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Back in the 1990s, I made a large purchase of old stock skateboards from a distribution company. I was looking to invest in art for a skate shop I planned to open. I wanted to put the NOS (New Old Stock) skateboards up in the shop. I stored them at my dad's home, as there was no industry of NOS skateboards and no one yet truly knew the worth of NOS skateboards. I had my girlfriend list a few on eBay. There were a couple others selling NOS skateboards as collectible sports products. I only had her sell a couple as she said they sold for $60 or so, and I truly wanted to keep these NOS skateboards to decorate a skateboard shop. I was always involved in music and art, as well as being involved in tattoos and the larger jam band scenes that traveled the great American, Canadian and Mexican highways of the new America born out of a 1950's American dream of carbon gas. So, I stored these NOS skateboards until the prices went up for collecting them. NOS skateboards started selling on eBay in the early 2000s after the Dogtown documentary, so I waited two more years and sold my collection of NOS boards on eBay. It all worked out.

Benjamin Gruber Centennial Colorado

Start smoking 'em.--T-ed


Religion has nothing to do with skateboarding. There is a separation between church and skate. Skating takes no prisoners. You're either in or you're out. Today on the bus somebody joked, "I retired from the mafia." I put my two cents in. He had nothing to say. My mentors are Hansen, Flick, Quinn, Barci, Alva, and Jay Adams. These people passed the sacred skate knowledge on to me. Now it's my turn to be the elder. I'm entrusted with the task of educating the youth. I take this very seriously. Jake, I know you guys help the youth in SF and Potrero Hill with product and inspiration. Thanks for holding the traditions passed down from the elders. These kids will rule the world.

Q-Man Portland, OR

Jesus is the flatbottom.--T-ed


I can't stop imagining what it must feel like to not be able to do the thing you love most in the world: Late at night you jolt awake, beads of sweat glistening on your forehead like tiny diamonds. You can smell the pungent odor of shit coming from the little potty in the corner of the room. Outside your cell is the deadening silence of the night punctuated only by the occasional echoing of footsteps of authority, of the word, of the law, and the whistling of an old show tune your momma used to play on long drives through Escondido. You're riding down the avenue, the sun beating down on your back and you're thinking of all the ways you'll never die, weaving invisible threads through the cars. All you can hear is David Lee Roth belting out "Panama" through the headphones of your Walkman, that and the gravel beneath your wheels, the carving of concrete and the sounds of summer around you. Maybe in one of your hands you're holding a slushie, over your eyes are a big pair of Ray Bans, which you don't need anyway because you're going too fast for the girls to see where your eyes are drifting too. You're tearing it up, sliding through traffic lights and not giving a fuck, everything is how it should be. Then outta nowhere you hit a piece of gravel, it goes under one of your front wheels and throws you off the board--out of the color, away from the bluest of blue skies, away from the greenest of green grass and into the darkness of the grey road, into a concrete abyss which you wake up to. Suddenly, sweat dripping down your face, the smell of shit and urine, you listen to the eternal whistle coming outside of your six-by-eight foot concrete cell. In the day you pace around in tiny circles, biting your fingernails down to the bone, tasting blood in your mouth as you smash your head against a wall and lie cold on the freezing floor when this gets to be too much. You think of Cali girls, now fading from your memory, now only ghosts of a sunshine past. For Christmas someone from the outside sent you a miniature skateboard set, a tiny little board that you ride with your fingers up a tiny vert ramp no bigger than your hand. For hours you sat at your little bedside table, elevated at this gift, wishing mat you were actually as small as you've come to feel, so small you could be able to place your feet upon the little plastic board, until the day you actually tried to stand one foot on it, just for long enough to ride it a few feet across your cell. It snapped and the next day a guard threw the broken toy away. And these days it's not even that bad, now you're a little older, as you lie in your cell dying a thousand deaths a day, the worst part was living out the rest of your boyhood years, the years of uncontrollable energy that knew no bounds, without a piece of wood, with four wheels and two turning devices.

Andrew Finch

In space, no one can hear you scream.--T-ed
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Date:Jun 1, 2017
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