day I know I can do it right,
Not wasting her time or mine for now,
Playtime is over and only the serious need apply,
Otherwise she’ll eviscerate you so don’t even try.
Temperamental and moody but so beautiful,
She can break you in two or take your life,
Give respect and she’ll return it as well,
Built for speed and crazed by bloodlust,
One wrong turn and you’re reduced dust.

Walking through the door shirt drenched with sweat,
The four-year-old welcomes me with “Helloo da-dehh”,
To which I reply, “Helloo bay-behh” without pause,
Growing up in our home everyone does voices,
Imitating every commercial and movie they’ve seen.
Everyone’s excited because they got wings from the pub,
Every Monday we pick up twenty of their finest,
Double-dipped and cooked extra well,
Even the wife who doesn’t do chicken,
Except for the nasty steroid-injected white meat.
The wings were good as usual with hot sauce on the side,
They scope out my elbows and knees,
Searching for new wounds from Ranney,
And we pass around pints of Ben and Jerry’s,
While we all watch Hell’s Kitchen on t.v.
I gulp down a nice cool glass of biish (H2O),
Best damn thing I’ve had to drink in a long time,
A perfect ending to an otherwise kind of day,
Exhausted from carving and pumping,
Realize that all the rest amounts to absolutely nothing.

pipe dreams

Rolling on tinted concrete,
Slabs upon slabs under my wheels,
Smooth and hard,
Soaking up the noonday sun,
Hand-troweled imperfections,
Adds character and the unknown,
Cracks starting to appear,
Patched hastily by the city.
Tiny holes here and there,
Dust and debris collect in the corners,
Cigarette butts and used band-aids,
Pieces and parts of skateboards,
Splintered plywood graveyard,
No one cleans the mess,
Except the old-schoolers,
Showing up with brooms in hand.
Little banks less than two feet,
Up on the top deck,
Slow gradual inclines for beginners,
And bigger ones as well,
Three feet, then five, then six,
Over on the other side,
Pyramids in-between,
Level and flat at the top.
And a hubba, a concrete mogul,
With sloping sides,
Makes for a hell of a ride,
When taken at speed,
And of course there is tranny,
Concrete transitions from bottom to top,
Five foot radius I think,
Math-challenged so I’m not sure.
Up on the deck over to the bowl,
Egg-shaped nirvana,
Five feet in the shallow,
Ten feet deep at the other,
Smooth reddish grey concrete,
Graffiti barely visible,
Sand-blasted off by the city employees,
A waste of our precious monies.
Gun metal grey metal coping,
Runs along the lip,
Looks to be at least three inches,
Perhaps four, sits teasing,
Unreachable for me,
Reminds me of metal pipes,
That I used to cut and thread,
So many years ago along the lakeside.
Back door wide upon in my dad’s store,
Perfect view of the harbor,
Lake Michigan just beyond,
Offering a cool a breeze as I lifted and sweat,
Cutting and grinding and at day’s end,
I’d skate out and acid drop off the loading dock,
On my way down to the beach,
Long-ago summers now out of reach.

a note to my son

Just wanted to let you know that I took the Udon,
Someone killed off the Ichiban and rice noodles,
And someone ate all of that dish you made,
With the noodles and chicken and spinach,
So you guys need to go to the Asian food mart,
When you have time, maybe before lunch.
Your brother and sister have been eating so much,
Not as much as you, but man, can’t keep anything around,
But that’s good, you older ones are hitting puberty,
And the four-year-old’s always had a good appetite,
You guys eat almost as much as me,
Little eating machines, just like their dad.
School’s just around the corner, like five weeks,
I want you to start getting ready, prepare yourself,
You need to learn your music for marching band,
I think the first game’s at the end of the month,
And since you’re section leader, mr. mellophone,
You need to get ready to lead and play.
Speaking of play, are you still doing soccer?
If so we need to start running most everyday,
Practice your kicks and start lifting weights,
Work on your footwork, learn a few tricks,
Junior varsity’s a bit different than frosh sports,
Especially since you’re so small, since you’re so short.
Just keep in mind that eventually you’ll grow,
You’ll probably’ll be taller than me before you know,
But you have quickness and lots of heart,
And the last bit can’t be taught or bought,
You either have it or you don’t so use it,
But just have fun most of all, that’s what matters.
Your age is the toughest age, the hardest of all,
All the pressures from family, friends, school,
Pressures from within and without and who knows,
But if you ever need to talk, have any concerns,
You know you’re mom and I are always here,
Always willing to listen and to talk about whatever.
And now for something much more serious--
I need to talk to you about skatingboarding,
I’m semi-fluent in that language or used to be,
I’m not up on all the latest slang or lingo,
But now that we’ve made some progress,
We need to think about what’s next.
You learned how to roll on the board,
Rode banks of all sizes and shapes,
You figured out pyramids and hubbas,
Getting a lot more speed, riding without falling,
At least more of the latter than the former,
And you finally started carving.
The look on your face coming out of that half-bowl,
Was worth a million and one words,
I didn’t even need to tell you that you hit it,
When you finally carve, right away you just know,
And at that moment if you weren’t hooked,
I would have just let you walk away.
So you can hold your own with all the rest,
But now comes the time when you’re put to the test,
You need to get your kickturns dialed in,
Next up after that is dropping-in,
We didn’t start this thing up just to do flippy-tricks,
We wanna ride the bowl, we wanna hit the lip.
Carving in the corners, flying over the hubbas,
Catching major speed down the banks,
Speeding back up, trying to pop out,
All of that is fun, don’t get me wrong,
But the bowl has been the reason all along.
All the skills that you have learned so far,
Or the ones that are only a few months away,
All done for the sake of the bowl gods,
To satiate their hunger, to tame their thirst,
To prepare the mental, spiritual and physical,
For riding the wall, to get us both vertical.
Baby steps, little steps, sometimes leaps,
Letting you progress at your own pace,
Learning from your spills and slams,
But going right back again, just as I am,
A small microcosm of the bigger picture,
Racing against time, facing the end of summer.
The martial art of the board, ingrained,
Learning from doing, from moving,
Hardening your shins, knees, elbows,
Thickening your skin from sun, wind and slurs,
Toughening you up, working on your nerves,
Realizing that within resides your try foe.
When will you let go, when will you trust,
It will come with time, will come with practice,
Something that only you can decide,
Only you can break through the barriers,
Erected by you, by me, by society,
Only you can decide who and what you want to be,
Ride and glide and find those lines,
Soul-searching young shredder of mine,
Only you know when it is time, or what you will find.

words we hate

(culled from an Old Man Army thread)

I’m too cool for school, so’s I’m gonna skate or die, like for sure,
So the rest of ya’ll can just go ahead and have a nice day or WHATEVA,
And bollocks to all you wankers!!
My ride is such a ghetto hooptie, wish I could get me something pimp,
Sorta speak, but I need to get a bite to eat, so jeet yet?
Jew? Nah, yahntoo? Aight. Lesgeet.
Yeah dawhg. Dats tight.
Don’t ax me gin. Wots mines is mines, DUDE.
See what I’m saying? Know what I mean?
It’s a double-edged sword. Swings and roundabouts.
U-turns and Detroit turnz and whatnot.
But its my bad, what’d you say?
That’s hot, and you’re all spot on, for sure,
And this whole thread is just so major, so choice,
The bees knees, the cat’s meow, so phat and fresh and so farkin’ mint.
We all just need to bang on and bugger on and dead nuts to us,
Per se, cuz, you know, like back in the day,
Like innit and nuffink and schtuff und fluff,
Jez respeckt like for reALZ, I do, hateses we does.
Get er done, beothches, with all due respect,
I hear what you’re all saying, in a sense, I personally feel that . . .
The bottom line is, and I’m mindful of your objectifications and such,
And clearly you have an issue with this,
But I feel that at the end of the day . . .
You gotta do what you gotta do.
On a scale of one to ten, its definitely an eleven,
And I’m able and willing to give a hundred-and-ten percent,
In order to further restrain myself from any further incidences,
Not to change the subject but . . . stop being pallet pleasers,
Know what I mean, hint-hint-nudge-nudge,
Pick the low hanging fruit, bro,
You eat an elephant one bite at a time.
Can I get a hell yeah?
Hip hop and a hippity hoppity, zippity zoppity,
Doo-wop a diddy dum diddy dee . . .
And ironically or tragically, but then let’s not go there,
You go girl, talk to the hand.
Gonna go skate some vert, yeah it’s only a mini,
But its so off the chain, dog,
And younins know what I’, laying down,
So let’s nip this in the butt, tho itz a mute point,
For all intensive purposes, all of a sudden,
Grab the cow by the horns, the oysters by the cojones,
Gonna watch some X-games, so who medaled,
Who podiumed, who summitted the summits summit.
We have to keep moving continulously forward,
Cuz its all good, mans, all good, fo sho,
But I need to be done here . . . . .