Ghost Rider

Waking up to a parking ticket on one’s car is a shitty way to start the day, especially when the car is parked in the same spot it has been every night for the past year, with zero tickets to…

Ghost Rider

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Waking up to a parking ticket on one’s car is a shitty way to start the day, especially when the car is parked in the same spot it has been every night for the past year, with zero tickets to speak of. Especially, especially when the ticket itself clearly stated that it was a radio call, airing the awful and ugly truth that you are living amongst snitches. As so many punk rockers in the eighties have iterated before me, Die Yuppy Scum.
Sometimes ya just know. Ya gotta skate. Crawling up the walls and the whole world’s on your balls. Just. Stop. Go. Skate. It’s time. And you know.
So I listened and ended up in the cuts, North of North Seattle. I found a fun little spot and had a nifty little solo session, rightfully expelling whatever demons my snitch yuppy neighbors may have agented onto my vibration.
Alas, I did not meet the discovered crete with serenity and lack of anecdote: As i fiddled about on the embankment and parapet with my delicate death machine a goodly woman and assumed house dweller of the adjacent complex approached me. “Aren’t you a little old to be playing with a skateboard?”, she skeptically asked. She was not irate. She was irritated but had obviously fried bigger fish than a 37 year old street skater in her day. She wasn’t about to let me ruin her afternoon. She made it known with her eyes and her comment that she did not approve or appreciate, but it went no further than that. I knew instinctively fairly well that I could skate without her calling the cops or perhaps the backup of an overly aggressive family member, as has so often been the case in my experience of the past.

After I had skated for a while and recored a few maneuvers on my phone I wrapped it up out of respect for this woman and did my best to apologize, but she had my number. “Sorry to disturb you,” I told her. “I had to get that out of my system.”
“Are you?” she shrewdly replied. “You’re bored!”, she accused. “It says it on your shirt!” I happened to be wearing the t-shirt of my friend Josh’s zine, Bored, and the woman focused in and cheap-shotted, me based on my appearance and despite her own supposed minority status.

“No ma’am”, I beamed at her as I pushed away, satisfied with my tricks and my own shitty neighbors pushed well out of my mind. “I haven’t been bored since 1989.”

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