Skater

It’s good to be a weirdo

During my latest episode of binge reading, I've been reading a lot of books by comedians. Most comedians, at least the ones I like, seem to be kind of screwed up. And by “kind of” I mean really really broken up in some basic way. Weird childhoods, drugs, personality disorders, etc. Not all of them. But most.

When I sit down to write something for my blog, sometimes I’m at a loss to think of anything worth writing. This usually happens when I've been reading the stories of some semi-psychotic comedian.

I guess it’s good to be able to experience the extremes of modern American existence through a book, rather than going through all that shit yourself. I have no desire to be strung-out, drunk, or homeless. But sometimes those things can lead to some good stories, apparently.

I’ve never been drawn to that kind of life. All I've ever really want to do is skate. Even as a kid, I knew that the more I fucked up, the less skating I’d get to do. And nothing was allowed to get in the way of skating.

I started skateboarding when I was eleven, and since then it has mostly dominated my life. Now, approaching fifty, I feel the same. I sit here, doing my work — good work that I enjoy — but under it all, every day, almost all the time, I wish I were out skating. Some guys devote themselves to career and money. But sitting here, officially in middle-age, my mind drifts to skateboarding almost constantly.

Though I’m a pretty good skater, as you might expect for 39 years of experience, I've never been sponsored. I’ve never made any money at skateboarding. While I’ve not yet broken a bone skating (I am apparently gifted with a thick, strong skeleton), I’ve certainly lost my share of skin, gotten my share of contusions. My shin bones are covered with calcified lumps and scars. I can still see the scar on my elbow I got skating a banked wall when I was thirteen.

About nine years ago my wife and I moved back to the suburb in which I grew up. I find myself skating the same spots as in the old days. The school parking lot where I learned freestyle tricks in the 1970s. The mellow little ditch where I learned to pump transitions. The alley behind our old house, with its banked driveways that served as my skatepark.

All these years later I’ve returned to these spots, which mean more to me than they did back then. Is that sad nostalgia? No. It’s not sad, and it’s not nostalgia. It’s just the truth. I could drive fifteen minutes up the freeway to a huge concrete skatepark, where I’d spend most of my time dodging the dozens of skaters, bikers and scooter kids, but I choose my old spots.

After 39 years, I’m back home. I’m skating the same spots. At 50 I still daydream of skating constantly.

Skateboarding is the beautiful curse.

I’m a skater.