Oh yeah! Shiney-shiney girls, mad hair and ripped clothes, we grab our boards and skate up Broadway from The On, or The Mab, to City Lights, where we grab a tome by Ginsburg, Kerouac or Ferlinghetti. (or maybe Burroughs, if we’re feeling really tough) Down the streets we glide, past Vesuvius’s, past The TransAmerica, to Brandy Ho’s for a bite of Szechuan delicacies. We hop a bus to Market street, where we skate, skate, skate along glittered granite walks to Van Ness for a bus south to the after hours clubs for beer, and bands, and boys (bike messengers or Jax boys, or Bike messenger-Jax boys [remember Bill Halen? Damn!]) then we hitch a ride to the Haight to hang with Aaron, or Lisa, or Billy, till the sun rises halfway to noon before we skate along the panhandle towards home. And we did it in Hollywood too. What was the name of our team?
Wimp’s Team Falls, yeah, that was it, our name and tag! Young and restless, torn party dresses and smeared lipstick. A bucket of beer at rundown North Beach bars, then skatin’ thru the Broadway tunnel. Speed. All nite magic, and the Financial District is ours, save for the lone saxaphonist, music softened by fog.
In Hollywood, skating down the boulevard from Franklin to Argyle to The Cathay to see… who was it that played? Phast Phreddie, Top Jimmy, or maybe Carlos Guitarlos, Tex and The Horseheads, The Gun Club, or one of the other myriad bands that our friends were in; we pass by a guy, not a punk, a “pimp-type” all in white, track suit, sweats, an Adidas jacket unzipped to there… he sees our colors (Wimps Team, with falling stick figure halfway off the skateboard, X’s for eyes, clutching a bottle of some fun fuel or another) He calls to us, this stranger as we flash by “Hey, can I be on your’ team? I’ll be your’ friend.” We wave then ignore him, till his comment on my green dreadlocks sends us into gales of laughter: “Shoot, if I had hair like that, I’d move me back to Af’ica!”
No Betty’s, you and I, but cool chicks, bright hair, piss and vinegar, we skated with the boys, not as well as, truth be told, but with them none the less; with and without; most often just the two of us, cool, cool, cool, transportation with the wind, flying us, taking us, guiding us and riding us, those nights of movement fueled by art and music and poetry, the literature of ourselves and who we wished to be, preparing us for who we would become, as we skated, skated, skated into our futures.
With Lisa S.