Couch Tour 2005.

THERE IS NOTHING more lucid than a man down. The premise for this article began out of necessity. Not long after my girlfriend and I broke up, I was stuck with a Brooklyn rent I could no longer afford. After a two year stint in domestic bliss, I was to rejoin the world of skate houses with my tail between my legs, complete with piss-stained Thrashers in the bathroom and a sticker-covered refrigerator that hasn't been cleaned out it years. I figured I could string it all together in some sort of epic travel log. I pitched it to Thrasher and got the usual "Yeah, whatever." "At least," they thought, "we'll get some skate photos out of the guy for once."

I envisioned staying at all my friends' houses for a week or two each, getting some skateboard pictures of them, spending the money I save in rent on gifts for these kind spirits, and stringing it together into an epic monthly column. I'll begin the article with the trip I made just before I moved out, a trip to Rhode Island to go with the Package and about nine other dudes to go see Andrew WK and Flogging Molly in Boston. Sid Abruzzi had all these backstage passes and tickets 'cause Andrew WK's guitar player is Eric Payne, Tim Payne's brother. You know, arguably the best park builder in the world.

The trip started off easy enough. I woke up early and drove to Water Brothers in Newport, where a van was waiting at noon and everyone was already midnight drunk. In the Van, Package would say "Mr O'Dell, thank you for coming, this trip's for you, I owe you everything Mr O'Dell." He would rub his nose and kiss my hand. I think he has me confused with somebody else really. I think he thinks I'm MoFo.

But whatever, in the van was most of my crew, the TFL (Totally Fuckin' Later'd): Logan, Manute Bol, Ryan Wiebust, Schmitty, and then a bunch of rather surly-looking older dudes. One of them was named Ken Park (but not THE Ken Park); he liked to pull his dick out for no reason, and whenever Package would do something epic, like jump out of the car and stop traffic, Ken Park would find a way to ruin it, by being like "Why do you guys ride his dick so hard?" He was all about being antagonistic. It came to a boil when he pissed in a bottle and then poured a little down Manute Bol's shirt. I saw him do it, and when he went to do it again, I grabbed his arm and was like "What the fuck!?"

So we start arguing a little bit, and boom, we're fighting. Just punching the shit out of each other in the back of the van. And the row in front of us happened to be his surfer crew and so they start punching me too, all I could do was curl in a ball and let these three dudes keep pummeling me. whatever, so we finally make it out of the van, and the dude is still trying to fight and I'm pissing him off by making snorting noises and snorting an imaginary line out of the air. "You're just a loser fucking drug addict" I would yell. He was fired up. Fighting a man on drugs is like fighting two people. It's not even fair. Especially cause I was drunk. That's like, one guy is in full Matrix mode and the other is slow motion, and falling down. But at this time the crew was keeping us apart. and I was mildly pleased to notice that he was covered in blood. We were both covered in blood. So we go to the show, and I looked just like Andrew WK on his record cover. I felt pretty badass. I think I ordered some drinks for the crew, Andrew WK played and it was sick, everyone was on stage, and he dedicated the show to Sid.

After he was done, I went out to get some food, not really thinking that they wouldn't let me back in. So I hid behind a desk in the lobby of a hotel (It was freezing outside). I was trying to call somebody to come pick me up, cause I didn't want to get back in the van with the strung-out suffer brahs again, but my phone had died. I went to the bar of the hotel and ordered a drink--covered in blood mind you--and the bartender gave it to me for free. I think I ordered a beer and a coffee. a disgusting combination, but necessary.

Finally I find the crew after the show, and they say "Package and Ken Park are gone, so let's just ride in the van." OK. So mid-way back to Rhode Island, I'm sitting with my head leaning back on the seat, half sleeping, when I feel something hit the side of my face. I turned my head around and got punched again. It was suffer brah with a lisp this time, he sucker punched me twice! I was ready to attack, but my friends were like "Chill, we got another half hour in this van, you don't want to brawl in here." it was a good point, so when the van finally stopped and we were in the Water Brothers' parking lot I went up to the dude and socked him; it was an honor thing. Then it turned into an all-out war between the TFL and the Suffer guys. it was like out of some '80s movie. The fight got ugly when the suff dudes pulled out tire irons from their cars and wanted to take it to the next level.

So we all got in our cars and made our getaway. As we sped off they tried to throw beers at us but missed. Whatever, we didn't have any tire irons, plus fighting is completely stupid. Plus drugs are completely stupid. I don't even feel any hatred towards those guys, what we saw that night was like a shell of a former person. A Mr Hyde. It's like Phelps told me, "When you ride the white wave, eventually you wash up on the beach." Seriously, to you younger readers, don't go there, I've seen it ruin great men.

I'm not sure what pictures are going to accompany this article--the chronology may be a bit off, but between such nights of going big, I managed to find some great skaters and some great stunts. It might not make sense, because I went from NY to Ohio three times in a month. Once to move all my stuff to my parent's basement, and I think once to clear my brain out. Again maybe to do laundry and get a haircut. In New York I was planning to stay at Tino Razo's apartment--I was invited to stay indefinitely, but the problem was Tino's psychotic downstairs' neighbor. I guess his floor creaks a little. I can't hear it. But after one night of doing such noisy things as reading a book and taking a piss, the old lady came up yelling "It was so loud last night!" It never affects Tino cause he's never home before five in the morning. He's on a completely opposite schedule. Here in town he's know as "last call" or LC. Riding Tino's coat tails in this city can be quite an adventure; he's popular with the ladies, and can get a free drink almost anywhere. I haven't mentioned yet that I am completely broke. I don't know what happened. My checks come ridiculously irregularly and always late. I'm seriously more broke than I have ever been in my life, and I don't know how. (A devil behind my back is now trying to attract your attention, leaning his head back and holding a cupped hand to an open mouth, going "gulp, gulp, gulp.") So whatever, I haven't gotten paid in a month-and-a-half and even that check was a month-and-a-half late. I'm like a monthly Behind the Music.

Narrator: "On the first of the month Patrick O'Dell was living high, an embodiment of rock star decadence and self-indulgence, buying a pair of jeans, eating food, buying his friends drinks and paying them back the money he owed them. But by the end of the month he's wandering the streets of New York, un-showered and broke, wearing the same gear for four days straight after getting lock out of Tino's house, 'cause the landlord changed the locks. And despite having wealthy parents he's too much of a pussy to call them and ask for money."

In fact this morning, I wandered indecisively between a pay phone and a deli, trying to decide whether to spend some quarters I found on a call to my mom or a cup of coffee. I decided on the coffee, after I thought about the message I would leave: "Hey Mom, this is your son, I was calling to ask if my check came from my so-called work, and if it did can you wire me some money? My phone got shut off 'cause I didn't pay the bill, but I'll try to call again later." In the background is the sound of commuter frenzy and random car alarms, that didn't sound like the call I wanted to make as a self-respecting senior photographer of an international magazine. At least that what they think I am.

But I'd like to say that Tino really has been hooking me up. He's one of the brokest people I know. But every time he gets a few bucks, he buys me some food, or lets me eat off his plate. He's bought me tons of beer from Max Fish, or actually the Tino special: a Bud and a shot of Jager. His generosity is amazing. Plus he tries to hook me up with girls. when I tell Tino about my financial situation he says "Welcome to my world, but this is the funnest way to live. Just trying to see what you can do with so little. Waking up going 'How am I going to get some money?' and then later saying 'How am I going to eat?' And then after you eat tying to figure out how to get drunk, and then after you're drunk thinking 'How am I gonna get laid?"' Repeat day after day. I think skateboarding fits into the equation somewhere. Do me a favor and buy Tino's pro model on Rookie, that way he'll keep feeding me.

So next month who knows where the couch tour will take me, It's going to hopefully have a little more New York and Ohio and then I think I'm going to either Jerry's or 'Drew's. I'll get to mooch off my more successful friends until they hate me as much as the city of New York does. Maybe I'll go to some AA meetings first. Thanks for reading, I love you all and I'll see you then.