Hawaiian reign: Darkstar goes coconuts

Thrasher Magazine, July, 2004 by Mike Stanfield

I COULD ONLY IMAGINE staying in Hawaii during Spring Break, renting two houses that were inches away from a beach, overflowing with single Hawaiian girls on the island of Oahu. These were the only things that were circulating over and over in my mind as I set up this trip. I mean, I knew that skateboarding had to be involved, but unaware to Darkstar, this was my personal vacation and I booked this trip for the simple facts that: One, I have never been to Hawaii, and two, as the new team manager, with a full travel budget, I figured there was no better way to see Hawaii than for free.

IN NO TIME WE'RE FYING HIGH above the dirty Los Angeles ocean, where I drifted in and out of sleep. My mid-flight delusions contained young creatures of the female gender flocking to us, wearing pink bikinis that resembled tooth floss. They would relinquish to us their sweet innocence like an ancient Hawaiian tradition of sacrificing their bodies to the volcano. I awake when we skid to a seatbelt-constricting stop. While sitting in the terminal waiting to dock, I glanced outside, just as beads of rain begin to tap at my oval airplane window, stressing me out, that maybe our--I mean, my--amazing vacation might get rained out. "Hold up; am I still dreaming?"

Departing Hawaii International, we split the members of the Darkstar team into each house, each with its own Enterprise mini-van. Both houses were furnished with complete kitchen, bathroom, and sketchy beds. As soon as my skin made contact with the sheets I got an itch all over my body like I had been stung by every insect within a six-mile radius.

ALMOST INSTANTLY each house earned its reputation as rightfully described below:

THE NUMERO UNO HOUSE was the no-bullshit house. Morning came and they were ready to skate before we even went to bed. Residing in this house were the following:

Gailea Momolu, who had no service on his cellular, so his days were spent destroying the infamous red rail, and nights in his room talking up a storm to someone in Oh Canada.

Mr Chet Thomas, who had discarded the title of Bossman for one of his only recent trips where he could generally be 100-percent skateboarder and not be bothered by such tasks as driving drunks home from the bar or managing the details.

Our Thrasher photo guy was Neggy Nick Scurich, who attended to the beautiful medium format Polaroids and slight shit talking, then anti-shit talking. Over all Scurich is a strict, up-to-date skate business guy who has a low tolerance for "shitty" tricks. Basically, if he knows you can do better, he will request it.

Lastly was Paul Machnau, who single-handedly argued with every security guard in all of Oahu and was always on point with where we were going, skating, or what we were doing. He also bad serious dramatic issues with my signature Filmbot buttcrack--and as for his skating, need I say anything?

Now we retire to our second house where we stay up late watching MTV, ironing oversized pants, requesting "mandatory" white shirts, and cooking breakfast while everyone else sits in the car waiting to leave. This earned us the name of the Lagger House, Lateness was our skill and we were masters at it. It went as far as a rider laying in his bed in boxers saying, "Dude, I'm ready to go; I'm just waiting for him," as he points to a guy walking out the door.

MEMBERS OF THE LAGGER HOUSE were:

Ryan Kenreich, the most qualified member to be aptly singing "PIMP" Unfortunately for your little dirty minds I cannot disclose any information pertaining to this subject. No matter where we were driving he always had some little story about his buddy Jack, could not ride in the van without music playing non-stop, and was constantly grooming himself.

Mike Hastie took the gnarliest reverse caterpillar slam known to my camera's fish. Assumably, we wrote him off as injured for the rest of the trip; within the next day he surprises everyone and has no problems skating better than ever. Canadians confuse me. Hastie complained little and skated lots, but lied about how he wasn't going to drink, and he sucks at playing pool!

Not really knowing Chris Dobstaff, he came off to me as a funny guy. For example, he'd be eight bites deep with someone else's food, then ask with a mumbling mouth full, "Can I have some?" And if Chris was preparing his own snack, he'd start cooking just as we were packing the car to leave. So when I questioned him on why he would do such a thing, be resorted to his coined phrase for anyone who disagreed with him: "Why you catching feelings?"

Windsor James, our miniature Chris Rock, was non-stop pure entertainment. The smallest and youngest on Darkstar, this kid wears shirts the size of bed sheets and is constantly yammering on his phone and running business like he was a contestant on The Apprentice. He personalized everything he owned, and I especially enjoyed his grip tape graphics with various ways to write "asshole" in a sentence.

Finally there was me, the lackey film herd, and basically the only responsible dude in the Lagger household, which isn't saying that much. Most of my time at home was spent on the couch, waiting for the Britney Spears "Toxic" video, and, well, that's about it. This was my first real trip being the team manager with all the Darkstar guys, and the entire team took pleasure in really giving me hell by said things above.