The king of Old Mexico.

WHEN STEVE WAS about 14 or 15, he fell in with a rough crowd. His years of skateboarding (once a social hindrance during the days when he aspired to run with the jocks) gave him a unique status among the proto-gangsters and thugs of Linda Vista High School, and the board in particular made an excellent implement to smash car windows with and then make a speedy exit once the Pioneer and Audiovox stereos had been cut and plucked from the dashes.

THE STORY OF STEVE

AFTER HIS FOURTH or fifth encounter with the law, his exasperated mother sent him to stay for the summer with family friends on the small island of Coronado, a tiny plop of land anchored just across the harbor from downtown San Diego. There, after a few boring days loping up and down the tame tourist strip of T-shirt shops and specialty fudge kiosks bumming cigarettes from the snotty tourist kids and halfheartedly looking for trouble, Steve made up his mind to spend the rest of his summer on the board. Soon he befriended a group of fellow (albeit a few years younger) shredders including a boy from Mexico who was visiting with his wealthy family. Steve speaks Spanish so he and the boy hit it off, and soon Steve was asked home for dinner where he made an excellent impression on the boy's father ... who just happened to be the Jay Leno of Mexico. After a few more visits, Steve was invited to travel to Mexico with the family with the idea that he would keep his young friend company and teach him to skateboard. Though the boy gave up after a few weeks, the month-long visit turned into a multi-year adventure--during which time Steve traveled and lived in several parts of the country, met all of his host's famous and influential friends, went to college, and met his future wife.

Since then, Steve got the job at Vans and has graciously taken me on several trips to Mexico, as well as all over South America, too. He loves Mexico, and hopes to someday move there to live and supervise an empire of his own. I don't doubt he'll do it. He can be very tenacious. Tragically, Mexi-Leno was murdered by gangsters a few years ago in a family restaurant that we happened to dine at on our trip to Mexico City, which is how I happened to hear the story of Steve in the first place. We've agreed that someday, when he becomes the King of Old Mexico, I can live in his guest house and be in charge of keeping his Jet Skis spic and span. Dios mio, man. It's gonna be awesome.

DUSTIN DOLLING--HONORARY MEXICAN

I DON'T KNOW if it's his hard-partying image, his affinity for the Cure, or just his wild onboard style, but the kids of Mexico L-O-V-E-love Dustin Dollin. At a demo at an indoor stadium in Mexico City, hundreds of kids leapt from their seats and climbed down from the bleachers, either ducking and dropping under the bars or scaling over the top, to follow a smiling Dustin in a giant mob as he cruised the arena. Several had homemade double-D Magic Marker tattoos, and the Tiger Beat-style news crew zeroed in on him for an impromptu interview while the rest of the team skated the dodgy course like so much chopped liver. Dustin took it in stride; posing for photos, taking all offered beers, and doing the wide-eyed nodding all non-Spanish speakers do when confronted by a friendly local. To say that Dustin doesn't speak Spanish is an understatement. More than anyone I've ever traveled with, he has absolutely zero interest in even attempting the local tongue.

"Gimme a beer!" he'd tell a bartender.

"Que?" they'd ask.

"A BE-ER!" he'd repeat loudly.

"Dustin, it's called 'Cerveza,'" someone would offer.

"Fuck that. I need a BEER!" he'd continue.

Magically, as anyone who knows him can tell you, Dustin can pull off this type of approach--torturing and charming people until they have to just give up and laugh along.

While many skaters of Dustin's caliber make avoiding their professional duties a full-time job, Mr Dollin flew all the way from Australia to go on the entire Mexico trip despite the fact that he had a severely injured knee.

"Fuck it! I can still film, can't I? Better than sitting at home."

And so he filmed, and edited as he filmed, and kept the good vibes going and, when the spot was just too good (as with the Guadalajara handrail park), he pulled out his Duncan-sized filming board and risked his health with a front board fakie. Fuckin' skate or die--Dustin does it.

AVE

ANTHONY VAN ENGELEN is a critic's fave, even if he's slightly underground at times, and I didn't know what to expect in terms of his personality or on-board bravado. Turns out, pleasantly, he's brimming with both and, like Ethan, was quick to charge the spots with the ease and confidence of a veteran. Anthony has the presence of a Robert Mitchum or a non-insane Nolte matched with a self-deprecating, almost Jason Jessee-esque sense of humor that makes him fun to cruise with. There's been a lot of speculation as to why he quit the well-respected and influential DC program and, although I won't claim to know the intricacies or specifics, when you ask Anthony his answer comes from a place that--as a skater--you can't deny.

"I just wanted to look down and see that waffle grip;" he told me, "to look at my feet and be really stoked on my shoes."

It's a very personal thing, a man's shoes. And they sure seemed to be working as he racked up trick after stylish trick. As a fan, it was a real treat to get to shoot them. Nice one, Anthony.

MEXICAN WORK ETHNIC

AT THE LIGHT at the bottom of the off-ramp for Encinitas Boulevard and the I-5 near my house lives a small troupe of modem-day hobos who hold signs for change, party in the bushes, lay in the grass behind the Del Taco, and get real fuckin' sunburned. They've been there for years and, despite getting jostled by the cops every once in awhile, they seem to be thriving. I know there's something of a romance for such freewheeling ramblers, probably less so in today's age of the Hummer limo than in Kerouac's heyday, but it's hard to have much compassion for them and I've never so much as handed out a quarter. It's not that I don't feel bad for the fact that they might be crazy, drug-addicted, jacked from 'Nam or whatever else makes grown men opt to live in a shrub, it's just that on that particular corner they've got some stiff competition. The hobos are all white guys and while they drink from brown-bagged cans, hold their sad signs and mug for the trophy wives in their SUVs, 15 to 40 Latino day laborers are consistently posted up directly across the street. Unlike these beach burnouts, the men lining the grass in front of the Wendy's are neatly dressed, standing at attention and, most noticeably, hanging out on the corner beneath the mating freeway because they want to work. The migrants camp in the canyons behind the luxury condo developments or squash six to a room in run-down two-bedroom apartments and do all the jobs that Americans either don't want to do themselves or don't want to pay someone the fair rate to do--sending the bulk of the money they make back to their families in Mexico and Central and South America. Compared to them, the hobos end up looking like ... well, like bums.

This work ethic seems to be in the heart of the Mexican people, because in Guadalajara and Mexico City even those who resort to begging at intersections don't just expect a free handout. While you might get an occasional and amusing "Why Lie--I Need a Beer!" sign from a North American panhandler, the men, women, and children working the filthy byways of Mexico earn your coins by providing you with quality (albeit unrequested) roadside entertainment.

Acrobatics are very common, from a toddler doing some inspired cartwheels between speeding green Volkswagens to a man performing a one-armed hand-stand (having only one arm); even an entire family, complete with matching outfits, forming a spectacular pyramid three-people-high and five-wide. They would wait for the light to turn red and then dart directly in front of the five lanes where they'd rocket into position, climaxing with the smallest child on top raising both fists to the heavens. Then, just as the light started blinking yellow (which is how the lights in Mexico work), they'd fall apart and collect coins from car windows, retreating to the safety of the tiny, jagged median.

Juggling is also popular. Either genuine three-and-four-ball style, the fake two-ball variety, or with sticks or bowling pins. Although there was some exciting fire juggling as an interlude between even more exciting fire breathing, the finest feat of juggling I witnessed was done by a pregnant young woman who, with an infant in one arm and a child of three or four holding on to the bottom of her skirt, deftly juggled two tennis balls with her free hand while trucks whizzed by. How do you put a price on something like that?

About half the street performers, including the pregnant juggling mother, painted their faces like clowns--like sad, dirty, fucked up clowns, and it was hard to decide if the make-up was used to make them look more jovial or just more tragic. Either way, it was eye-opening to see people who have next to nothing doing whatever it takes to earn a little bit of money. Think about them the next time a 19-year-old hippy with D3's and a one-hitter asks you for spare change.

ANGEL

ANGEL AND I are both from Colorado, so in the interest of nostalgia and regional bias, I need to tell you how awesome he is. Lil' Angel was the go-to kid on this trip, the dude everyone looked at when we got to the 20-stair and the one who was still slamming and trying tricks while everyone else was sitting in the van with the motor running. He got about 50 photos in Mexico and I'm not quite sure what I'll do with all the extras, as he's the kind of kid who's always outdoing himself.

"Hey Angel, we should use this triple kink lipslide in the next mag."

"Yeah, but I already lipslid a quintuple kink the other day."

"Oh."

Angel was also an excellent role model in the keeping-it-sweet department. Considering I lose it at least once every five days, it was nice to have him there to ask myself, "How would Angel handle this situation?" For example, we're stuck in traffic, getting lost in the bowels of Mexico City while sucking down smog, and I'm thinking about banging my head against the window. I look over at Angel and he's in the exact same situation except he's laughing, guzzling candy, and yelling things out the window. We're getting kicked out of a spot, I'm shaking my head, about to start complaining, and then I catch Angel out of the corner of my eye. He's in the same boat, yet he's happily whipping team manager Ohio Dave with a stick. I'm about to freak out, he's about to crack up. I'm frowning, he's farting. Angel was a constant reminder that a good time is where you make it. Attitude not Badditude. The Power of Positive Thinking--all that stuff He should set up a self-help seminar or something.

Very inspirational.

BUMMING OUT THE LOCALS

IT'S HARD TO GUESS how many times I've been on a trip where the group I've been with, or I personally, have partially or totally bummed out our local hosts. It's not on purpose, I swear, but I know good and well that it's happened many, many times. It's a complicated relationship; showing up in a town and enlisting the help of local skaters. On one hand, we need to find the spots, the good ones that can be skated without getting kicked out, and we don't really care who guides us. On the other hand, the locals often want to show the pros off to their friends, or want them to come to their apartments to smoke weed or watch their video. They take us to 50-stair rails with six kinks or to six-inch-high ledges waxed to shit and wonder why no one gets out of the van. Sometimes they see the visit as their big chance to bust out for the pros, and they skew the terrain hunt to end up at their spot of choice. It's hard, because you want to be nice and genuine with these guys, but at the same time you have the entire van--weary from weeks of various nameless tour guides and mixed successes--asking all the hard questions.

"Where exactly are we going?"

"What are we doing here?"

"Do they really expect us to skate that?"

"Who the fuck is this guy, anyway?"

It turns into business sometimes, and other times it just turns ugly. Feelings get hurt. Although I've made countless friends on the road--many of whom I call every time I'm in their town, host at my home, and have genuine 1980's-style skate bro relationships with--there are probably an equal number who think I or the dudes I came to their town with are complete dicks. Which is definitely the case with our guides in Mexico. Sorry dudes.

DINNER WITH SENOR GRANDE

THROUGH HIS AFOREMENTIONED celebrity mentor, Steve is friends with many of Mexico's upper crust. One night we went to a bustling, high-end seafood restaurant with one of them, a gentleman I'll call Senor Grande. Mexicans are known for their hospitality, and Steve warned us that Senor Grande would want to treat us to many treats and specialties, some of which might be shocking to those among us with more conservative tastes and appetites. As we were seated around the large table, Senor Grande came out and greeted us, arms full of assorted liquor bottles. It was hard to tell his age, but with his crisp tan suit and swept back silver hair he looked every bit the Latin American big shot. Surprisingly, he also appeared to be wearing make-up.

No introductions were given (or really needed particularly), as Senor Grande began whipping up one wild booze concoction after another ... which everyone but Anthony was unable to refuse. Though his appearance suggested a man of culture and sophistication, the cocktails he mixed ran more towards the sickly-sweet type common to Midwest bachelorette parties, and the silliness soon set in. Waiters piled the table with dishes of undersea delicacies while Senor Grande circled the chairs, forcing one glass after another down our necks. A few more courses and drinks, a few more laughs, and then a bottle of Absinthe arrived at the table to a round of applause and moans. Although genuine Absinthe is not actually available anymore, you've got to suspect that even if the fake stuff is not enough make you cut your ear off, it's still designed to mess you up pretty good. Which is why I happily accepted the glass of gasoline-smelling green poison, toasted it with the others, and then stealthily dumped it under the table. I did this twice more. Van Wastell however was totally going for it, downing all three glasses and then getting involved in some sort of drink-off with Senior Grande--a contest that was as physical as it was gastronomical. Sitting face-to-face, they traded shots, bear hugs, friendly threats and a series of "Shake my hand" grip challenges before Van finally jettisoned out to the parking lot to wrestle all comers. Predictably, there were none.

"I want you Van Engelen!" he kept yelling, "I'm gonna fucking kill you!"

He had the kind of crazed smile plastered across his face that black eyes and two-day hangovers are made of. Fortunately, AVE escaped the former. Unfortunately, Van pushed the latter to three.