I have dedicated quite a chunk (think a fist of warm Gruyere - yellow waft and milky heft) of my time recently to skateboarding. And when I say skateboarding I mean skateboard media more so than actual, physical skateboarding. Although I did go for a skate twice today and pretended I was Brian Anderson steady crushing. Although where Brian would loft a tre I would awkwardly flap a shuvit. Besides that - on point. The pointietest point. Sharp like Global steel.
As I find myself in somewhat of a slight job void (management speak) this week I spend time watching limitless clips and devotedly reading threads that denounce Koston as a bitter schizoid that's been tweaked by Steve Berra and the Church of Scientology. It's a million types of boring and interesting at the same time- like eating bread really slowly after smoking a bucket when you're 16. I'm also aware each time a pro is sighted skating a different board, the next puke colourways Nike SB will gurge, and who got the boot from a hardware company. It's need to know shit.
I remember rolling the legs up on my jeans and trying to kickflip off the verandah that Mum said was never to be skated on. Just like the Muska I broke that off something proper. I also cracked some tiles and de-rooted a few shrubs. That's the price Mum paid for me getting stuff done. I was out there on the driveway trying to come up.
Skateboarding rules. Fuck everything.