Totally later'd lukewarms to Tampa.

"Lukewarm" is my friend Brian Dale's word for a skater who--like himself--can do some tricks, get some photos, but for whatever reason isn't "hot crew." You can scratch your head 'til doomsday trying to find logic behind the hot crew/lukewarm complex. In the case of Dale, although his skateboard talent is unquestionable, a habit of spending the majority of his time sucking on 40oz bottles in near heroic quantities (unrivaled this side of Scotland) keeps him bound to a life of lukewarm purgatory. But I'm not trying to sound hotter than thou; I'm something of a lukewarm photographer myself and as such have a very limited pull with the hot crew. So when I put out the word on organizing this trip to Tampa, I had very few takers. The only guys I could muster up were these pathetic. no-coverage getting piles from around here. I even had other lukewarms turning me down (Zered Bassett, Chris Trembly, Mike Nalls); Bastards! Little did anyone know at the outset what epic pillaging and plundering would go down. If anyon e had-known, even the hottest crew at the hottest spot would have been on for this mission. The only really unlukewarm-like score we pulled off was some major funding on behalf of Etnies shoes. I think it was a part of their outreach program to give to the mentally retarded (maybe I should quit wearing my helmet while talking with my mouth full to company execs). Thank you Etnies.

FREE THRASHER TATTOOS!

ALLENTOWN, PA

The first stop was Allentown, PA. The had been begging me to get them some free Thrasher tattoos ever since Ii had jokingly said that Thrasher would pay for them. Well, I sorted it out with the mag and the ink was a go. The terms were they had to be a Thrasher logo of some sort and I'd pay for it. I turned the magazine open to the t-shirt page and let them pick. By their reactions you'd think I was Santa Claus! A few hours into it with no end in sight, Tino and I ventured over to a neighboring bar for some Jager and Bud specials. What began as a conversation about how big of idiots those guys were turned into, "Fuck it, I'll get one! A captain must go down with his ship!" (The exact point of no return). I figured this would all be seen as luke-warm exploitation unless I manned up.

BY THE TIME I WAS SOBER ENOUGH TO USE MY BRAIN I WAS BACK AT DAN'S PARENTS' HOUSE WITH A GONZ DRAWING ON MY ARM FOR LIFE. PRETTY TIGHT.

So there it was, by the time I was sober enough to use my brain I was back at Dan's parent's house with a Gonz drawing on my arm for life. Pretty tight. Anthony Shelter wanted one too, but they claimed to be out of needles. He wanted the vampire logo and was really disappointed. I was probably more disappointed than Anthony as he's destined for big things and I would love to see that haunting his career. I can just picture the other mag's cameramen and layout people trying to work around a giant Thrasher tattoo in all his pictures. I must thank Mike Ireton and Dan Hannon of Foundation Tattoos for hooking it up--they cost of only $50 bucks...each!

NORTH CAKALAKA

We came to North Carolina to pick up Josh Maready, then we got a hotel room and went to sleep. Every time I woke up I could see Tino Razo watching TV and looking all crazy. I kept thinking it was because he was watching Spanktravision and was spooked by me catching him in a private moment. But at dawn he wakes me up telling me he thinks he's had a heart attack and wants me to take him to the hospital. At first I'm like, "C'mon dude, have someone else do it, I'm trying to sleep." But that would've been pretty lame. We go to the hospital and it turns out he just had a really bad case of pent-up gas, and all he needs to do is drink a GI cocktail and shove torpedoes up his butt. Ah, the endless hours of jokes to bide our time with in the van. Thanks Tino.

ATLANTA

Because of some geographical confusion about the location of Georgia, we were hours late picking up Dave Hoang and Billy Marks from the airport. The whole drive we kept talking about what they were going to be like. I had this pre-conceived perception of Billy due to his name. On tours we always call the local benihanna guys "Park Billys," or "Billy Parks" for short. So I pictured some dude in a silky shirt sipping sparkly water and whining about everything. And Dave Hoang would be like his personal assistant, honoring his every need. And none of us Lukewarms would be allowed to look him in the eye, as if any bad vibe would send him in to a whiny tantrum. But to our great joy, Billy Marks is this trouble making punk rocker, total fucking nightmare; basically, all the qualities you want in a tour mate, and Dave Hoang is super laid back and really nice, the ideal qualities of a team manager.

Once situated we hooked up with Stormy Pruitt and Sean Stockton, and went to the local skater bar. We met some of the locals and this hot chick named Carrie who showed us some naked photos of herself. Then we went to a strip bar called the Claremont that only hires super fat chicks. I'm not talking chubby, I mean FAT. Tino was up there yelling and throwing money around while I hid in the corner trying not to barf.

The next day we went to the Forty Yard, and who was there? Carrie getting photographed by some creepy photographer in a van. She was in some stripper clothes and loving the attention. She posed for photos with us and gave us her number. That night we called her and arranged to go to her place for some free lap dances and photos, some of which unfortunately the censors won't let us show you. This night was epic. We parted ways with her after a valiant effort to get her to join us on our tour.

THE LATEH'D VAN

We were a traveling monstrosity. Inventory: A wrist rocket, 1000 paintballs, a BB gun, five cans of spray paint, tons of fireworks, liquor in Indy-flasks, and porno mag pages covering the entire ceiling of the van. A soundtrack of rock only. I could not ask for a better ride. Billy told me he needed an air horn and I thought that sounded like a good idea, so we drove at least an hour out of the way to make sure he got one. Unfortunately, the cops nabbed that one within minutes of its midnight hotel premier.

TAMPA

I love Tampa Am; I don't care. All the other skate writers and photographers sit around complaining, but I think it's awesome. All these schizophrenic punker kids running around breaking shit. Underground rippers you've never heard of, enmasse, skating so well. Skating like they want it. The days of too-cool-to-land-shit-style are over; that just gets you a coach ticket to nowhere. Take a Prozac, hosers! The new kids have both style and gnar. It's a photographer's dream.

Sitting by the lunch tent, Craig answers his phone and it's Carrie. He's being kind of salty, like "How did you get my number? No, I don't know," and making a scrunchy face. So I grab the phone from him and she wants to come to Tampa. I'm like, "Hell yeah, of course! No problem!" Just by our stories and pictures, Carrie had already become something of a celebrity. The buzz spread through the contest... "Carrie's coming! Did you hear?!"

THE NUGE

I didn't like the Nuge at first. Who is this guy thinking he's Ted Nugent? But seeing him in action dispelled all disbelief. While the real Nuge is white, right-wing, anti-drug guy, this Nuge is an insane drunk Asian maniac.

The first night I saw him in action he threw a whisky glass at the TV behind the bar. Tino and Dave Hoang erupted in cheers of approval and ere immediately thrown out. Tino got little bonus face rub in the gutter courtesy of some over-zealous bouncer. A witness identified Nuge as the real culprit and he was removed via minor police escort. The Nuge, not content with just a minor infraction, spits in the 200-pound cop's face Miraculously, they let him let him go and we head back to the van with the crew tipping shit over and starting small fires. All of a sudden a horse with cop on top gallops by me to once again apprehend the Nuge, who is again let off with only a warning and the punishment of picking up the stuff he had just knocked over. My shirt was on fire but I pretended like it was an accident, It was my favorite Pushead shirt and I mourn its loss.

The next night at the same bar The Nuge was back again -- guts, I tell you. I go up to him and tell him I missed the sequence and wondered if we could re-shoot. He told me to get my flashes set up. I told him to wait, I didn't want to get thrown out just yet. But every time I looked over at him he was starin at me with this devious grin, holding up an empty beer bottle.

Finally I see a bottle fly through the air and nail the bartender right in the head. The Nuge managed to hold the best poker face I've seen in my life. Security interrogated everyone in the place. When asked if we knew anything a about whom did it, we reply that it was "news to us Outside I continued to follow the Nuge around with my camera; I would just point out something bad for him to do and he would just do it. Epic.

"I'M FROM OKLAHOMA!"

Before I left on this trip I get a call saying "Mic-E Reyes wants to have a talk with you." Oh man, the dread! The 200-pound Real team manager, he's going to kick my ass. I have a talent for making people mad in my articles. I just try to be honest but I think companies see me as a voice for selling their products, as if this editorial stuff is supposed to be advertising. I have a couple people unhappy with me and the list is growing. I never said anything about Real or Mic-E, but who knows? I see Mic-E and I am scared as hell, but I know that he can be a powerful ally. Turns out all he wanted was to have me shoot with his riders, thank God! It's a win-win situation--I get to shoot photos of some of the best ams out there, certified hot crew, and in turn I get protection. Sweet.

The first kid he makes me shoot with is Peter Ramondetta, an unknown Oklahoman who has never shot a photo in his life. But I sensed big things from this surly kid. We go to the spot and he lays it down like I've never seen--gap-out boardslide, gap-out lipslide, and kickflips the stairs on a broken board for good measure. The best was when he landed and the hot crew peanut gallery was like, "Who are you?" And he yells, "I'm from Oklahoma!" I love it, unknown dudes destroying it. That's what Tampa is about. That's what Thrasher is about.

BEST TRICK

A lot of tech wizardry got made for best trick, but I can remember one flip-in from another 'cause my man the Suspect Mormon stole the show. The rest of the results read like some video game shit; this article is already too long to be listing eight-word tricks like Bruno Cerezini's SS/BS/TS/SVT. So Josh Maready, exhibiting some very unlukewarm-like behavior, took it (at least in the eyes of everybody there) by ollieing 16 feet to backside lipslide on the big rail. I guess he didn't really win because it went down after the time limit. "So then because thou art lukewarm and neither cold nor hot, I will spew thee out of my mouth." Revelations 3:16.

FINALS BLAH, CASWELL WON

Seeing the practice sessions, everyone knew it would either be him or Greg Lutzka. Greg can do anything and I think he missed like one trick, and in 50-seconds of skating that knocked him down to 4th. Who cares, right? He's now hot crew. Second place was Brazilian prodigy Danny Cerezini. Third was Austin Seaholm, who flew around the course performing such radical maneuvers as the benihanna late-flip fakie rock and primo-slides on the bank. Killer. By the way, his G-Bag prize was stolen. Could it have been the same one Billy Marks bought after the contest for $10?

THE LATER'D HOTEL

The hotel got so later'd I don't know where to start. Herman broke the glass and grabbed the fire extinguisher. Somebody shit in the coffee maker and turned it on. I imagined the National Guard storming in at any second. We would just wander from room to room, hotel to hotel, and party with every skater we met. Every once in awhile an angry cop would send us in another direction. One morning we woke up to our van covered in shaving cream and a giant cock made from SLAP stickers. We instantly accused the rival "SLAP/Philly Gangster tour," and even paintballed their van in retaliation. Later it was uncovered that the nonfake-ID-possessing half of our crew did it as revenge for all the fun we were having without them... SLAP crew got framed.

Metzger eventually had the official "tour manager melt-down" of the trip. On the last day, everyone was stranded at the hotel thinking the van was gone or stolen. As it turns out the van was right there the whole time. Craig took it to get cleaned. All the porn pages, shaving cream, and stickers were removed. We didn't know it was our van for hours. "I just can't live like this," he said. He even soaked my fireworks in water. Blasphemy.

As we exit Florida the phone rings and it's Carrie. She and her cousin had hitchhiked all the way to Tampa for our partying pleasure. Shit. We gave her Anthony Claraval's phone number, and the rest is history.

RELATED ARTICLE: THE LATER'D CREW

Here is the list of the lukewarm random dudes that finagled their way into the mission:

Tino "Has a handlebar mustache, puts things up his ass, nope not gay" Razo

Anthony "Has his ticket to the hot crew but blows it by hanging out with us" Shetler

Jon "Shaved off his mohawk for some lame bitch" Hoisington

Dan "Not the sharpest pencil in the box" Pensyl

Josh "The Suspect Mormon" Maready

Ryan "Why bust?" Weibust

Billy "Only hot crew member present, so bummed on us" Marks

Filmer Seamus "You could make fun of what he says if only you could understand him" Deagan

Etnies promotions guy Craig "Last tour ever" Metzger and team manager Dave "Everybody Hoang Chung tonight" Hoang

Finally myself, Patrick "Will cancel his subscription to Thrasher so he can get Nintendo Power" O'Dell

(The comments in quotas come from the "Later'd" book, a notebook left laying around in the van as an opan forum for shit-talking.)