Choco/euro.

I HAD JUST GONE to the Butcher's wedding in Spain and then spent a week in Scotland with Rattray and our lady friends before flying into Heathrow to join the fabulous Chocolate team for a two-week classic Euro jaunt across the UK and France. Ringo Starr got off the flight just before the team, and I saw that as a very good omen, even though he's probably the least popular of all the Beatles and none of the Pakistani people around me seemed to know what I was talking about when I nudged them with my elbows and gasped, "Holy shit! There's Ringo!"

They have a name for spots like this in America: "skate proofed." Devine five-Os

50 PERCENT JOLLY, 50 PERCENT OLD

WE STAYED AT London's equivalent of a Motel 6, which was swamped with American high school students all doing embarrassing American things--non-stop, simultaneously, and at very high volumes. It was a very "Seniors rule!" type of environment, hardly dampened by the terrorist bus bombing that had taken place directly across the street some five days earlier.

Our hosts were Ben and Seth, two English stuntwood romantics of the highest order, and Owen, a lovable tour veteran (having driven for a former Girl trip where he was exposed to Sherm's personal puppetry first hand), who ferried us around in a large land yacht called the Rendezvous. As media, Meza and I were paired with Leo Sharp, a talented photographer who rivals the legendary Dan Sturt in his physical fitness and tight focus. Though I'm used to employing some light bullying when faced with a local photographic competitor, such tactics were thrown to the wind in the presence of Leo's sweet demeanor and honey-glazed-ham-sized fists. Therefore, please refer to the latest issue of Sidewalk Surfer if you'd like to see Leo's version of this trip.

As a child, I learned that the main reason to travel to Europe is that the streets are practically jammed with naturally occurring brick quarter- and halfpipes, and Ben and Seth didn't disappoint as they guided us from one fantastic wave to another. Spots like these are what's known in the biz as an All Play, and Smyth and Meza battled it out at each one like a half-cocked Fejj and Grabke. And while many of you might not understand that reference, rest assured that the streets were truly on fire.

THE GAME

I WAS TALKING to Janae from Boost Mobile, and I was all, "Hey, I'm in London," and she was all, "No shit?" and I was all, "Yeah, shit's tight," and she was all, "Oh snap, The Game is playing there tonight!" and I was all, "What kind of game?" and she's all, "No, the rapper The Game," and I was all, "I don't know what that is, but I bet Justin would really like it," and she's all, "I can totally get you in," and I was all, "Word," and she was all, "What?" and I was all, "I mean, yes please!"

This was the first live hip-hop I have seen since I went to see the Beastie Boys in 1993, and I'll admit that I'm quick to write off much of the genre as boring jock posturing paired with a ridiculous obsession with consumerism. It should also be noted that I know the entirety of several Geto Boys albums by heart, so it's a complicated relationship I'm working with here.

The Game's DJ worked up the crowd with a 15-minute medley of other people's songs, ranging from Biggie to Michael Jackson, before the star sauntered on stage to dive into his latest hits. Joining him were several Fly Girl-style dancers on low-rider bikes and a soccer team worth of homies whose main responsibilities were unclear. Only one other guy appeared to have a microphone and the rest had to bide their time pantomiming along to the references of gunplay while smoking weed on the side stage and lackadaisically filming with an assortment of hand-held video cameras.

As most rappers have relatively small bodies of work, I was curious as to how The Game was going to fill up an entire hour and a half. The first non-musical interlude occurred when an open call to anyone who could out-drink the Game netted a 50'ish father from the crowd who looked a lot like the Skipper from Gilligan's Island. Pops, as he was quickly dubbed, then traded turns downing bottles of malt liquor, champagne, and finally the brown acid of the hip-hop world, Hennessy cognac. Though the bulk of Pops' beverages went down his shirt and onto the crowd, the Game kept up the charade, allegedly drinking two full bottles of Henn-dog.

"Yeah, more like apple juice!" Smyth cried out in disgust.

The rest of our crew was having a ball with Scott singing along to all the songs and Roberts, Eldridge, and Devine raising their imaginary gats to the sky. From there, The Game went through a long shopping list of people who could suck his dick, including his mentor, 50 Cent and his label, and G-Unit (confusing, as one of his entourages' few duties was tossing G-Unit T-shirts into the crowd). This was followed by a medley tribute to all the dead soldiers, including Eazy E, whom The Game is especially enamored with, and a funny shout out to the Prince of Saudi Arabia who was seated with his security in the balcony.

"You might be the Prince of Saudi Arabia," The Game called up, "but in the United States you ain't the Prince of shit. You just you!"

Despite the approximate gallon of alcohol he had allegedly drank, The Game finished up by perfectly executing the 15-minute long "300 Bars," which is the hip-hop equivalent of "Stairway to Heaven," to a room full of smiles and applause. Out front after the show, Roberts was so excited he snatched up the first bootleg T-shirt he came across, which, on closer inspection, turned out to be a medium-sized ringer T. He soon supplemented it with a more appropriate XL, which the kids and Scott also picked up.

A guardian of the true streets, Smyth stormed around the crowd of excited white kids asking with contempt, "Who wants to go to Compton? We're going to Compton! Who's with us?" As there were no takers, we all boarded the Rendezvous and went back to the hotel.

THE SLAP GAME

A CLOSE RELATIVE OF bloody knuckles and that game where you hit each other really hard with a comb, the Slap game is a study hall favorite that transcends all language or cultural barriers. As our veritable Captain America, Justin dominated all comers, battering Smyth, the Frenchies, and even a random homeless man with his lightning-quick open palms. It was strange how the simple act of slapping another man really, really hard on the back of the hand could bring us all so much joy. But it did, and we all gathered around to cheer on our champ. At the rate this extreme sports movement is going, don't be surprised to see Eldridge earning the gold medal in Slaps at the 2009 Dew Games.

HOT SCOTT

LIKE REESE FORBES, Scott Johnston has a statuesque appearance that stands in stark contrast to many of his rat-faced peers. It's a mystery how he wandered into skateboarding when his opportunity to become an actor, model, or millionaire yachtsman is so apparent--but our sport is all the better for it. Upon closer (non-gay) study of Scott, I came up with a theory that it isn't genetics and physical fitness that make him so easy on the eyes (though they're definitely not hurting him); it was actually just his high-end designer glasses. As you can see in the photos, this is not the case. Another example of a hypothesis to make myself feel better shot all to hell by the power of the scientific experiment.

Kenny Anderson, Too Smooth for Celluloid

Okay, here's the situation. Your sidebar is called "Kenny Anderson, Too Smooth for Celluloid." I'm afraid you don't have any photos in the article, Kenny.

Oh man. I remember I didn't get too much I was hurt the whole time. Are you using Poppalardo's backside flip to fakie 5-0?

Yeah.

OK, well, there goes my 5-0 fakie.

Yeah. So, maybe we can do an interview like on the talk shows and you can plug your projects.

But I don't have any projects.

Come on. What are some hot moves you've been doing?

Nothing. I have no moves. I'm lucky to land a kickflip.

I find that very difficult to believe. What about the boards? Any new graphics or concaves?

Oh my gosh! Yeah. I'm working on this concave. And we're re-introducing Bone-ite. We've got this new concave. It's going to be called Hell Concave. Hella?

Yes. Hella Concave. Exactly. It's sort of a knock-off of the great H-Street invention. How's that baby coming along? Any new developments?

Yeah, really she's doing well. She's crawling and walking so she's following me around all over the place.

Is she saying much?

Yeah, she babbles a bunch. It sort of sounds like she's saying mama and dada.

How was the rest of your summer? Well, my summer involved another European trip two weeks after that one, which was the exact same setup. I was hurt so I could only skate part time. I don't think I got much on that trip either.

What do you remember the most about the Chocolate trip?

I'd probably have to say drunk Poppalardo.

You mean Party Time Pops? Yeah. He partied hardy.

What was your favorite part? Drunk Poppalardo.

You know what mine was? The world's greatest boat ride. Yeah. That was great.

Oh yeah. You do have a trick. You have the opening spread jumping off a rock.

At least I got that. See, I get photos. So actually, we don't even need to do this interview. By the way, do you think The Game really drank all that Henn-dog?

No. I think he's fronting. But it was funny when he called out the Prince of Saudi Arabia.

Have you ever seen Devine frown?

No, but one time when he was hurt I could tell he was getting upset but he still had a smile on his face. I think it went level at one point, but it never went south.

Do you have any Felix updates? Did he win that TV sewing thing?

No, but he made top four. He went out like a champ too.

Is he getting any sort of gigs out of this stardom?

Yeah, I'm sure. I think he's keeping it low, but he's always got something in the works.

Well, as our top Felix correspondent you'll have to keep us in the loop.

Yeah, No problem. Can I give you a quote about when he got kicked off the show? Basically, when he got booted off he was talking about some outfit and he was making fun of it. I believe the exact quote was, "I don't see anybody wearing her outfit, unless she's a transvestite rap artist that wants to dress like a hooker." That was on national TV. I know it might not have been as funny to people who don't know him, but I was dying.

CHRIS ROBERTS, MALIBU COOL

CHRIS IS FROM Malibu, CA, and has the sort of detached Hollywood cool that can only come from summers on Lee Majors' yacht and being next-door neighbors with the Fonz. Actually, I'm not sure if either of those are true, but Roberts definitely has the magnetism of a star. I've told him as much on several occasions, and he's always responded, "Yeah. A lot of people tell me that." By the end of the trip, Chris was pretty much the only man standing and rose to the occasion by battling through solo demos and long manual sessions in the scorching sun. It'll be good training for when he's starring in the next Indiana Jones movie or running the show at Universal Studios or whatever charmed future lies before him. That kid's just got it!

FRANCO PHILE

MORGAN BOUVANT was our host in France as well as the first European host I ever had on my 1998 trip to Paris with the World Industries team. He's pretty much as good as it gets, in my opinion, and always makes an effort to combine some non-skating fun with the demos and shop appearances of a working skate trip. One night we went out with him and his foxy ex-patriot girlfriend and her friends to a dance club with oily bo-hunk doormen, the velvet rope and everything. The gals were as close as I've ever seen to real live Sex and the City-types, and it was a struggle to keep up with the lively conversation and damn near impossible to keep up with them on the dance floor (where I soon gave up my spot stumbling around to 15 shirtless Moroccans).

Marseilles was bright, warm, and beautiful after the gray skies of England, and the trip got new legs. Street style in Pans was tun, too, even though almost everyone was hurt. Best of all, we made a new friend, an 11-year-old ripper Meza nicknamed Petite Chat Noir, who sucked down miniature quiches the way his American counterparts do Nerds Rope. I know there's been a lot of beef in the past few years, what with that freedom fries bullshit and whatnot, but I really love France and I think, if we all try, our countries can be great friends again.

ACTIVELY FLABBY 

AS I'VE EXPLAINED in other stories, French people are often much less subtle in conversation than their American counterparts and are more than happy to offer criticism and comments that would be seen as offensive if said across the table of a TGI Fridays in Des Moines, Iowa. Which is why it wasn't all that surprising when one of our French hosts repeatedly told me, "You are so fucking fat!"

To be fair, I'm not in the top physical condition of my life. If you looked at my high school graduation pictures, you will see that I've grown increasingly more Dad-like in appearance over the years, and while I'm not especially happy about it I would hardly call myself "fat" or "fucking fat." Still, compared with my chain-smoking host who skated like a maniac at all the demos and is the kind of dude who probably leaves the house shirtless, I'm sure I look a little thick.

There's also the matter of relative comparison. If you looked at a cross section of American men my age, I'm looking like Jan-Michael Vincent compared to the pear-shaped, Dockers-wearing and mustache-donut-growing masses. In France, however, it's another story. Not only are most people thin, but there were many physically fit dudes well over 25 skating (and ripping!) at the demos. While those on the backside of 20 are content to ride the bowl back home, we saw numerous 25 to 30 year olds switch crooksing and nollie hardflipping all over the place.

"Look at that guy," Meza told me, pointing at a dude our age wearing Sketchers and a half shirt. "He just switch tailslid the top of the picnic table."

The only even slightly obese kid we saw was tearing around the park like a wolverine, his tab glistening as he nollie noseslid, switch hardflipped, and over-crooked.

"How can he be skating that hard and still be that fat?" Smyth wondered. And as we sat there in the shade eating our Pringles and drinking soda pop, we decided that he must have been in a coma or have been on a diet of mostly butter. That or it was some sort of glandular thing. Nothing else made any sense.

POPS

ANTHONY POPPALARDO is the newest guy on the team and an interesting little dude. As you can see, he can definitely put down the technical hammer but he sometimes seems to derive no pleasure from it. He stayed in his room while we went to The Game show and could often be found relaxing thoughtfully with a nice bottle of Merlot while we were having fun goofing around with each other. He doesn't talk as much as some, and I had to control myself from badgering him, as my nervous response to quiet people is to talk at them twice as much. His demeanor went on the tilt-a-whirl one night in Paris, however, when he suddenly morphed from quiet monk to hyper-aggressive, zorched-out party animal.

"You want to get crazy?" he kept asking potential party bros. "'Cause I want to get crazy with you! C'mon, high five! HIGH FIVE!"

His Spring Break explosion mostly just confused people, but it was fun to watch from a distance. Eventually he had to be content to just high five himself and go to bed, which was probably for the best.

DEVINE

HIS NAME can be pronounced so it rhymes with either "heaven" or "sublime," but either way he's a great little dude. Devine's been around a long time and it's a testament to his skills and good nature that he's weathered the seas of sponsorship to land on the shores of A-list island. Some Devine fun facts: He's from Bakersfield, CA. He has a brother who also rips. He brought approximately 30 hats on the trip (the kind with the sticker--and no, he doesn't take the sticker off). And most amazingly, he cannot physically make his mouth frown. Seriously, all he can do is smile. I tried to get him to frown and this is what happened (see photo). It might look like he smelled something unpleasant, but it's still not technically a frown.

JUST IN ELDRIDGE, ALL AMERICAN

Out for dinner in Paris, Pops introduced Justin to a girl he'd met at the table next to his. "Hi, I'm Justin." Justin said.

And without missing a beat, the French girl said, "And I am Britney!" and laughed and laughed.

Like it or not (and I think he likes it), Justin Eldridge looks like an American pop star, or a sports star or one of those kids on one of those TV teen dramas. He's an American, goddammit! And he'll eat burgers, drink Budweiser, and smile with his big white teeth into the heart of anyone from any land. He's a naturalbe it skating, throwing dice, or slapping the shit out of a homeless person's hand--and he does it all with an infectious enthusiasm that makes you want him to win. Sort of like how America used to be.

THE WORLD'S GREATEST BOAT RIDE

I KNOW THE WORDS "boat ride" make it sound sort of tame and tantamount to a starlite dinner cruise--but it was a serious life-affirming adventure. The first day in Marseilles, Morgan rented one of those Zodiac-type boats like Greenpeace uses when they're throwing flowers at Russian whaling ships, and we spent the whole afternoon charging around to a bunch of little stark white islands that have all sorts of ancient forts and ruins on them. We jumped off cliffs into narrow canyons, saw at least five or six uncovered Euro tits, and Kenny accidentally grabbed a spiky sea anemone. In between stops, Morgan drove the boat as fast as it could go while seeking out the wakes of other larger boats for us to jump. Sitting on the inflatable tube edge, it was sort of like what I imagine a bucking bronco would be like. A few times it went from fun to sort of scary, but we all managed to stay on board. It's hard to get back into a Zodiac once you're in the water and you have to get someone to help you, which led to the highlight of the day. We had just pulled Meza into the boat, and as he was lying on his back in the middle catching his breath, Smyth grabbed his ankle and we started pulling him in too.

"Just pull him on top of met Meza yelled. And so we did, Sam sliding flounder-like in on top of him, bare belly to belly. I almost spit out my Bacardi Breezer it was so funny.

RELATED ARTICLE: Smyth bites back.

WHEN THE opportunity to see The Game arose, I had mixed feelings; the current state of beef between The Game and Yukmouth had me questioning my motives. My allegiance is with The Bay, so I ride for Yuk, without question. But instead of boycotting the event, I decided to infiltrate the show and peep The Game's game, so to speak. He rolled out on stage, red hoodie, waving a red rag--like anyone in London cares, blood. He hyped it up. I can't really feel him, but the crowd was, and I can respect that. I thought the place was packed until I noticed the whole second level was reserved for the Prince of Saudi Arabia. The drinking game was a joke from the beginning. Who the hell guzzles bottles of Moet? The first sip probably shot straight up his nose, half went down his shirt, and the rest was sprayed on the crowd. He and "Pops" did that twice, from which The Game must have been thoroughly smashed, if he thought for a second anyone would buy his next stunt. He grabbed a liter-sized Hennessy bottle, told Pops he "ain't getting' none of dis," and began an upside down pour straight to his throat. He gurgled and slurped 'til it was all gone. Now I've been to Ybor during Tampa Am. I've seen excessive drinking at its finest. But I know the difference between disgustingly excessive and blatant fakery. This trick falls in line with the cheerleader who's acting drunk but actually left five or six full beers sitting around the house party. To add insult to injury, he whipped out another bottle and did it again. If it was apple juice, I commend him for not pissing his pants before the end of the show. But if he's still standing after two back-to-back liter shots of Henn-Dog, I'm calling bullshit. The shout out of people he wished to diss was expected: "Fuck 50, fuck G-Unit;" all shit I'd heard before. Then I heard something that had never been said by The Game, or anyone else for that matter, on record or in print. He muttered an almost half-hearted "Fuck Suge Knight," as if 7,000 miles away he was still a little bit scared to say it. As he well should be; Suge has physically, and publicly, slapped The Game twice. He should have dissed the bitch that played him out on "Change of Heart," the dating show where The Game exposed his tongue ring and his date exposed him for being a straight up sucka. The shirts that were being tossed to the audience were actually "G-U-Not" shirts. The back had a rat in a circle with a line through it. Calling 50 a rat is just what Yukmouth did to provoke The Game's diss record aimed at Yuk. That right there makes The Game a fake. Yukmouth murdered The Game on countless records, and I'm sure he doesn't need my help, but it's best he know I wasn't up in that show switchin' like a bitch.