The same faces; Anthony, Brad, Baldwin, Adam, Ryan, Christian, O'Conner, Mikey, Black Jon, Lentini, Sprite, myself, and plenty of others I'm forgetting, standing up front, pressed against the stage, yelling every word, every single time. I had just gotten into the Long Island Hardcore scene after stealing a cassette tape copy of Start Today from my friend Joe's older brother Tom. A few weeks later, Tom reluctantly brought Joe and I to our first show, Mind Over Matter and Silent Majority at the Medford VFW Hall. That night helped shape what the rest of my teenage years would become. It was all downhill from there. We rarely ever missed a Silent Majority show. We would drive to skatespots all over Long Island, in my sweet station wagon, having Life Of A Spectator sing-alongs the entire way. I remember the man crush we all had on Tommy. We pranked called him at home...and at work...and prank internetted him. We assaulted him outside of shows with water guns and water balloons. We tried to tie his shoe laces together while he jumped around on stage. I think it's time for another reunion...
Coming soon: Silent Majority at the Medford VFW circa 94 or 95.
The first practice of the season didn't go so well. I sat down on my couch at 4pm, ready to take in the Jets game, some highlight shows, and then watch the Giants lock up home-field advantage. Eight hours of Football, no bathroom breaks. I thought fatigue or the need to urinate would be the biggest obstacle to overcome, I quickly found out there was a much bigger obstacle. The New York Jets. I remember parts of the first quarter...and then I remember waking up just before kickoff of the Giants game. If Sunday had been the actual Superbowl of Lazy...I wouldn't have made it through the first hour. Luckily, the Jets will not be playing on January 1st...or anytime there after.
This morning we practiced outside in the elements, you never know what gameday may bring...
About a month ago I received an email from Gringo Entertainment Correspondent Frankie Baez encouraging me to try out for the ESPN Ultimate Couch Potato Competition, a contest won by the person who can do absolutely nothing longer than anyone else. I got a call Friday morning just before I had a wisdom tooth yanked out (thank god for pain killers) inviting me to take on the reigning champion. I will be competing against three other idiots, including last years champ who watched 29 consecutive hours of sports, at 11am on New Years Day.
I was originally torn between the following options: 1. Ordering ridiculous amounts of food until I vomit. 2. Getting trashed and eventually disqualified for something stupid. 3. Getting up and leaving for no reason...with-in the first five minutes.
Then I thought of one of my all-time favorite quotes...
"The quality of a person's life is in direct proportion to their commitment to excellence, regardless of their chosen field of endeavor. " - Vince Lombardi
Fuck it, I'm going for the win. If you don't see any posts from me in the near future it is because I am busy training.
ESPN Zone, New Years Day, 11am til I piss my pants, be there.
Here is the brilliant answer that got me an invitation to the Final Four:
Do you think the inventor of the yellow first down line should be awarded the Nobel Prize for physics?
That stupid yellow line was invented for people who don't understand football. It is the equivalent of that crazy glowing hockey puck with the trail following it that lasted all of 10 minutes. If I see one more play that comes up a half yard short of a first down and hear one more idiot yell "Come on! Couldn't he see the yellow line!!!!!" I might completely lose it. Seriously though, as much as you probably want to, I suggest not choosing me. It won't even be a contest. If you think Tiger is dominant it is because you haven't challenged me to a competition that involves sports and food yet. A blowout may seriously hurt your ratings....pick someone else.
I was deleting pictures from my phone today when I came upon this beauty, I didn't have it in me to hit the delete button. Then I came home to this work of art by Mr. Contrast. I can't take credit for this Long Beach Boulevard sidewalk masterpiece, but I am proud to have captured it via Blackberry. Cock and Balling never gets old. Here are my two favorite cock and ball stories of recent memory...
1. West End, Long Beach, NY: The residents of 61 Tennessee make the fatal mistake of leaving their front door unlocked. Mr. Contrast shows up to an unlocked empty apartment and wanders around for a few seconds. Then he goes into a coma of immaturity as he begins to draw cock and ball after cock and ball onto post-it notes and plaster the walls of the unsuspecting victims. When he snaps out of it he isn't sure how he had done it or how long it had taken him, but 61 Tennessee had hundreds of cock and ball post-its covering its walls and ceilings. Gnarly.
2. Costa Rica, sometime after midnight: I sit out the night due to injuring my foot. Contrast and STB make the usual trek to the bar formerly known as Blew Dog's. On the walk home they come upon a bonfire, not unusual. They sit down and begin talking to some girl. I won't get into how stupid she is, but trust me, she defines stupid. While being annoyed by Miss Stupid, STB sculpts a giant SPURTING cock and balls out of sand, stands up...admires his work...and vanishes.
In September you were introduced to Frankie Baez when he reported his experience with guido Yankee fans at Shea Stadium, which I can not wait to see destroyed by a wrecking ball....because it doesn't have dipping dots. Frankie is now reporting to us from the F Train, maybe we should hire him full-time.
Overheard on the F Train: "Good morning ladies and gentleman. I am homeless and need your help. If anybody can spare some change I would greatly appreciate it. I also accept money from asians, if that's humanly possible."
Anyone want to fund a documentary film about NYC bums?
Here are some of the many reasons why my favorite video part of all time is not from any of my favorite videos or by any of my favorite skaters. Birdhouse did two things no one else had the balls to do when they filmed The End. They handed the creative freedom over to the actual skaters and they dropped the money for some real production quality. They went into this project with a $100,000 budget, huge at the time for a skate video. Heath and Jeremy managed to double that. They routinely called the director at 2 am, woke him up, and annoyed the shit out of him until he showed up at some random spot. This wasn't just one guy they were dragging out of bed, it was a small film crew. Here is a list of the other reasons why this is my favorite video part of all time...
1. They filmed at a gas station...where there was nothing to skate.
2. They filmed at a Blockbuster...where there was nothing to skate.
3. They filmed at other locations...where there was nothing to skate. 4. They filmed the entire part in brand new Armani suits. 5. They lit themselves on fire in those suits. 6. They blew up a shed 7. They blew up a van. 8. They skated off the end of a pier...in brand new Armani suits...on fire.
Rumor has it that after filming this they were never the same. In his book, Tony Hawk talks about how they would continue to light themselves on fire and blow shit up for months after this. Awesome.
"200 years of American technology has unwittingly created a massive cement playground. It took the minds of 12-year-olds to realize it's potential."
I began skateboarding sometime during 1986, the golden age of the skateboard video. Being 7-years-old, I had no idea what I was witnessing at the time. Now that I think about it, I don’t think much of the older generation realized it either. I was exposed to Bones Brigade Video II: Future Primitive shortly after Tony from BMX Country sold me my first pro-model, a Powell Peralta Steve Caballero deck, Independent trucks and Rat Bones wheels. I will never forget that setup (one day it will be tattooed on me). Future Primitive and The Search For Animal Chin turned out to be huge influences on me.
When we first started skating, my cousin Chris and I were on our own. There was no one around to show us the ropes; we had to figure it out for ourselves. Picture a caveman being placed on a basketball court and handed a ball. We must have looked like idiots. Luckily, Stacy Peralta bailed us out. The first few Bones Brigade videos taught me what skateboarding was about, and I couldn’t be more grateful, because what was to come a few years later was a load of shit.
Bones Brigade Video 6: Ban This is one of my favorite videos of all time and it marked the end of a skateboard era. Skateboarding fell apart in the early 90’s. The wheels got smaller, the tricks got shitty and the pants got fucking huge. I remember showing up to Woodward Skate Camp one year, 91 or 92, and being referred to as the “old school” kids. We were outcasts. Two friends I had made the year before, Scott Arnibold and Anthony Furlong, hooked me up with a “new school” setup. I liked my old board and my favorite trick was a boneless, but I was young and I wanted to fit in. I wasted the entire week trying to learn pressure flips and I’m pretty sure I never even landed one. I still don’t get that trick, fucking pointless.
Skateboarding really went downhill at that point and so did the videos. I still don’t think there are many videos that compare to the early Bones Brigade videos, maybe none at all. Sure there are plenty of videos out there with incredible skating, and don’t get me wrong, I watch them, but there is something special about those first six Bones Brigade videos. They captured something that few videos since have been able to do. They captured what skateboarding is really about...having fun with your friends.
“I think it is about time that we had playoffs in college football. I’m fed up with these computer rankings and this and that and the other. Get eight teams — the top eight teams right at the end. You got a playoff. Decide on a national champion.” - Barack Obama
By the time this aired at halftime during Monday Night Football, while I was losing my weekly football pool on the last game of the week to a girl (granted Sarah knows more about football than most dudes I know) the election was already decided. But I believe, if it had been a closer race, this interview pushes Obama into office.
That is Kevin Connolly in this weeks episode of Entourage. For those of you unaware, that is not an Oakland Raiders t-shirt he is wearing. He is representing our alma mater, the Patchogue-Medford Raiders. Awesome.
Everything about that city sucks. I miss watching Eagles games at Nice Guy Eddie's with Andy and Bushy. Watching them sing that stupid touchdown song. They were always pretty quiet by the fourth quarter. The World Series is going to end the same way. Philly Sucks!
This is what happens when David Akers forgets he is a kicker.
Along our journey we also found these sweet beachside Cabanas. If anyone needs a place to crash for a while, we are pretty sure no one will bother you here until the beaches reopen next summer. Water, electric and beach access are even included in your rent. Sprite already called shotgun on #27.
Sprite and I finished up our lunch at the Beach Cafe and headed bayside to check out the mini-ramp at the Long Beach Skatepark. Leaving the skatepark we ran into my landlord, Chris, who told us about a better park in Lido Beach, "near the Mushroom Park." We pedaled around aimlessly for a while, then decided to go check it out. Four miles later we were in Mushroom Park, but there was no sign of a skatepark. Luckily, due to advances in technology, we did what Tony, Steve, Mike, Lance and Tommy couldn't, we hit up Google via iPhone and Blackberry. We found directions to the park here, they read as follows...
Go to Long Beach, make a left, go to Lido Beach, it's on your right.
Thanks for the help. We eventually stumbled upon the park, which got us pretty psyched. Only problem was, we made this excursion sans skateboards. That wasn't going to stop Sprite...
Frankie Fussa, youngest member of the Board Sports Crew and ex-frontman of Ultra High Frequency, has a new band. This video pretty much sums up their brilliance. Check them out here.
I made my triumphant return to the poker world tonight, after a 1 year hiatus, by taking 2nd and 1st place money in consecutive no-limit tournaments at a nice little home game overlooking the East River. But due to Poker Blogs being all too common and all too fucking boring, this is the first and last time I will ever write about poker.
As I was trying to balance my attention between the cards in front of me and the Vice Presidential Debate playing on the TV across the room, I overheard this beauty come out of the mouth of Sarah Palin, "John McCain has already tapped me."
I almost lost it when I stumbled upon this video on YouTube. This is the first park I ever skated. My Dad or my Aunt and Uncle used to bring my cousin Chris and I here every weekend. They eventually added a sick wave ramp and a huge bowl with some gnarly corners. The dude on the rollerskates (rollerblades weren't around yet) was there every time. We were about 10 back then, and yes, I used to wear a pink helmet.
A few weeks ago I finally got around to picking up Alan Weisbecker's In Search of Captain Zero. I was hooked immediately, the way a good book always gets you, and was finished in a little over a week. I immediately set out to find his follow up book, Can't You Get Along With Anyone?, in which Weisbecker picks up where he left off in Captain Zero and details the rest of his time spent in Central America. I struck out at two major booksellers in Midtown and resigned to the fact that I would have to order the book. I decided that while I was waiting for it to arrive, I would try giving his first book a read, Cosmic Banditos. I hadn't considered this originally because I have rarely been able to get through the first chapter of a work of fiction. It's just not my thing, I'll take boring ass real life stories over fiction nearly every time. With that said, in one day I just about finished reading Cosmic Banditos. I was considering writing a review of the book when I was finished, but there really is no need to wait...
Alan Weisbecker was on some serious shit when he wrote Cosmic Banditos.
March 2008; Liberia, Costa Rica. We landed in Liberia, one year later, down a man. OB, now the proud father of little Brooklyn O’Brien, couldn’t make the trip. Congratulations brother.
We opted to forego the rental truck this time around in favor of a cab service. It turned out to be a good move. We climbed into the back of our van and set out for Nosara. Our driver was kind of enough to stop multiple times for us to pick up sixers of Imperial, at one point we even found tall-boys. Having a local Tico behind the wheel shaved about thirty minutes off of our trip. We were happy to find the road to Nosara still remained unpaved.
We arrived at the Harbor Reef and headed straight to the bar. One of our waitress friends was working and was ecstatic to see us. She had kept in touch briefly through email but we had not spoken to her in quite some time. She informed us that her friend, the other waitress we had spent a lot of time with, had moved to San Jose to finish her degree. Good for her.
While at the bar, we overheard a conversation in which the owner’s son was describing our favorite spot in Nosara. It went something like this…
“Blew Dog’s used to be the place to go. Now it’s called Kaya Sol and some yoga dude plays the bongos all night.”
We headed off to our room to unload our shit and immediately noticed a difference. Our room had satellite TV and wireless internet. Nosara was changing.
We woke up the next morning and walked across the street, down the trail, past the graveyard and onto Playa Guiones. The same beach that was deserted the year before was now littered with people. Still vacant compared to Long Island beach standards, but it was apparent that word of Nosara had leaked out to more than just the surf community.
After dinner we decided to go check out Blew Dog’s for ourselves. Sure enough, the conversation we had overheard was true. The crowd was different. There was no smoking allowed inside, despite the fact that there were no walls. Our favorite shot, Man’s Club*, was MIA. A dude playing the bongos certainly had replaced the DJ; in fact, it was our waitress friend’s husband. The badass American fisherman we had met a year earlier was now rocking a weird Mohawk and banging away on his fucking bongos.
Luckily, Wille was still there. We said our hellos and he pretended to remember who we were. We eventually found out that he actually had no idea, until his friend showed up and reminded him that we were the idiots who pissed on her quad 12 months ago. I am pretty sure he loves us for that. A friend of hers or not, everyone must have wanted to piss on her quad at one time or another.
Our late-night bonfire had a strangely different twist to it this time around. Yoga had taken over the beach after sunset. During one nights trek from Blew Dog's down the beach to the Harbor Reef, we stumbled upon one hell of a bonfire. Sprite, walking pretty far ahead of STB and myself, had decided to join the party. As we began to realize what was transpiring in front of us, we almost pissed our pants. There was Sprite, standing around the fire sticking out like an Asian on a Basketball team. Sprite, the Yao Ming of that scene, was the only one with any type of clothing on. Welcome to Yogatown.
In Sprite’s words the rest of the trip went something like this; Surf, Eat, Nap, Bodysurf, Ring Game, Eat, Nap, Surf, Sunset Beers, Eat, Rum, Bonfire Beers, Bed.
Nosara is changing. Yoga is quickly taking over. Larger buildings are under construction. Prices are skyrocketing. The beach is getting dirty. The locals** are becoming douche bags. And who knows what will happen if that road gets paved.
The second time around was our Made, a great movie no doubt, but don't try to compare it to Swingers. It is very likely that in 2007, we caught Playa Guiones in her prime.
* Morgan and the 17-year-olds introduced us to Man’s Club at Blew Dog’s in 2007. Take a bottle of Tequila, pour some out (preferably into your mouth) and fill the remaining space in the bottle with habanero peppers. Then pour shots for your friends (or unsuspecting Americans at a bar in Central America), keep a straight face, and shoot them. Welcome to the Man’s Club. Sprite has a great story about his attempt to make Man’s Club upon our return from Costa Rica. Maybe he will post it on his blog, http://beautifullcontrast.blogspot.com.
** By locals I do not at all mean Ticos, Ticas or Costa Ricans. I am referring to the Americans and Europeans who have lived there for 2 months off of Mommy and Daddy’s money and somehow feel that it is their land.
I found these two beauties, SHIT IS COMING! and MITZVAH TANK, on the corner of 43rd and Madison today. One was parked Smart Car style and the other blocking the entire intersection.
So which is it? Moshiach Is Coming Now or Shit Is Coming? I tend to believe the guy sporting the environmentally friendly shopping cart over the guy with the weird little hat driving a global warming machine. Go Green because SHIT IS COMING!
With the final days of Shea Stadium upon us, I received this message via Blackberry Messenger a few days ago.
Frankie B: Overheard at Shea: 2 Huge Men. Guy 1 - "You know one thing I like better about Yankee Stadium than this fucking piece of shit?" Guy 2 - "What?" Guy 1 - "Yankee Stadium has fucking dipping dots." Guy 2 - "Yeah bro, you're right."
All the Sketch Comedy Guido Youtube videos in the world will never compare to the real thing.
March 2007; New York City. The car service would be picking up Sprite, OB and myself at good old 79 Clinton and bringing us to Newark International Airport where we would meet up with Steve STB and board our Continental Airlines flight to Liberia, Costa Rica. With the car picking us up at 5:30 am, I figured it might be a good idea to stay sober that night. I snapped out of my rum coma around 5:45am when Sprite called to tell me I was late, fucking Epstein’s. I abandoned my spot in line among the rest of the Lower East Side degenerates waiting for their McDonald’s breakfast sandwiches. I hadn’t packed yet, and would later find out I never really did.
At some point, en route to Central America, breakfast was served. Knocked out with the aid of some sleeping pills, Sprite was somehow able to respond to the flight attendant asking him if he would like a shitty banana and some Cheerios. He responded all right, by taking the tray and dumping the entire thing directly into the seat pouch in front of him. I don’t think he ever woke up.
We arrived in Liberia, picked up our rental truck and headed down the Guanacaste Peninsula towards our destination. We were barely on the road when we ran into the only person we would meet in Costa Rica who didn’t speak a lick of English. After a long conversation about speeding, surfboards, California and underwear (at least that’s what I understood through my limited espanol), we handed Costa Rica’s Finest twenty dollars along with an NYPD PBA card and went on our way. We hit the dirt road headed to Nosara just as the sun was setting.
I have no idea how long we were on that road, but it felt like forever. As we barreled down the narrow strip of dirt, it seemed to close in on us with every passing second. Bridges were no longer as wide as our trucks wheelbase. It began to feel like we were nowhere near, nor headed towards, the Pacific Ocean. We drove deeper and deeper into the jungle and further away from civilization.
We finally arrived in Nosara, where it still felt as if we were miles inland, with no trace of the ocean other than a few surfboards lying around. We were exhausted, but decided we should have a celebratory dinner after our successful jungle excursion. Sprite, STB and I sat down at a table at the Harbor Reef, where we would be staying for the next week. As we chatted up our waitresses, who quickly became our best friends in Nosara, we turned to see OB strutting out from our room, across the pool area towards our table. Shiny silver track pants (think “Mo’ Money, Mo’ Problems” video), maroon Fred Perry sweater vest and a walk that could only be from New Jersey. The three of us were equally unsuccessful in hiding our amusement as Johnny Drama took a seat at our table, among three giggling idiots.
“Am I missing something?”
“Yeah, your sleeves,” STB somehow managed to respond through the giggling, which quickly erupted into a deafening laughter.
OB took off his sweater vest to reveal his black wife beater. You can take the kid out of the city….
After laughing at OB’s outfit the night before, I began sorting through the useless items I had packed for myself. Three pairs of jeans, a hoodie, a jacket, one flip-flop, every pair of shorts I have ever owned but only 3 t-shirts, no socks, no toiletries and a digital camera with a dead battery and no charger. I also managed to travel to Central America without much cash. I found out later in the week just how hard it is to get cash out of a Costa Rican bank…impossible.
I did somehow manage to pack the important stuff. Video camera, lenses, filters, batteries, charger, microphone, rain cover, tripod and two-dozen Mini DV tapes.
We headed down the narrow jungle trail that opened up into a small cemetery overlooking Playa Guiones. The beach was empty; it’s only inhabitants being a couple of dogs. Everyone else was in the water. I grabbed a spot at the waters edge, ankle deep, and setup shop. I got a little over an hour of film and headed back to The Reef for breakfast.
As we walked back through the winding maze-like walkways of The Harbor Reef we heard a familiar voice come from the bar area.
“Staaaaaave!”
Two of our friends, Scooter and CF, had left for Costa Rica a few days earlier. Flying into San Jose, they were headed south to visit some friends in Mal Pais. We had let them know where we would be staying, but with no form of contact we weren’t sure they would make the 6-hour trip up north. There they were, sitting at the Harbor Reef bar. We were happy to have our friends crash with us, squeezing 6 dudes into 4 beds. CF was definitely the dirtiest of the crew, sleeping in a bed covered in…dirt.
As if your friends finding you in a remote town on the Pacific Coast of Central America isn’t enough, try running into two other friends you had no idea would be there. That’s what happened to STB. Rodney and Mark both trained with STB at his gym, Rodney an NFL tight end who played for the Eagles, Bills and Patriots. You wouldn’t believe that a laidback, longhaired surfer like Rodney could play football, but according to STB he could flip the switch whenever he needed to. Having him around proved dangerous as Sprite and I somehow thought we were on a football field while walking down the beach at 3am. Bruised, possibly broken ribs were the result.
Now that we were 8 deep and growing fast, it seemed like the nightlife in Nosara was growing with us. When we first arrived, we noticed the bars closed at 1o and everyone was up at dawn to get the early swell. By the time we left a week later, we were closing out our favorite bar, Blew Dog's, at 2am and then hitting the beach for a bonfire and beers with half of the town.
There were the young kids from Virginia. Only 17 years old but they could hang. Their parents grounded them one night.
There were the Harbor Reef waitresses who we spent close to 24 hours a day with.
There was a girl I met at…ah fuck, I hate that memory.
There was Willie from Blew Dog's, a hardcore kid from Tampa whose name I forget and a Blonde girl on a quad from Sweden or Switzerland or some shit. At one point, she blamed one of us for pissing on her quad. She chased Sprite a mile down the beach and cracked a zinger about his receding hairline that I wish I could remember. I have no idea why she thought we pissed on her quad. Wait, it was probably because we pissed on her quad.
One of the most interesting dudes we met in Nosara was Nick. Nick had recently graduated high school and was spending a year traveling, alone, before he went off to college. He had an around the world plane ticket and had already been to South Africa, Indonesia, Australia and New Zealand, among other places. Our last night out in Nosara, Nick threw a party at Blew Dog's; his family had come down from Florida to see him. We packed everyone into our truck that night, Nick and his sister’s friend Britney, Morgan and the Virginia kids, Willie, the waitresses from the Harbor Reef. I don’t know how we all fit, but we headed to the grimy, hooker-laden, discotheque 20 minutes outside of town. Unfortunately, we found out after we arrived back in New York, Nick’s house had been robbed that night, losing all kinds of shit including pictures from his trip and his passport.
We spent the next day taking it easy, packing up our shit and saying our goodbyes. We weren’t really ready to leave, and a few people weren’t ready to see us leave yet. One of us may have even seriously considered returning in the very near future…as in a week later.
I had planned on filming a few hours a day and returning home with upwards of 10 hours of raw footage. The camera never left the Harbor Reef after that first morning.
I am the king of starting things and never following through, as you can see from this blog. I think it all started with College, which I still haven't finished.
Outside the local grocery I was stopped for skating on the sidewalk. The man wants to know when my type is going to learn our lesson. Skating away I know the answer to his question is never. - C.R. Stecyk III
