July 15th, 2005

(no subject)

Warrior of theWipeout.

Well, it happened. At approximately oh-one-hundred hours (that’s 1AM, right?) on Wednesday night, the inevitable caused the pavement outside the Turk tower to make a very unfriendly acquaintance with my face. Fate loaded my first real wipeout into a slingshot and it hit me so hard in the back of my head that it sent me flying from my skateboard before being spoon-fed a mouthful of asphalt. I flew to the ground with one single thought racing through my head: “My first fall is going to feel the best of good and the worst of bad all at the exact same time.”

All I really remember of that fateful fall was the initial impact of my chin hitting the concrete, and the force at which the two met was incredible. It was the middle of the night, and instead of playing it safe with a nice game of drink n’ dial, I had to go the adventurous route and play a rousing game of drink, dial, and skateboard to Justin’s house. Everything was going beautifully, and I had established a connection with my short board that night that was helping us to glide across the pavement like the ultimate team. About three seconds before I was about to step off and head for Justin’s door, I hit the bump that ended my night.

I sat there for a moment in the middle of the street, unphased by the possibility of an oncoming car at 1AM, just trying to recollect the past three seconds and what was going on. My skateboard had ended up about twenty feet from where I was sitting, and I scrambled to my feet in a desperate attempt to fetch it so I could pass out somewhere safe. I grabbed my board and nearly collapsed on the curb, moaning in total agony. The pain was new to me; I had never been friends with Turk Street on this unexpected holiday, and this throbbing sensation was a gift that hurt so good to receive. I rubbed the abrasions on my palms and felt underneath my chin, where spots of blood covered my fingertips. There was an unfamiliar pain in my arm, and I leaned back as I tried to quickly collect my composure and head for the door I had crashed just outside.

Thirty minutes later, as much as I didn’t want to say it, the words spilled out.

“Justin, take me to the emergency room. I think my arm is broken.”

All anybody could do was laugh at me, because despite the brutal pain I was feeling every time I moved, I was far too excited by the fact that I had just experienced my first real annihilation on a skateboard. I’d fallen plenty of times, but I’d never been so excited to discover bruises, blood, and possible breaks all over crucial parts of my body. I had never been so excited to feel enough pain that it was actually making me cry. I had never broken a bone before, and the mere thought that this was my moment of glory made me want to do one thing and on thing only: skateboard.

At two thirty, after those bastards had moved my arm in every direction despite my yelps of pain and tears of torture, the x-rays came back to reveal that my arm was not broken. “You screwed it up pretty good,” they told me, “but it’s not broken.” My arm was twice its normal size, I couldn’t bend it in ways they were saying I should’ve been able to bend it, and my rings had to be cut off to remove from my swollen fingers. But my god damn arm was not broken. In a way, I was disappointed, but I was happy settling on an arm wrapped three times in Ace and supported by an ugly blue sling, and I was even happier with a prescription to Vikadin of my very legal own. The first thing I could think to do was call Ben Danger and tell him that he would be so proud of me for getting my first pavement fuck.

I’ve since realized that although I feel a little part of me has been broken in and I can have a little more respect as a learning skateboarder, there is one major downside that makes none of this excitement worth anything. You see, with an arm that can’t move, tied up in a sling, I am forced to look at that beautiful short board of mine without so much as a hope of riding it for a week or so. I am forced to watch everyone around me experience the joy of flying down McAllister or Market with the wind in their faces and music in their ears, and all I can do is anxiously await the very second I can skateboard again. My skateboard might as well have mugged me in an alleyway and raped me anally with no mercy for all the pain it had caused me the night before. But for some reason, I wanted to ride it now more than ever.

(no subject)

Art Institute
or Artist Institution?

The reality of art school has hit me. I have finished my first week of classes and with this completion has come a revalation that has helped me find bliss with my environment. I am in art school. My education revolves around only one thing. The mission of my school is composed and worked around one tremendous concept of the known world. All the teachers, all the faculty, all the staff, and all figures of authority want one thing and one thing only from me: They want me to make art. If you can find anything, anything in the entire world, wrong with this set-up I've somehow fallen into, I'd like to hear it just so I could tell you you're wrong. Because art school is fucking awesome.

The amount of art I've done in the past week is incredible. I am constantly motivated to do my homework because essentially I am getting credit for designs I love to create and art I love to craft. All the things I did on my own time for so many years before this point is now helping me to earn a greater education and a recognition that can bring me respect. This is a place beyond any twilight zone I have ever experienced. For the first time, the more creative I am, the more I am encouraged. The more provacative I am, the better grade I'll receive. The closer I come to conroversial, the more I wil be pushed to exceed the limit. This place is not a series of high school art classes, taught by people who want you to make art but only to a certain acceptable extent. This place is an institution where there is no minimum or maximum of what art can be; where they've slipped us all crazy pills and shoved us into a room of completely blank canvas walls. They've put us in this remarkably intriguing situation and they've told us that the only way we can fail is to leave the canvas blank.

So I sit at a friend's apartment on any given night after smoking a bowl, drinking some wine, or popping some painkillers I got for practically breaking myself in half, and instead of indulging in a mundane night of sitting around and getting fucked up, within fifteen minutes I can look around and see that everyone is doing art. It is a school night and the five, six, ten, or twelve of us are all doing art in designated parts of Justin's penthouse living room with a gorgeous view of the city to fuel us. We're all contently doing the first fun homework of our lives, inspired by our drugs of choice and motivated by the friends that we can pick and choose from any corner. Parties are different in art school. Perhaps we don't feel the need to go fuck shit up or try something crazy. On school nights our parties are different. We party as hard as necessary to get to a point where we're all sitting down doing our homework.