In junior high, me and my friend bought Thrasher’s “Ramp Plans” book. We spent the summer collecting cans for money to build it. You get money by how much the cans weigh, so we had this bright idea to buy a bag of cement and fill empty beer cans with cement to add weight. We had the ramp finished in no time. As karma would have it, I now have a permanent hipper from hanging up trying to learn all those dumb coping dance combos.
I was skating the skatepark with Cab pretending I was in the Bones Brigade. He asked if I could do a sweeper. Like a retard, I tried one and sat on my foot and slid down the tranny. It felt like I broke my big toe. Unfortunately, it was worse than that. In his own words, the doctor diagnosed me as having “ballerina toe.” I said that seemed a little gay, so he said something in Latin that put me even more on edge. So, yeah, I twisted my big toe. What’s up? I’m a man. Things happen, right? Nothing weird about that.
I’ve wiped out countless useless brain cells.
When I was a kid, I saw an ad of Sheffey that was a close-up of his face and he had a nose ring. Not even a week later I had my girlfriend drive me to downtown Sac, lied about my age, and got one. Been living with it ever since.
One day I decided I was over shaving my head, so I started to go to this haircut salon called “Saigon ’75” or something like that. It was cool. You got a haircut and a little extra-something massage for really, really cheap. But every time I went, it was always something: missing spots, nicking my head, etc. And I never got the style I asked for. It was a crappy haircut, but it was cheap and there was that little extra… The last straw, though, was the Asian lady finally went all out and almost cut off my ear lobe. I was bleeding all over! And they still wanted to give me my complimentary “massage.” I was over it. So ever since then, when my hair gets too long, I put on a hat and cut around it and give myself a complimentary massage. It’s just much safer that way.
I was, like, 12 and tried to kickflip boardslide a kinked rail. Smart money was on gapping out to the flat. Well, I made out there, but unfortunately, my Airwalk 540s with duct tape wrapped around them weren’t cutting it enough to flick my board out that far. It was metal to nuts with the only barrier being a pair of underwear and some Jimmy’Z shorts (which, by the way, aren’t nearly enough to absorb the impact). I split some membrane in my recently descended testicles, spilling “brain matter” throughout my sack. I thought it was the worst showing my mom, but realized four years later when I had to beat off into a cup to see if I was still fertile, that I would way rather show my mom my nuts than hand a hot nurse a plastic cup filled with jiz.
I was a little kid in catechism class. During a recess, I thought I could “jump” my board from one picnic table to another (this was pre-ollie). Well, there wasn’t nearly enough room to get speed to do it, but I was totally going for it and hit my head on the second table. I got knocked out. I came to with a nun yelling at me about how evil skateboarding was and how I was going to have to say extra “Hail Mary” prayers. I think in my dazed state I told her it was wrong to worship false idols. Regardless, I got stitches in my forehead and I was never allowed to bring my board back to catechism class ever again.
Ever since I can remember, I’ve always thought that having a goatee was the coolest thing. Lenin had one. So, one morning I was brushing my teeth and I just happened to look in the mirror. There it was: my first chin hair! I couldn’t believe it. I leaned in for a closer look. Mind you, I’m just in my boxers. Well, I bumped the tile counter with my knee. The tile I hit was faulty and broke, slashing my knee almost to the bone. I got three weeks with a cast on my leg and a sweet scar commemorating the first hair on my face.
German Crack Attack
So, at this point I’d just been diagnosed with twinkle toe on my right foot, but I had to go to Germany to do some demos anyway. We ended up skating some rail with a crack in front of it. Who cares? Cracks don’t bug me, right? Well, that was my attitude until I snapped an ollie right on the crack. My board decided to chill out as I flew at the rail without it. I clipped both feet flying over the rail face-first. I hit the ground like a T-Rex, hitting my face and knuckles simultaneously. I half-ass scorpioned out of it but broke my nose and my big toe at the same time. I’m a little weirded out by cracks now. But not crack.