When tents attack! Anti-hero Australia

Thrasher Magazine, April, 2004 by Julien Stranger

PIZZEY BOWL

We were at Pizzey in the rain. Pete was trying to get us going on a rain dance to get it to stop, but no one was into it. So Pete did a little jig on his own. He sort of stomped around and shook his arms, mumbled a little bit--it looked legit. 45 minutes later we were skating.

APOLLO 420

What is there to write that the pictures don't already tell? How we sat around in Brisbane for days, while it rained and rained and rained? How we climbed into the beer vats during the same storm and the metal surface of the pipe got fogged up and slippery from our breathing?

LIFE = STRUGGLE

Rodriguez has this philosophy about life being equal to struggle, and compares everything to a struggle As in dirty griptape, that would be struggle grip. Or a sandwich without all the stuff to make it good like sprouts or cheese, say it was just bread and hummus, that would be a struggle sandwich This is Matt having a struggle nap.

"WAKE UP, YOU CUNTS!"

That's what some Bogans yelled at us from their cars. It was the middle of the night and we were camped out on landfill that was the point of some harbor; rebar and bricks poked up into my back through the floor of my tent. Then one of the Bogans yells "Get fucked!" and runs and jumps on Max's tent and on Max, then runs off laughing into the night. So there we were in Australia Tent City was in full effect.

TENTS, TENTS

I guess Tent City was a product of circumstances. Frank and Peter brought tents out there and the rest of us picked up on it. Not only was it fun, but the first night we camped out there were all kinds of critters posting up and threatening us. The animals knew we didn't know shit. Also, there were mosquitoes like a motherfucker and later on files like fuck. So after a few camping store 30-dollar rants later we had a cult. An esoteric skate adventure in the making.

AND MORE TENTS

Tent City was like one of those Japanese rooms with all the other rooms opening off of it, but when the doors are closed it just looks like four walls. From the outside all you could see were 12 tents. But inside each one was a different trip. Some people really liked to move in and set up shop. Others threw their shit in and that was it. One tent might have a pow-wow going on, while down Lent row someone might be picking their nose listening to the Minutemen ... or maybe if it were the morning, tripping out on the insane Aussie birds while drinking a warm leftover beer and thinking about the day ahead.

SCORED EARTH

This shitty little picture to the right is actually of John Cardiel bombing one of the gnarliest bills ever, in the snowy mountains of Australia. It kept going and going. After a shitload of hairball turns at maximum sketchiness, I laid it out oft a left-hand turn that seemed like the unknown. JC, in typical unpredictable style, rode a brand new set of Spitfires all the way down to the bearings after maybe half an hour of bombing a ridiculously steep and unknown twisting-and-turning, rough-then-smooth, and just stupid hill. It was the wide steep right hand turn, facing the hillside (goofy), that those wheels got down to the hearings, hit metal and kept sliding. It shot off pebbles and sparks in an arching spray. JC, like the cat he is, surfed those bearings into the hillside Everyone else was in cars either behind or way in front. We regrouped and tripped out on how hot you can get a wheel. They held up.

THAT'A WRAP

These pictures are only a small slice of our trip. But I think they convey the feel of it and the reason for it. The pictures can't translate how hard Crank Yankers made us laugh, though. We got stuck talking like the retard for two days. "Hey lady!" "Yeah!" And they can't show you how mad we got Buddy, or the crisp clear ocean we called a shower. But it's a start. All those tangible memories are my own wet shoes and mosquitoes. Now it's your turn.