Coming to America: America is a dandy place. Just ask any American

Thrasher Magazine, Jan, 2003 by Scott Pommier

Land of the free and so forth. But you don't have to be a skateboarder getting kicked out of an empty parking lot to see that freedom is a relative term. The truth is, as an outsider, a foreigner looking in, it's sometimes hard to understand why there are so many darn rules in a place that seemingly prides itself on the apparently self-evident right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

Show me another part of the world where you can get a jaywalking ticket on a green light just because the orange hand is flashing and I'll show you a country that doesn't make much of a production about being a 'free society.' Still, there is something to be said for 24-hour grocery stores, drive-through (or drive-thru rather) convenience stores, and Super Big Gulps. This is an account of a group of foreigners and their two-week journey from mini-mall hell to Crackton.

I joined the group in San Diego the day after the industry orgy known as the ASR. The crew consisted of JB Gillet, JJ Rousseau, Lucas Puig, Vincent Bressol, Cale Nuske, Jan Kliewer, team manager Brett Margaritis, and his friend Corbin. The posse came complete with those rolling bags that have become all the rage and stacks of boards. Somehow the whole mess fit into a huge white Ford Econovan, which I dubbed the Tupac-mobile since the musical selection was limited to tracks from France's patron saint of gangsta rap, Tupac Shakur.

Though I managed to miss the skateboard party, the streets were still festive (read: filled with drunk people) since there was one of those fake Mardi Gras deals going on. In America it seems that the exposing of one's bosoms is a social taboo--it is not to be encouraged at public beaches, for example.

NOW, I'M NOT REALLY GIVNE TO conspiracy theories, but I'm forced to wonder if this night not be a financial rather than a moral concern. You see, if American males can see topless women at the beach, then they might be less inclined to shell out the $19.95 for "College Girls Gone Wild" and they might not visit their local strip club. There's a reason there're no Hooter's restaurants in the south of France. Men won't buy the cow if they get the nipples for free. And so there are all these little street festivals. The guys selling the beads make money, the bars selling the booze make money, and the people filming all the young ladies flashing their titties edit videos together and they make money too. It's sweet, glorious capitalism.

We all went out for dinner at one of those great places that serves fried cheese sticks. We discussed tip etiquette and how it varies from culture to culture. Brett and JB shared stories of waiters chasing them down for leaving inadequate gratuity. After supper (or dinner if you prefer) we returned back to the hotel. The hotel was right beside one of the venues for Street Scene (the fake Mardi Gras.) It just so happened that the parking lot had a perfect view of the stage where Ja Rule was playing, but the attendants weren't about to tolerate a bunch of freeloading gawkers using their place of business as an opera box. Everyone was whisked away, much to the disappointment of the French, who's appetite for all things hip-hop is incalculable, Not to be deterred, some of the guys found the way up to the roof, which provided more or less the same view and not to mention a great angle for a laser-pointer attack. Cale managed to laser-pointer Mr Rule's chest for almost 30 seconds. The caper was broadcast on the jum -botron-sized screen on stage; it really was quite a coup.

I opted for the less exciting yet equally fulfilling option of watching Entertainment Tonight and paid advertisements for a product called Redi-Strip. Three easy payments! The rest smoked weed covertly in their rooms. I gather that they'd tried smoking weed overtly the night before and had been ejected out of a hotel. C'est la vie.

The next day we drove around and got kicked out of some spots. The heat wasn't conducive to shredding so we headed north. We stopped in at Burnett's, and I dropped off photos while the crew bombed the hill, played S-K-A-T-E and kicked the soccer ball, or football, if you will, around. We then botched some incredibly simple directions to what might have been a really good Mexican restaurant. Instead we ate at a really, really bad Mexican restaurant. Then we drove north as we debated the pros and cons of Hollywood vs. Huntington. We settled on Hollywood and checked into the Hollywood Celebrity Hotel, which was unfortunately void of celebrities.

Our stay in Hollywood was for the most part quite unproductive. The days were filled with food stops, calling card stops, and a whole lotta' head-office visitation. My favourite of which was Prime, the woodshop that produces boards for Wet Willy and Flameboy among others. There we met three delightful older gentlemen, all brothers, who run the operation. The showroom was filled with long-since out-of-date breakfast nooks and '50s diner-style furniture. As we were leaving the trio wished us good luck with our "performances." We followed that up with a stop at Dwindie, only to discover that they don't house any skateboards there at all, but as a consolation prize we did catch a glimpse of the notorious Steve Rocco out front with a putter working on his short game. During the next couple of days we also managed to work in a visit to the Girl family warehouse and seemingly endless number of skateshop product swap sessions, all with due lollygagging.