From the BLOCK, April 2012.
Check out the photos and the story from Kansas City Block resident, Matt Kehoe, as well as the original edit here.
Classic Re-mix: Tom Carter
Filmed & Edited: Ben Ericson
Motion: Ben Kaplan
From the BLOCK, April 2012.
Check out the photos and the story from Kansas City Block resident, Matt Kehoe, as well as the original edit here.
Classic Re-mix: Tom Carter
Filmed & Edited: Ben Ericson
Motion: Ben Kaplan
This years trip started, ironically, where Toebock became; The Pacific Northwest.
Bobby Dodd and Steve Perdue were reunited in Seattle, accompanied by some of the Alive and Well homies, where shredding was executed and last minute clips were gathered to finish this seven year project. As the homies dispersed back to their daily lives, and Bobby Dodd returned back to Dad life after killing it, Perdue headed to the other side of the Puget Sound where the spirit of Toebock has made it’s living since the very beginning. Kitsap County.
Kitsap County, mirroring Seattle and unknown to most that live in King County, is speckled with little, rural towns hidden by the Olympic Forests and the Puget Sound’s foggy breath. It’s where Austin Illes, a man who represents the spirit of American Folklore, has lived off the land and called home for years. He, again, would be hosting the Toebock Annual Fireside trip; a trip that brings us into the heart of enchanting forests and allows everyone to leave their problems and egos in the shimmering lights of a towering, metropolitan street lamp.
I met up with the Toebock Crew at an undisclosed location in Poulsbo, WA; an annual meeting spot to kick off the trip. We headed, in a large convoy, into the majestic rain forests that the Olympics have blessed this earth with.
We camped in, or I should say battled with, a heinous storm that night. Fighting to stay dry, but gathering around a fire nonetheless under a large tarp Austin constructed. Good times accompanied by laughter seeping through smiles kept us strong through that storm and kept our spirits dry from the rain; metaphorically speaking.
The next night was spent on Austin’s ten acres of land on the Kingston coast where our eyes were met with an astonishing dazzlement as Austin quickly and savagely built a giant TP. One that fizzled away all the drab horrors of society as it peacefully overlooked the great Puget. Whales cried in the distance as they migrated to colder waters and a feast was had that only kings could fathom.
TMG’s Ben Ericson, and the creator of Outer Limits, met up the next day for a filming mission. Bobby Dodd met up as well and as usual, killed it. A day of clocking tricks and cracking brews was had before the sun descended behind the illusion of a horizon. It was time to make the trip back down the coast to the next stop on this three month tour. So Perdue and friends, those including Toebock OG’s such as Kevin McGowan, piled into the Patriot and set off to begin the next part of our story. In route to Santa Rosa California, with stops along the gorgeous coast, where a Colorado born savage and another key player in the telling of this story awaited. Jacob Scherrer, but you can call him “Squints”.
Barely had I made my flight out of Long Beach. On my knees I begged, with sporadic desperateness dramatically choking my plea, to board that flight. All the passengers scowled at me heavily as I awkwardly walked down the isle; heightening the scowls when my computer bag would slightly scathe someone’s shoulder. The “technical difficulty” was me that day, and the inpatient fiends who boiled in their seats of comfort wanted to see blood. My blood. On every angry face, murder was drooling from their eyes and down their fire red cheeks. This will be a relaxing flight, I sarcastically thought to myself as I squeezed my way through an obese couple to my assigned window seat. Embarrassingly, I sat down, feeling their contemptible glaring beams slice into the side of my skull. Being the last one to board a flight AND sitting in the window seat is like rear ending someone then getting rear ended yourself. A pile up that is more humiliating than any accident I have ever witnessed. Or caused.
A day was spent in San Jose for a little R and R. Well, but it was far from resting and relaxing. The day was spent radically rushing around to gather my things, working, and coordinating the rest of this trip. The One Man Demo with Stephen Perdue was a success, but there were two more events, and without constant dedication, they could expire in a dancing eye lid like unattended milk. The next event was at the Mirage Hotel in Las Vegas with DJ Abair, a man who has proven to be a wild card time and time again.
Among all of this, I had decided in my mind to ask Camila to marry me. Madre graced me with her Mother’s diamond ring and told me to follow my heart. She had always said that when that right person came along, the Leo fire in my chest would explode and burn up any doubts. This had long happened and any doubts were charred to a thin crisp the moment Camila’s smile initially graced my pupils.
Early, on noon’s horizon, I landed in Las Vegas. Adam had sent me the address to the hotel he had booked for me. It was a slimy Motel 8 somewhere off of North Las Vegas Blvd. It was apparent that he went way over his budget for this trip already, so I would be tasting the shit on the end of the stick.
“That’s what you get,” he said as I complained upon entering the rickety room. “How do you think I feel? I barely can pay my rent after this trip…” Adam paused momentarily, “your trip.” This confused me greatly, for Adam was living in his van, The Patriot, somewhere off the coast of California.
As far as I was concerned, his land lord was the mighty Pacific Ocean. Now I was toiled by a new reality. One I never knew existed: What does the Pacific charge for rent?
A panic attack was pummeling my chest like the drummer from Helio Sequence.
Abair better fucking be there,
I thought to myself as uneasiness rattled my tired bones
and my new pair of Pig Wheels glided down Las Vegas Boulevard. It was Super Bowl weekend and I could hardly even skate down the street without running into someone, or something–the Wookies were out fore sure. Who knew how this was going to turn out.
The palpating in my heart sky rocketed as I walked up to the Mirage Hotel and Casino.
Broadcasted for all to see on the Mirage’s towering marquee, dwarfing The Beatles Love Circus Du Soleil which lay beneath it, was a massive Court Tour billboard that said, “After Hours With Dj Abair.” Wow, I thought to myself, Adam went all out on this one.
Abair was sucking down a cheap bottle of Taaka Vodka behind the DJ booth that overlooked a crowd of three hundred.
“You know, Abair,” I informed, “the bar is open for you and I.” Abair looked at me shiftily with sweat pouring down his face.
“Travis, this so fucking gnarly. I can’t do this. Look at all these people.” Then his demeanor switched off like a bedside lamp. “You are amazing, Travis. We are twins. I’m gonna get your name tattooed on my chest after this.”
The first song Abair played was, “Call Me Maybe” by Carly Rae Jepsen. The crowd, all of them drunker than Hank Williams Senior, responded to this horrid song with shouts of joy. Every kook in the crowd started fist bumping and dancing, each egocentrically shining in their very own Universe. Abair was mic’d up and a thundering, “YEEEEAH!” blasted over the speakers. I tried to sew an expression on my face that hid the fact that this whole situation was completely fucked, uncomfortable and pretty hard to watch. Fuck it, I thought to myself, people are enjoying themselves. This is going well. Really well actually.
Carly Rae Jepsen shrieked her final “call me maybe” over the speakers and the crowd exploded in applause. All I could think was, I would never call her. Not even maybe. Still, I forced my lips to smile and dragged my hands to a clap. The wild cards started flaring in Abair’s eyes and he yelled some incoherent nonsense about Adam Crew and a Yellow Brand Tour. Then an acoustic guitar started picking over the huge speakers surrounding the venue.
Tracy Chapman’s “You’ve Got a Fast Car” started playing. The crowd looked around at each other as if a squirrel had crawled behind the walls weeks prior and died. How embarrassing this is, I thought. There is always a time and place for every thing, and this was neither. I mean come on! We weren’t in a garage at three in the morning doing cocaine and having deep conversations about the Holographic Universe! People exceeded irritation and began to boo Dj Abair.
My forehead rose from my hand as Abair turned off the music and started ranting. “Fuck this! Fuck all of you! You are all losers,” he choked for a moment and with a prepubescent voice continued, “ALL OF YOU!” Tears started pouring down his face and he wiped them away with the remaining bottle of rip gut vodka. “Fuck you Adam Crew!” Abair yelled at the ceiling, then he threw the empty bottle into the livid crowd.
A riot broke out in that dark venue. Everyone wanted Abair’s head on a stick, but he was no where to be found. Rooster haircuts, cocaine crazed models, bouncers and even bar tenders started beating the shit out of each other. With a profile below sea level, and like a snake in a meadow, I slithered behind the bar, stole a bottle of Makers Mark and got the hell out of there. Unlike the “One Man Demo with Stephen Perdue”, “After Hours with Dj Abair” was not only a failure, but a disaster.
A ruthless pounding in my head joined hands with a cold bathroom floor and slapped me awake. I was back in my hotel. Whiskey crept through my breath and the diamond ring I planned on presenting to Camila was on my left pinky finger. With my hand trying to contain the ferocious teeth that were clamping my brain, I walked into my room and saw the time. It was already six p.m. and Camila would be landing at nine p.m. sharp. After briefly brushing the remaining Maker’s Mark from my breath, I put on a nice shirt, rushed to The Stratosphere and caught the 108 to McCarren Airport.
Camila’s back was frowning at me as I awoke and tried to kiss her. She was a little upset due to multiple layovers she had withstood the day before, and a mix up of terminals causing me to pick her up an hour late. In my pocket, the diamond ring taunted me. Now is the time, Travis, I thought. It’s now or never. Camila would be leaving the next morning. If I didn’t propose at that moment, it would be the last time I would see her for years, perhaps forever. Fathoming a life without her choked any kind of future for love–for life. A life without her was no life. I wanted to share everything with Camila. Every sun and every moon to come. Every smile and every sadness to curl our lips. Every old demon to poison our past and every young angel to come and heal it. My fidgety heart had always been a hard one to hold, but she had it pinned down.
Her eye lids slowly arose, and her big beautiful, dark eyes sleepily looked into my fear stricken, nervous-as-all-hell stare as I knelt by the bed. The mid-afternoon desert sun was massaging my shoulders. Without seeing the ring and still trying to conceive the new day around her, Camila said with a cute chuckle, “Travis, what are you doing?” This was it.
“Camila, will you be my wife?” Her reaction completely surprised me. A smile stretched from cheek to cheek and her eyes gently closed.
“Yes, Travis.” Even now, and most likely for the rest of myself, I will never be able to describe the happiness that burst within my chest. On the dirty mattress, inside that seedy Motel 8, Camila and I prayed to God for His approval; something I had never done in my life. God and I both had enormous egos, ones in which always exploded like a dinner conversation about politics when met face to face… or religion.
“The Ballad of John and Yoko” blared into an all too real setting as Camila and I walked out of the Clark County Court with our marriage license. We were bombarded by pastor after pastor to get married in their chapel. It seemed like they were trying to crucify me. At one point, two almost got into a fight over who would marry us. Any pan handler in the Tenderloin of San Francisco had nothing on these guys. They were ruthless.
Earlier in this story, during Camila and my first trip to Vegas, which ended horribly, we had tried to go to a strip club off of North Las Vegas Boulevard. Ironically, directly across the street from the strip club, was the little chapel that we decided to get married in. Who would have thought?
A flamboyant woman, cloaked in green with bright purple lipstick to match and a pair of ten inch high heels married us on that magical Las Vegas night. A night when simultaneously someone was hitting the big jack pot while someone else was getting arrested. Off somewhere in that shit show of a city, someone was vomiting in a Casino bathroom; but Camila and I were getting married. A single tear rolled down my cheek. I was hypnotized by the beauty of my soon to be wife, she was beyond stunning. Every second of my past led up to that moment as the strange pastor united us once and for all. All the many regrets, bad decisions, experiences fell into place while Camila and I joined hands and got lost in each other’s stares.
Many times in my turbulent past, fueled usually by drugs and self destruction, I have met suicide in multiple settings. On the sharp edge of a knife, in the reflection on a porcelain draped bath tub, or over the railing of a golden bridge. Every time a little shining light would pull me out from the lake of despair I seemed to always find myself drowning in. A light at the end of the tunnel, one could say. I never knew what it was going to be, or what it would look like, but I knew it was out there, somewhere, waiting. Holding my joyous tears back, and as I said, “I do,” I was not just looking at my best friend, lover or new wife. I was gazing deep into that light. The light which promised it would shine on one far away day. All those years the light that had always been hazy and dim, blinded my eyes for the very first time. Softly, it resided back into the glistening ivory of Camila’s white dress and finally, for the first time in my twenty five years, life had made sense.
Blake Johnson, Instagram’s moon facing bandit, had no idea what his tomfoolery birthed. This was nothing like the time when he insulted a rapper about sleeping with Ice T’s wife and designated the blame to some white, unsuspecting kid from the Mid-West. His little “hash tag” created a full blown tour after I pitched the idea to the president of TMG Creative, Adam Crew.
With Adam’s wealth and success, he wanted to sponsor and fund this trip; giving me full creative direction in the line up of people for this tour. I chose three people in particular; one for each state to incorporate their amazing talent into the existence of this flopping tour. Hell, we all get old and deserve one last bang.
Three cities in three different states; Long Beach, Las Vegas and Georgetown, Texas. I wanted Stephen Perdue to skateboard in Long Beach, David Abair to DJ in Las Vegas, and Travis Graves, also known as Mt. Egypt, to perform in Texas. Adam was instantly skeptical about Abair’s credentials and punctuality, but I promised his legitimacy; DJ Abair had drawn large crowds at the one and only Hound Lounge in San Francisco. We had our people, now was the time to make it happen.
Court in Long Beach was at the rooster hooting hour of seven in the morning. Natalie Kozanitias had picked me up the night before and let me sleep on her and Corey’s high end, L shaped couch that stretched from one end of their living room to the other. Corey was in Santa Barbara tending boats, but Clicker the pooch sent me Corey’s Grecian love with slobbering kisses as I settled on that Godly couch. Camila and I talked for hours about a possible marriage in their Budweiser backyard, as I rudely ignored Natalie’s Sloppy Joe feast; deliciously seeping through a kitchen window. As usual, life was moving at light speed.
I represented myself in court after writing almost nothing across the street at a corporate, bully coffee shop. My argument with the judge was primarily the fact that I had no money and mostly no time at all; so she waved all fees and sentenced me to AA meetings for six months. My cheap suit shined with Law and Order’s Raul Esparza’s confidence and, in my mind, victory had never been more fluent. I tasted it on that proud day.
Not much time remained before the One Man Demo would begin with Stephen Perdue at the Houghton Skate-park in Long Beach, California. Adam had flown in Perdue, and TMG’s one and only Fred Zahina to document the event with his Super 8 camera, unique eye and all out CURMUDGEONRY . This duo made me very nervous, however, and part of me would be surprised if the two of them even showed up at all. Adam briefly had told me that he had gotten each of them rooms at the five star Renaissance Hotel in downtown Long Beach with a budget of one thousand dollars for living costs. Those two definitely were blacking out.
One hour remained before the One Man Demo, and word had traveled that my oldest friend and highly talented artist, Brandon Hurley, better known as Bear in Woods, had just done a showing the previous night to promote his business; Brandon Hurley Arts where one can find multitudes of flawless strokes of fine art mixed with urban rawness. After calling him, we agreed to grab a quick bite at Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles before the demo.
Bear in Woods and his girl friend whom I had never met, Natalie, stared at me with a wide eyed awe as I inhaled my dish. Time was running out and I needed to get to the demo pronto. The One Man Demo with Stephen Perdue was scheduled for an hour. That would give me enough time to show my face, execute a little PR for The Court Tour, throw some product and get the hell out of there to catch my flight back to San Jose. Long Beach was the short part of this three week stint, so every move I made had to be delicately coordinated with time. Quickly, I paid my bill, gave them both my love and hailed a cab. I liked Natalie, and throughout the twenty years Brandon and I had been friends, he had never introduced me to a woman whom I liked.
Perdue was already on the course ripping. Fred was drunkenly skating around with his camera in hand. Both of them looked a little rough around the edges. Who wouldn’t after being granted a thousand dollars for but one night? I remember the old Toebock trips when you had to get yourself to an event with your own money. How so much had changed.
Perdue killed it. The crowd of skinny pants wearing teenagers, with blinding braces and bleached hair, screamed like they had just seen Jesus himself after Perdue effortlessly landed every trick he tried. His male model smile curled under his flowing curly hair as he cruised through the park, while nineteen year old girls shrieked from his dreamy demeanor. Now I knew what it was like to go to a Beatles concert in the early sixties.
I heard one girl, who could have only been twenty at the very least, say,
Her friend disagreed and the two minors started violently slapping each other, which led to them both being escorted off the premises by a nearby, enticed police officer. This was out of control.
Fred found me in the crowd and led me to a box of product. He handed me a megaphone and called me a piece of shit; for what reason I hadn’t a clue.
I threw product out and the crowd went into an all out frenzy. Court Tour posters and shirts were thrown, but every pair of hands that touched these items immediately dropped them to the floor. No one gave a shit about the Court Tour. I mean, could you really blame them? I myself was having a hard time understanding what exactly I was trying to accomplish with this strange tour.
Pig Wheels and a couple of Habitat boards, a Silas and a Gall, were heaved. Also, I threw some “Don’t Act Famous” videos out into the wild crowd. Three DVDs were tossed out into the wave of hands and one came hurling back; belting me in the face like a Big Gulp in The Weatherman. Harsh.
“..one came hurling back; belting me in the face ”
Perdue was trying to land some kind of demo-ender trick as I packed up my shit; a loose pair of wheels and my flyers which only Fed Ex made a profit from. Upon entering a cab I had bum rushed in the middle of a busy street, I heard the skate park explode in applause and excitement. Perdue must have landed his demo ender. Like a kid leaving his hometown in a cheesy movie, I peered out of the back window in the cab; but instead of witnessing a teary eyed best friend shouting against my departure, I only saw Perdue’s scruffy, dirty blonde hair bobbing above a jagged silhouette of women, swarming him like a flock of termites do to a decaying log. His shirt had been ripped off and in my dwindling sight I could see Fred Zahina with his shirt off, too; shot gunning a beer and trying to feed off the less fortunate girls who just could not break through the barrier of hormonal maniacs encompassing Steve. Meanwhile, Perdue’s smile remained UNCHANGED with that male model smirk never leaving his lips. It seemed to me that he didn’t even realize what was happening, let alone where he was. He was like a parrot trying to hold onto a swaying palm branch as it’s being tossed around violently by a Florida hurricane. Never really knowing the danger of the situation, but loving every moment of it.
Brought to you straight from the heart of the Kitsap Peninsula where it all began, Bremerton, Washington. It very well may be a dump but it sure is beautiful. This is just a few clips a skatepark we pay annual respects to.
Film/Edit: Fred Zahina
A camping and skateboarding adventure through the mountains of Northern Oregon, in June of 2010.
Video: Josh Alamanza / Adam Crew
Film: Fred Zahina
Edit: Adam Crew
Story by Matt Kehoe
Video & Edit: Ben Ericson
American Folklore encompasses many broad categories. It is comprised of jokes, riddles, myths, legends, cautionary tales, and many other forms of storytelling. The founding of Toebock is often surrounded by legends and tall tales. Many stories have developed since the founding long ago to become a part of INdustries folklore and underground awareness. INdustries folklore especially includes any narrative which has contributed in shaping the values and belief systems of regional members. These narratives of which I speak may be true and may be false; the veracity of the stories is not a determining factor. The following is a tale of folk heroes. These individuals have become important figures in Toebock INdustries history, or chroniclers and creators of such folklore.
Nine idiots, three fools and a trog, total. One two bedroom apartment with two closets used as bedrooms, and a hallway nook with a sleeping bag. Twelve hundred mice, six plates, four forks and a pan. Alcoholic, possibly methamphetamine addicted, violent, cigarette bumming, adjacent building tenants. One young, very welcoming, late night texting, and possibly orally-fixated neighbor girl. Two high definition DSLR’s, three vx1000’s, a super 8mm, five iPhones, sixty two blunts, thirty one joints and a local pub that easily facilitated countless blackouts. Toeblock Kansas City, a world all it’s own.
This morning while leaving our local Starbucks on 39th and Genessee, the screeching brakes of a car coming to a quick stop attracted all of our attention. As we glanced over to see what was transpiring, an overweight black woman with a cigarette loosely dangling from her lips, and a carton resting on her dashboard shouted in a raspy country tone, “Hey you punk ass nigga, fuck you!”
The 40-something black male strolling down the sidewalk that this comment was directed at condescendingly replied, “Fuck you, bitch!” A valid response. The woman then peeled off in her blown out, rusty, or just possibly a shitty maroon, early 90′s Chrysler LeBaron. We shared a laugh, not quite understanding exactly what led to this interaction, and continued on our way to the car.
A loitering crackhead, who had been staring at us with hopes of potential profitability, or just a free beer, criddled up to us and asked, “Whatchu all doin’?”
“We doin’ this!” A. Crew exclaimed as we piled six deep into the five-seater 1997 Toyota Camry and headed off to start our day.
The sun was shining and hopes were high, as were we. It was time to stack! Kansas City’s favorite son, Sean Malto, had warned us that our decided upon first spot of the day could be “hit or miss.” Of course, as skateboarders, we are used to this. You never know how long you will be able to skate any particular spot before security comes, a random citizen decides to become a hero, or the cops get called. This is to be expected.
Most of us began warming up by playing games of S.K.A.T.E. in the street next to the spot. While Julian a.k.a. the “Legend” was trying a trick, he ran over something and was pitched off of his board. After getting up from a punishing roll he saw that it wasn’t a rock that led to his board abruptly coming to a stop, it was a bullet. This should have been an early warning sign to all of us. Things were about to get buck.
Moments later, a carload of men in yellow jackets rolled up, jumped out, and started attacking us. I don’t know if they had just burnt a sherm blunt or something, but these motherfuckers behavior was more than irrational. After detaining most of the group, one of the men tackled J-Lo while he was walking to his car. After that, three of them took Adam down. The rest of us sat and watched in handcuffs. Fucking hand cuffs. These security guards had lost their damn minds. The drug-faced assholes called the police and we were all forced to wait for their arrival.
After a couple of minutes, two cops rolled up. Surprisingly, in comparison to the jacked-up security guards, they were somewhat reasonable and sympathetic to our cause. However, when the chief showed up, he was pissed. The other two cops had warned us not to laugh at their superior officer when he arrived. We now realized why. This guy looked just like Sean Penn, a fucking doppleganger. It was so hard to contain our laughter. The chief basically told us that if we fucked with his car, he would kick our ass, cop or no cop. Understandable, right? Why the fuck would we do that anyway? We were just trying to skate a spot. Okay, whatever, and we’re out. What in the fuck was that? After this, we decided to head across state lines to Kansas City, Kansas. We figured that this would put some space in between ourselves and the law.
We decided to hit up the Waverly rail. Within moments of entering the parking lot, we were greeted by three neighborhood-rats, one of which had his eyelids flipped up, looking all weird as shit. These kids were cool, though. They just wanted to watch us skate. We began to session the rail, well Perdue did. The rest of us were still too burnt from the previous night’s debauchery, or sidelined with fucking back problems. While Steve attempted to film a line at the school, Ben Erickson, the T.M.G. H.D. frontman, was out in the street getting a second angle of Steve’s trick on the rail. Seconds after Ben had gotten his camera settings dialed in, the roar of a speeding vehicle caught all of us by surprise. “Sker-dooooooosh.” A late-model box Chevy or a damn Lumina, or something, blew through the stop sign at the bottom of the hill and pretty much bounced it’s frame on the ground going about eighty miles per hour. A police car crested just over the top of the hill, sirens blaring, behind the fleeing suspect. This fool was in a high speed chase. What in the fuck is going on out here? The car raced past the spot, nearly hitting our designated camera pointer, with an officer in hot pursuit.
“Holy shit,” we thought. Ben was a bit shaken from his close encounter and pretty much just played duck, duck goose with the local kids, big-brother-style for the rest of the time we were there. Steve skated for a bit longer after the incident, but then decided it wasn’t going down, so we dipped.
We went to a couple more spots that day, filmed a few things and then returned to the Toeblock. Everyone made food, hit up the local liquor store, and began to prep for a trip to Buzzard Beach, Westport’s watering hole and our portal to the darkside.
After burning a blunt in the Red Room with Adam, Chris Baldwin and I ventured out to the porch to smoke cancer sticks. “Hey Buck…Buck,” shouted a tweeker from the building next to us. He was referring to the name on the back of the Royals jersey Baldwin had on. “I’m coming over there, Buck. Y’all got that good, green weed?” We tried unsuccessfully to ignore this wasted retard. The man climbed onto his neighbor’s balcony and then tried to climb over to ours, which was literally an entire alley apart. Before this idiot was able to fall to his death while continuing to yell “I’m coming over there, Buck,” his pissed-off boyfriend pulled him back, only to domestically batter him. Shit just keeps getting crazier. We went back inside the house and rounded up the troops. On that note, it was time to go to the bar.
We were warmly welcomed by a familiar group of K.C. homies upon our arrival at Buzzard Beach. Many a drink was had as we reminisced on the strange occurrences of the day. As 2:30 a.m. quickly approached, Adam’s attention was drawn to a tall, big-tittied, scantily clad, black girl bending over the bar. Thirty minutes later, as the crowd was pushed outside, “Da Illa” drunkenly approached this young lady, who was accompanied by two fugly cohorts. After a brief, come-back-to-the-house type conversation, the attractive, innebriated skeezer jumped onto Adam’s back screaming, “I wanna fuck a white boy tonight! Right in the ass!” Wow. Adam ran across the street with the chick still mounted to his spine. Here we go. Before I knew it, this chick hopped off, pulled her pants down, copped a squat, and started pissing all over the parking lot across the street from Buzzard Beach. We watched in amazement as a stream of urine shot at least five feet in front of her. I struggled to get a fucking photo, but she quickly stood up, leaned against a car and started doing a bottomless booty clap at me, possibly in hopes of shaking off any remaining piss. Sadly my attempted Instagram ended up blurry as shit. Daaaamnit. Again, Adam tried in vain to talk this girl back to the crib. Unfortunately for him, she was captain-save-a-hoed by her Jugga-slut white girl homie. No love. Back to the Red Room.
Earlier in the night, Travadaddy and Julian had mysteriously disappeared from the Buzzard about an hour before the rest of us. They had been putting in work on our neighbor, whom we had affectionately deemed Oral Laurel. Moments after we got back to the house, Travis came in, weirdsted as shit, screaming about how he needed shampoo. Where was Julian? Time to investigate.
After Trav had stolen Ben’s shampoo and scurried back over to Oral’s, a few of us crept next door as well. We found Julian. He and Travis were laying on Laurel’s bed while she sat in between looking as faded as the hood of Adam’s Camry. Who knows what the fuck these squids had just gotten into? I had pesonally seen enough. Before exiting Laurel’s crib, I spotted a big ass bag of M&M’s sitting on top of the fridge. Unable to resist, I stole the shit out of it. Come up! Back to the Red Room with snacks! What the fuck y’all thank! One more tweest and we were ready for bed, only to do it all over again the next day.
The time had come. An INdustrial invasion was past due. This is the account of one day in the lives of INdustry “Illas”. There is more. That I know is true. I mean shit, we were in Kansas City for an entire month. You can only imagine the day to day encounters and events that I failed to mention. In my personal opinion, less is always more. The more that I tell you, the less I leave to the imagination. The more that you know, the less that you need to find out on your own. Explicit details are unimportant. We came, a few swallowed and we skated. We were out here! We get “out there”, and we definitely “blacked-out there”. We couldn’t have “done” it without the help of the great homies who showed us around, kicked it and killed it. Thank you all so much. Kansas City stand up! We’s on to the next, the schmade must continue!
A month long stay at our residence in Boston, for the 6th Toeblock. Luckily for us this video only features our skateboarding adventures. ( June 2010)
Filmed by Chris Fiftal, Adam Crew and the Notorious Elliot “Gary’s Extras” Vecchia.
A walk through the Toeblock in South Beach with Travis Knight (2009)
Titles Neil Hager
Edit: Adam Crew