Fiction (or is that friction?) by David Smith
I felt very strongly that this article needed to be written. Being a skater isn't as easy as it used to be. Back in the eighties I could just go downtown, bust my old-school skateboarding styles and be socially accepted. Nowadays you can't skate for five minutes without being hassled by the 5-O or being forcibly removed from private property by rent-a-cops.
Just the other day me and my posse were skating inside the Canada Trust building, and security comes running up to us yelling "you kids can't smoke pot in here!"
It's gotten so you can't go into financial institutions, light up a blunt and grind the CEO's desk anymore. I say to the guard "Yo, step off, G!"
The guard says "you little punk! I oughtta break you in half!"
I say "Back up, b-yatch! This herb is for medicinal purposes. I cut open my head backside-smith- grinding a moving bus." Then my posse started bustin' some Wu-Tang lyrics. A security team came, beat us with their maglights, and threw us out.
So me and my crew are out on the curb, all bloody, and we hear some people yelling, "Blood!
Blood!" Five teenagers wearing Marilyn Manson T-shirts, black capes, fishnet stockings, and
24-hole docs come running up and try to suck our blood. You guessed it: Goths. They were
dancing around us chanting, so we busted them up with our boards. One of them got "Alien
Workshop" imprinted on his forehead and another got my Independent truck stuck up his ass.
They ran off crying and self-mutilating, while yelling "Beelzebub will punish you for this!"
The next day my posse went down to Bay and Wellesley to skate on the sweet waxed curbs in the financial district. The problem you face with this is not just the usual security harassment, but the ever-present risk of gang rape by queer businessmen. That day we came face-to-face with this. A man in an Armani suit and bow tie came up to us and said "hey little boy, want to see what's in my pocket?" Then some of his mutual fund planner and stock adviser chums surrounded us and tried to pants us so they could slip us the steak.
I said "sorry boys, I don't swing that way" and my crew pop-shuvitted their heads.
We then proceeded to BCE Place and acid dropped on some security guards. They then decided once again to infringe on my political right to skate. They kicked us to the curb.
We spent the rest of the day doing what we do best: getting red, bustin' the lyrics of the Wu, beating the shit out of rollerbladers, and skating.
Skate Or Die!
Text by David Smith
Photo by Mike McCourt, courtesy of Real Skate online 'zine
