Refueling the dream: a Shorty's tour diary.

(!) WARNING: This is an account made on the inaccurate, opinionated rants of an underpaid skateboard photographer, whose words are nothing more than another side effect of the dementia brought on by starvation and temporary sobriety.

July 20, 2005

Currently driving down a twisty road near Cape Fear. The Cape's not that scary, but the management behind the wheel is a whole new kind of nervous tear. Fueled by a bad sense of direction and with godzilla as our copilot, we U-turned our way down and around the East Coast. Before this trip started. I was told I needed to get my "shit" together and start writing articles. Since I'd never done it before. I thought that waiting three days (to start) was my way of showing myself that I'm good enough and smart enough, and doggone it, people like me!

Not much has happened, at this point anyway. Just a very bad flight to Richmond. VA, from Los Angeles, CA, but we made it to a demo just in time to give a bunch of kids some product. From there we drove straight to Virginia Beach. We ended up at a four-star hotel on the beach, which lasted about six hours, after which we were asked to leave. (Andrew Pott, no holdy alcoholy, he's 15. This is the United States of America, not Germany).

B Turner had us at a house party lickety split, where we greeted the under-aged hosts (who we signed autographs for earlier) and looted all their drinks and fat chicks. True spirit of Vikings.

We tried to go skate, but have you been to Virginia? It rains. No joke. You are now about as on it as anybody who was on the trip.

Raleigh, NC

The Shorty's team was doing a demo and I pretended to be Helen Keller with an iPod. Andrew Pott, y'up, he's real good. I'm not going to bore you with the details, because demos without fights must be witnessed to be interesting. They're one of those things that kids 12 and under would want to hear about, but with any luck, we will have lots of grown up things to discuss that have nothing to do with sweaty skaters and crappy jump ramps. The Neverland Skate Huck Jam is next month so stay tuned, Bubbles.

July 21, 2005 12:28pm

We are currently sitting in the Van while Benny checks us out of the hotel. This is where most of the trip happens, so I'll be telling my story from here. Still no skating, but everybody's getting better at rolling blunts, dice, popping beers, launching water bombs, and avoiding productivity. I was told to pretend that the trip's just started and to view the last few days as a warm-up. Warming up to sit around? Shit, I've been warm for days, getting loose at my house with my cat and a TV dinner.

July 21, 2005 2:38pm

We just left the hotel. If I had created a time line, you'd see that it's been a little over two hours that we'd been sitting in this parking lot. I guess it took Brandon two hours to iron his shorts. Normally a task like that should take 10 minutes, tops, but as he's walking out of his room down to the van I see that his shorts are that polyester, micro-fiber, swish, wrinkle-free shit. This is enough to make a person with a normal stress level upset. I'm not a person with a normal tolerance for stress. In fact, you could say I'm an impatient prick when it comes to this sort of thing. Tack on the muggy southern heat July offers and I'm a boiling kettle who's got a lot more parking lots to sit in over the next 20 days. With a little help from Andrew and Sammy's herb and candy, I pulled through the traumatic ordeal.

July 21, 2005 1:00am

Still no skating! It's a good thing I left Los Angeles, CA. The Shorty's team is playing poker, they've taken all my money, and they're a hair away from taking my desire to shoot photos of skateboarding. This might be the last tour I ever subject myself to. No more photos in the magazines for me; I'm done. Fuck it. I'm going to work at a Sears' Portrait Studio. That was a decent job; at least I was working all the time. I hated juggling for the toddlers and feeding them single slices of cheese to get smiles, just so an overweight sweat-pant wearing mom could put it up in the hall of their trailer next to the photos of all the others she had no idea who fathered. The pay sucked, but the subjects just came and left, sort of like honest work. This is not work; it is a waste of time, life, and everything good in the world. Whoa, that was dramatic. It's just a waste. Wait, just had an idea, maybe I need to bring cheese or juggle at the spot to get them interested in skating.

July 22, 2005 5:29pm Wilmington, NC

I woke up by a little man who claimed he was the front desk clerk. He has all the right credentials--bad breath, big belly, K-Mart looking suit, and a Pal-Mal burned to the butt. He mentioned calling the police after seeing the room, but we all knew he had more to hide from the cops than us. We packed and left under the watch of this man, whose only defense was to waddle back to the front to make the call he'd never make. We found a double set on the way out of town. Wes Kremer found a way to boardslide a funny kinked rail while Sammy came with a switch heel. Finally, it seemed, we had started to do something aside from sitting in hotel rooms and staring at each other. I didn't even have to plant beer or weed at the spot to get them to come skating.

July 22, 2005 6:18pm

Brandon goes to jail. You really can't blame anyone. Oh wait, yes you can. While driving 100-plus mph and drinking a King Cobra with a suspended license might keep some people out of jail, it didn't help Brandon stay away from the clink of the cell door. If this article ever makes it to print and you happen to actually be reading it, kids, I have one piece of advice: don't do as I say he do, do as I say you shouldn't.

July 22, 2005 8:52pm

We bailed Brandon out of jail, then went to a waffle house and bee-lined it to Rocket City (South Carolina, for people who are unfamiliar with the Carolinas) for some ammo. It's 50-percent odds that we end up back at the police station for another undetermined bail amount. In a town called South of the Border, there were SOB trucker hats all over the place. We made it about 160 miles in four and a half hours, which is pretty good time if you're traveling by boat, but we were in a van. Even though it's an American-made piece of shit, we should still have been a lot closer to Atlanta than this.

July 22, 2005 11:58pm Atlanta, GA

We finally made it to Atlanta, and we're in the hotel room at the Red Roof Inn where it smells like urine. When air conditioners are worked 'til they almost explode, they start pumping out semi-cold air and leak fluid reminiscent of pee-pee. At the moment, Wes, Brandon, Sammy, and Rodrigo are sitting in a circle, and it appears that they are trying to read each other's minds. Then our Atlanta tour guides for the night walked through the door. Now all eyes were on them. It doesn't look like they're telepathic; someone might have to speak. The mind readers in the circle must have been saying "not it," but I can't tell because I'm not telepathic either.

July 23, 2005 3:30am

Our tour guides needed help finding their car in the parking lot of the Red Roof Inn. Considering it's a lot of 30 or so ears, we should have known something was wrong. We stumbled upon a spot in downtown Atlanta with little help from the tour guides, which would be the setting for a bit of work. (This makes three photos in about seven days.) We had a few run-ins with the police, but nothing unpleasant took place--no tickets, name taking, or curb-side lectures. From there we went to a gas station that I'm pretty sure I've seen in a Luda video. Hyundais with spinners and neon trim, gangsta boos with orange daisy dukes, and as many white tees as you can "slang and bang in." At 2:30am, a train of beater-ass cars with gold grills and rims stretch as far as the eye could see. Make 'em say uuhhh, nah-nah, nah-nah.

July 24, 2005 11:58am

When you're on tour, maids become the anti-Christ. Tap, tap, tap from a key on the door. "House keeping, you check out today! You get out." You check in at 5:00am--and they start trying to make you leave around 11 or noon. You can usually fight them until about 1:00pm, at which point you have to say farewell to your pleasurable stay and head off in search of the next adorable hotel maid.

July 24, 2005 1:38pm

So I know this whole thing seems to be rather negative, but I have an excuse for this--it fucking sucks. When you skate three spots in eight days on a skateboarding tour, it starts to worry the photographer. I swear the team will just walk in circles talking on their cell phones and taking photos of themselves for myspaee. Then Tuan's camera broke and that didn't seem to bother anybody. I've been checking on airline tickets home, but if you recall, my money was gone in the third paragraph.

July 25, 2005 3:19am

Things seemed to be looking up. Excitement was in the air. We left the hotel and did something; we put gas in the generator and used it. After all that, we went skating, shot a photo, landed some tricks, and then went back to the liquor store. It's a stark reality check to be tired from actually being productive instead of just never waking up because you're tired from sleeping.

July 25, 2005 3:39pm

If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. That's what had to happen this day. Brandon and I woke up and went straight to a strip mall with only a dollar store and a series of cheap eateries with shitty bars. For breakfast, we dined on four Buds while discussing foreign policy. We broke into a heated conversation about Korea and made our way to a sushi restaurant for three bottles of Sake. The day was definitely looking up. Seeing as we had no video camera, I might as well take a vacation from pretending I'm going to shoot skate photos. The morning was definitely the most anyone's gotten accomplished before noon in a couple days. I'd been stealing assorted anti-anxiety pills out of Benny's laptop bag, sort of like icing on a rotten cake. Sorry, Benny. I did feel bad as I sat in the seat next to you extremely happy, scribbling away in this book, while you looked ... how should I say, umm, umm, constipated is a good way to put it. Seeing as how I gambled away all my money to Wes, I think the rest of the trip would be Big Gulps filled with chili from 7-11 and stolen beers. Get used to it.

July 25, 2005 9:49pm

Not ones to lose our pace, I think went about 120 miles in the last six hours. Lots of pee stops were our excuse (good one). Bean burritos, eggs and cheese bombs have been clocked at 80 mph and ended up on many an 18 wheeler's grill or windshield. Brandon was pulled over again, but was so hammered and charming he talked his way out of going to jail. I'm still not exactly sure why he insists on driving without a license. I personally hate driving, and I told everybody my license is suspended, which isn't a total fallacy. I owe the city of Los Angeles tons of cash for parking tickets. I called the DMV to tell them I didn't believe in tickets in a fraudulent attempt to gain some kind of religious sanctuary from the whole mess, but they didn't go for it. So I might have a valid license, but with these guys as passengers it's not worth the risk. In any case, I'm not driving.

July 26, 2005 5:32pm Jacksonville, FL

We did more demos for 12 year olds--blah, blab, blab. The kids here are all wearing gold chains, all of them. They all chug Red Bulls, but I have a feeling that in a few years they'll learn that Red Bull doesn't really have wings, but that alcohol has really fast wheels. It's so hot here that clothing is like a spice. If I were at home in LA, this would be nice, but I'm in a Dairy Queen state. They deep fry Twinkies and dip them in gravy. I think I might have found the modern day Medusa. I'm going blind! American flags and trucks are all the rage. I keep reading signs that say "American Owned," which doesn't seem like it needs explaining. I really want to make a sweet Tesla reference, but I digress. The last time I checked, Florida was part of the states--and with a governor named Jeb, who could forget that Florida is part of the good ol' US of A?

We're drinking in the van, again. "Schhht," is the sound I just heard; it's kind of like our theme song. Benny's mad at Andrew because he's on my space. I can tell Tuan is drunk because he's playing the Sundays on his iPod, swaying back and forth, and thinking it's a good idea.

"When I think of all the good times that I've wasted having good times," that line pretty much defines how we're living at the moment.

"My turkey sandwiches have all gone bad, so it's boogers and toenails from here on out. On the plus side, we have an 18-pack and an iPod full of good stuff. Going to Tampa, FL, tonight, so finger bang yourself silly and I'll be home soon." That's the post card I just wrote my mom and it seems to sum up our stay in Jacksonville, FL.

July 28, 2005 4:30am

Around 4:30am we end up at the Hard Rock Casino where Sammy and Benny ruled the poker tables, while a gun-toting lackey approached Brandon and me. As luck would have it, John Gotti Jr was gracing this fair establishment. When the money's gone, the family's on TV, and the Don's dead, how much gangster cred do you have? Brandon found some weirdos at the bar, and by 7:00am we were still in the parking lot of the casino rolling air blunts * and watching people throw up. (* Air blunt, ar*blunt: it's like air guitar. You know, no weed means no blunt and don't even start with that stairway shit.)

July 28, 2005 9:59pm

After our long drive south, we are finally in South Beach, FL. It looks a lot like what I remember from Miami Vice. Lots of women wearing nothing, Scarface-types lurking around, and white sand beaches with bright blue water. We had fashionable accommodations, and we saw as many places to skate as we did boobies and bars. For a bunch of dirtbags with very little bling, you couldn't beg for a better place to be. One-time teammate Peter Smolik will meet up with us. He's like an African safari with a 760 area code, but that dude loves his friends. No doubt. His plane landed, so the next few paragraphs should be entertaining to say the least. (Now that I'm in the editing stages, I want to define "entertaining" as completely blacked out.)

July 30, 2005 11:12am

The last thing I remember was getting a call from Joel Meinholz, who's a successful promoter these days. When we got to the club, Joel had us ushered in front of the line and set up at a table in the back where multiple bottles of vodka were served by one of the least ugly non-escort-on-the-side cocktail waitress in Miami. Everybody you want to see in Florida showed up. When Smolik came up in the club, Sam and Brandon hugged each other like crazy, but in a real rap video kind of way. You can tell that he is missed from the team. He's untamed, which is good, unless you pass out, and then he's unruly. Between drinking your mini-bar and getting kicked out of hotels, you'd think he's just one of the Federales, but that motherfucker can skate.

I think this is where my blackout began. Was I at a picnic where Smolik swayed over me with a knife to my throat with a turkey sandwich in his other hand? Did Rodrigo switch flip noseslide a white hubba somewhere in Miami? Was I taught a lesson by mafia affiliates and given a limp? Who knows? I've somehow ended up with a limp from a sprained ankle and no explanation as to why I just hobbled my way to the laundry mat. In LA, it's a Latino in a cleaning truck, but in Miami it's a big Russian man and a black T-Bird. Either way, when you're going for it in a friendly place, somebody takes care of you. With all that ambiguity and helping Smolik drink all the mini-bars in every room, it's no surprise that I made an insurance claim on a camera that wasn't missing. Hey, you've got to do what you've got to do when you've got a mysterious limp.

Miami is one of the best places I've been to in a long time. It's a fairly large city with all the sparkle and flash of Vegas, New York, LA, and SF served up on one big beach. The skaters are treated like kings, walking in front of lines at clubs with free bottles of booze waiting at tables. All the locals treat you like you're part of the family the moment you step into Florida. As soon as we crossed the border, people were calling to make sure we were OK and to see if we needed anything.

I sit on a plane trying to recall where all my money went. Hazy, smoke-stained glimpses of neon signage and cheetah print spandex run through my head, and any memories of the last few days slip away. Smolik was holding a knife to my throat, Andrew was crying tears of joy over Miso soup, Rodrigo was chain smoking in his bed of empty candy wrappers, and Brandon was throwing ice buckets out the window at cars. To think, by the end of all of this chaos and mind numbing madness, it all worked out. With a little luck you will be reading this in no time.