Meet Phil. Phil is a real man who skates. Besides being a father, husband, music-maker and entrepreneur, Phil also works hard at the local hardware store. There he trades in traditionally manly things, such as tools, nuts and bolts. Hard things. When we started working on this short piece Phil was 37, and he was coming to terms with the stark realization that it was probably his last chance in life to finally kickstart his dream career as a world-renowned professional skateboarder. Now Phil’s 40, and he runs a small, independent, board brand — Fixer Skateboards.
The thing is, if at the age of 37 Phil had followed the herd and pursued the standard pro path, riding for a bigger brand, like Girl, it would have been too obvious, and even worse than that it would have certainly oppressed his creativity. We do well to remember that the biological clock stops ticking for no living being and not a millisecond can be wasted executing someone else’s vision. So Phil didn’t pursue a big brand endorsement, he got a job at the hardware store, and now thanks to its modest size, running his Fixer brand on the side really allows Phil the artistic space he needs to continue to grow and contribute to the culture as a genuine devoted dreamer of dreams, and a formidable professional skater man.
Big fish.I love working with the best humans who ever rolled on the surface of the earth. For me Columbian-born Swede, Fernando Bramsmark, easily falls into that category.
Not too long ago we put together this little video piece all about the grab we know today as the stalefish. We were in Barcelona and while we were there we sent a message to Lance Mountain asking him why this perfectly good-looking grab got named after something so unpleasant. Here’s what he sent back: “Summer camp, Sweden, 1985, Tony [Hawk] did them. Lunch was served in aluminum containers. Once a week we would have this bad fish. Tony and I were calling it stalefish with [many] bones and we’d go eat at McDonald’s. A British guy asked Tony if the trick he did was a Stalefish with [Many] Bones. It stuck. Tony did backside ones too. Gonz, I think, got the first photo two years later that popularized it. And he did the classic fold-down knee.” So there you have it, despite how utterly insane, doomed and incomprehensible the world might currently appear to be, we can take comfort in the fact that both Fernando and the stalefish have Swedish roots in common.
Here are some photographs from a few weeks back working on Rick’s Viceland show Abandoned. If you’ve seen it, hope you liked it. That cooling tower is damn big.
One of the perks of parenthood is lying to your kid.
“Dada! What’s that?” Ivor asks, straining in his seat to get a better view of the wood mill, a huge plume of white vapor billowing skyward from its chimney stack.
“That, Ivor…is a cloud factory!”
Above the clouds…Between the clouds…Below the clouds…A cloud factory.
We’re in Scotland for a rare summer visit and we’ve deplaned from KLM flight 929, Amsterdam to Inverness, on May 28th 2016. It’s Ivor’s 3rd birthday and he is psyched. But my bag is stuck in Holland and as we talk to the KLM agent about lost luggage retrieval it suddenly dawns on Ivor, his birthday present is in that bag. He throws his head backwards with the sudden, jolting, seizure-like movement of a lamb in a slaughterhouse. It’s a reaction of utter mortal fear. He emits a blood-curdling scream full of pain and suffering. Philippa struggles to hold him. During these moments he’s like an umbrella in a hurricane.
“NOOOO!” Philippa yells. “Stay calm. We’ll get the bag. You’ll get your present. One day you’ll do this freak out thing and I won’t be able to hold you. You’ll be smashed on the floor and that will NOT be good.”
I’m not sure Ivor can hear these words amid his screams and sobs.
“Waaahhhh waaaaaannnntt maaaaaaaaa peh sent!” he yells through bubbling snot and tears.
The KLM agent lady doesn’t understand what he’s saying. She can’t comprehend his garbled three-year old language. She stares. I stare. Ivor’s a mess. Think fast, how do we solve this problem? Yes, the first-world quick fix: cold hard cash! “We’ll go to Sainsbury’s and see what toys they have, ok?” This is not a lie. This is a sacred promise that must be kept. An oath. Ivor’s face begins to return to normal.
“Awwww. It’ll be ok, wee man.” says the agent lady, smiling, calm and professional. She looks at her screen, taps in a code and looks up at me. “Can you fill out this form please?”
Are we at Sainsbury’s yet?Problem solved.Yup. 2+1. That’s right. Uh Huh.
Happiness returns…
Every moment of every day, rest assured, somewhere, somehow, someone is catching some air.Meanwhile, overhead…
Andy just sent me the dreamcatcher teeshirt from the New Zealand trip, that one time when I smashed my collar bone into painful fragments. Remember? It was around 2005 and the trip was with P-Stone, O’Meally, Mumford, Shane Cross, Duffy, Chet, Strubing & Mendizibal. Mumford had recently quit Zero and was attempting to make some waves with his Legacy brand under the Dwindle umbrella. Hence Duffy, Strubing and Shane.
Staring into the empty eye-sockets of that longhorn skull the dreamcatcher prompted me to search through an old hard drive.
Photos emerged featuring P-Stone rocking hair like he’d lost a bet.
Still smiling, still stoked.
Mendizibal blazed the pipe at New Lynn. This park is rad. Legend has it the plans were sent from the states in inches and the local contractors read them as centimeters. Full Spinal Tap Stonehenge shit. Amazing. If you watch Riding the Long White Cloud you can hear me say the same thing in real voice words.
Rhyss let us crash at his house and showed us around Auckland. He looks a bit shifty here but he’s a good lad, Rhyss. Hope you’re doing well, mate.
At the time of the trip Andy Henry was working as a post-grad in some neuroscience department of NYU. He joined in on the trip just because. Smart dude old Andy. Intelligent. Erudite.
If Andy hadn’t come on the trip then nobody would have put Petrol in the Diesel tank. This made him feel less smart. It made him question the value of all that time reading dumb science books.
Siphon skills remedied that. Andy drained that tank into a pair of 10-Gallon containers while Pat smoked cigs within spitting range.
At this other old bowl thing I can’t remember the name of Chet screeched through a few of his classic signature backside bluntslides while O’Meally lurked in the bushes.
The trusty Mountain Co-op hammock strung up behind Rhyss’s place.
Rowdy Roddy Piper?
Justin erupted from the volcano like a hot blast of lava fire.
What’s your secret, Justin?
It’s simple.
What’s your secret, Chet?
Other stuff happened and then I got broke off. Tried a dumb trick on an 8 foot high concrete vert ramp. In Riding the Long White Cloud Rick does multiple Miller Flips on the same ramp. When we realized my collar bone was shattered Duffy assured me it would be fine. “I’ve broken my collar bone like 20 times or something” he said. Very reassuring. Thanks for that, Pat. In due course the fragments fused and the pain subsided.
Popped a few photos of Texas raised, Portland based, Birdhouse pro destroyer of all things skateable Ben Raybourn recently while he filmed for little day in the life documentary. Hopefully they bring a small glimmer of joy to your day.
What up? Portland, brah. So artsy. Mad beats. Now featuring…Chromeball.Onward to Burnside. Some rap video shit.
Heavy metal parking lot. Eggplant for lunch. Hayashi in full effect.
Back at the crib scoping the scene with the bird’s eye view. Free runners look on in disbelief. This local training center could make a good TtDiPWYB post, maybe, if there is such a thing as a good TtDiPWYB post.Not dangerous at all.
Perfectly safe.
Damn leaf.
Fully cropped the ground out of this.
Quicker down than up.
The owls are not what they seem.
And finally, what the internet was made for.
Having a kid really changes things. You could say fucks things up. The bright side is that there’s less time to do dumb shit and every spare moment increases in value like the work of a good artist who just bit the big one. Certain stuff is out. Staying up late partying at the bar is a no go, not too much of a bummer there. I definitely skate less, not a terribly bad thing; I’ve been skating for years. The little dude pretty much needs to be home for a nap every day by 2 or else total nuclear meltdown occurs. So on those bases this is the first of a series of posts about shit to do around Portland in your new life after birth. Installment 1, the Historical Highland Stillhouse loop trail.
We decided on Oregon City because I’d like to see the Falkirk Wheel, a wonder of engineering, but it’s in Scotland and we’re in Portland. From Philippa’s research Oregon City sounds like it has some industry, and also a municipal elevator on a vertical street called elevator street. That sounds wonder-of-engineering enough, so we bundle the little man into his padded restraining seat and hit the road.
If we were looking for something reminiscent of Scotland then we’ve made a good choice. Driving up McLoughlin Blvd by the Willamette past the Oregon City Bridge reminds me of the River Dee at Riverside Drive near Duthie Park in Aberdeen. We pull off into this handy little car park and screech to a stop right in front of this historical-fact-packed wooden sign, where a craggy old balustrade runs along top of the steep riverbank overlooking a barrio-load of ramshackle mill houses. It’s like the Aberdeen paper mill on steroids. Mad industry surrounds a section of river that looks as though its bed got stomped on by some giant rampaging toddler. It’s a strange sinkhole and if you happen to know the geology that created it then please let us know in the comments. Especially if the geological process was actually a load of dynamite.
McLoughlin Boulevard is the section of highway 99E that links Oregon City and Portland. It runs into Martin Luther King Boulevard and Grand Avenue just past the Ross Island Bridge. The bomb-ass graffiti on this plaque would be all the more bomb if it wasn’t being thoroughly interfered with by a bunch of historical info about pioneering, indian language knowing, fur trading, medical licence having, murder rap beating, long-haired french canadian scottish dude Dr John Mcloughlin, after whom this section of highway is named.
He looks pissed about something or other.
And Ivor decided to wear his fox sweater for the day. We turned round and walked back down to find the municipal elevator when all of a sudden we got stoked to find even more historical info on the other side of that wooden sign we’d parked by. A little further east along the pavement we could see that there was a walkway up on the bluff. It had to lead to the municipal elevator. It just had to. We ran boldly across the highway by this spider’s web and into the dirty soft mud by those bushes beneath the east end of the Museum of the Oregon Territory. The Museum looks sinister on a day like this. Note: if you don’t run across the highway there’s a footbridge just a little further down the road. The walkway that runs along the top of the bluff is McLoughlin Promenade. Somewhere along here has to be the municipal elevator and Ivor intends to find it.
Tight views of the sinkholey bit.
Electrical boxes.
Reasonable advice.
The only Blue Heron we saw.
Aha! The 1954 observation deck of the municipal elevator!
From up top.
From down below.
The first elevator went into operation in 1915. It was a wood, steel, hydraulic contraption that took up to 5 minutes to ascend the 90 feet and caused all the nearby water pressure to drop; when it worked. When it failed you had to squeeze out the trap door and back down the sketchy ladder. 9 years later they went electric, got efficient and in the 50s did the full rebuild. The whole story – with its local house of cards style political shenanigans and a load more fun historical details – is on the little History of the Oregon City Municipal Elevator pamphlet you can get from inside the elevator right next to the attendant. He’s got local knowledge and directed us to a kids play park back up top in the town. That’s where we headed next.
OG bluff ascent.
Ivor was wilin’ out at this point.
Walking up the stairs like some sort of pimp or something.
That’s just how he do.
Decorative cast iron tree grates by Olympic Foundry! Boo Ya! In case you’re unaware Olympic Foundry’s been busting out products metal style since 1900.
Nice brickwork.
Didn’t go in here but here it is.
Ice T never mentioned this in his biography.
Fire engines. Always thankful for those.
F.T.M.
Swing steez.
Goonies-looking houses everywhere.
Local corvids at 5th and Washington.
Nice old Ford pickup on High Street by 3rd.
Cut back through to the bluff top.
Made use of the footbridge this time. If you’re a skater then it’s worth noting that if you had the right skillset, plywood (or maybe just brass balls) and a good photographer you could get a wild photo here. Gravette?
Wild geese.
There’s that museum again. Sinister but probably full of interesting historical stuff.
The walk loops us all the way back to the Highland Stillhouse, a Scottish pub that I’ll go on the record and say is legit.
Is this the hoe?
It’s often advisable to maximize screen time in these situations.
Fate recently returned me to the Skatepark of Tampa. On this occasion I would be attending the 2013 Tampa Am contest.
The night before the trip I became filled with a desire to capture some of the action so I stood in the front room with my camera and tossed a wild thing up towards the ceiling. If the built in flash on the little Lumix could freeze the motion of this fierce stuffed beast then photographing a back nose blunt in a dimly lit Florida warehouse would be child’s play, or at least an approximation thereof.
Nailed it!
Upon arriving at the Skatepark of Tampa I found Kevin Wilkins of The Skateboard Mag reflecting on the absurd injustice of it all.
And Colin Kennedy, Nike SB Europe’s dream manager, remaining stoic.
It didn’t take too long to track down a back nose blunt. Aha! See! The onboard flash can do it! On closer inspection you’ll find that if your ISO is maxed out it gives it that sand-sculpture look. Perfect for Instagram. Then Jon lent me an external flash unit. I sought out fresh meat. One of the most gifted technical street skaters of our time. Kickflip light test looks okay. Back lip skewered by a pillar? It’ll do.
I decided to head outside into the gentle late afternoon Tampa light and mingle. Much nicer. Dare I say gorgeous? I found Big News being discussed.
Revelers. Chillers.
True professionals,
Wu afficionados.
T-Funk
And even more dream management.
Brief, beautiful, sordid moments of clarity and oblivion swirled all around me like some strange visual poem.
A Floridian poem.
Full of strange characters and tall Englishmen. Tyshawn remained in a New York state of mind. And as the dice battle raged round the back…
…things took a turn for the worse round the front.
More and more bills got thrown into the mix…
As carnage ensued.
Dice were rolled.
Eggs were hurled.
Dice. Rolling.
Eggs. Flying.
Fortunes were won and lost.
As a few brave souls charged for the finish line.
And to the victors go the spoils. Skateboarding is safe and well.