They took our belts. And anything else you could hang yourself with.
This was the era of xxxl skate culture. Of a size forty waistline. A size forty when you were actually a size thirty. Will and I both had to hook a finger on a single belt loop for hours. Having your pants down was bad news.
————————————————————-
Greg had bought a giant slingshot from an Army/Navy store. Its pocket large enough to fit a small boulder. That was if you wanted to smash a hole in a building. Or kill something.
For us, it was the perfect diameter for a water balloon. One that could, in no way, inflict harm. Rather, a perfect projectile that would soak the hell out of someone. A perfectly round cell of water that, upon impact, would simply piss off the victim.
The five of us loaded up in his Tercel. With the slingshot dormant on the floor board we drove through town. High noon. Mid summer. The heat radiating off asphalt, its waving illusion obscuring everything spread throughout the city.
We found a driving range. Adjacent to a ditch. Shadowed by oaks. A perfect place to crouch in the shade. A perfect hiding spot to lob our rubber mortars over a fence. To connect to those unsuspecting golfers with their white, tucked in polos and red, plaid slacks.
—————————————————————-
Greg had spent some time in the army. He knew how to handle weapons. But most importantly, he offered finesse with timing. Sean loaded the round. Will pulled back on the sling and let go on Greg’s command.
“Fire!”
Load.
Repeat.

Posted as lookout, I watched each balloon clear fence, clear netting, and explode in succession at the feet of two men.
It could have only been better had our mortar connected to its target.
————————————————————–
White sand in Florida can burn. Radiated from the summer sun, it sticks to your skin and fills every pore with fire. We laid partially on the cement, our torsos bent over the edge of the driveway. From the waist up we cooked in the sand.
Between the army of police officers there was only two sets of handcuffs to go around. Will and I never had the honor of wearing those. That steel banging our wrists, wanting so badly to crush every single carpal.
Instead, we got industrial strength zip ties. Pulled taught. Each hand pinched by plastic. Within minutes our skin bled.
We laid face down in the sand waiting for a convoy of paddy wagons to haul us away. This was more serious than we thought. Our crime, essentially an act of terrorism.
—————————————————————
We were the youngest of the group. Will and I. Both seventeen. Both our Mothers were single. Both working to support delinquent children.
In nervous anticipation, we waited for them to post our bail.
To save us.

To subdue boredom, we imitated scenes from movies. Told jokes. Plotted convoluted methods of escape until we fell out, collapsing onto the floor we so dreaded to make contact with.
—————————————————————
We woke to shuffling outside our cell. The fumbling of keys. The sliding of metal locks. And the door opened. Three men, rough, much older than us, were escorted into our space. Each wearing a one-piece, bright orange, prison uniform. They filed in and stood elbow to elbow against the opposing wall. And as the officer exited, we were left to stare at each other: head on, vis-a-vis.
The lights beating down on the lot as if to crack silence.

For what seemed like an hour, there was no exchange of words. There was no movement. Just uncomfortable nothing.
I noticed one of the inmates had tattoos. The jailhouse stereotype fulfilled. As far as I knew, I was well on my way to becoming this.

“What are you guys in for?”

Subliminally, Will and I shared the answer. We could lie? But we didn’t, hoping that the idea of our crime crushed any fore-thunk attempt at a good ol’ jailhouse beat in.

“Assault with a deadly missile” we answered in tandem.

“Damn.” One inmate responded.
“That’s some serious shit.”

I didn’t break a smile in relief. That would have been a bad move.
Instead, I stood stolid. My posture as stiff as a board. My chest bloated in superficial pride.
We were now part of it all, the mechanism chewing up and churning out criminals.
In that tiny cell, jammed five deep, I revelled in our escape from harm.
But even more so, I revelled in our initiation to thug-dom.

The crowd at the "Sound of the City" premier

At the premier you said the sort of video you enjoyed and wanted to make is something that you put in before riding. Growing up what were the videos that you were watching?

Yeah if it gets people excited to go out and ride and explore their surroundings then that’s great. That’s definitely how videos that i always watched effected me. For bmx videos Standard “Domination” was a big one for me. The music and the riding formed a great vibe in that video, and I especially liked all the lines in Moliterno’s and Bobby Fisher’s parts. A lot of my friends were skateboarders growing up so I was heavy into skate videos also. Some big skate videos for me were Zoo York “mixtape” and the EST (Eastern Standard Time) video series.

The EST series was awesome because the issues would have sections for each major east coast city, Boston, NYC, Philly, DC etc. That was cool because people really repped their cities and you would get a good look into the individual scenes going on in them. You would see the guys that were really out there skating and putting in work and not just the common guys you saw in magazines. Tons of spot oriented skating and night footage in those would get me hyped to go ride.

This is assuredly going on instagram.

Did they effect your editing and filming style?

I don’t consider myself to be a “filmer” or “editor” anything like that. I kinda just figured out how to make the footage look decent and the rider handles the rest, anyone can do it. The rider is always the most important part of the equation. One thing that did influence me though was seeing a lot of night footage in those EST videos. Riding at night is the best, it’s just a completely different vibe than the day time and that can be seen in the footage. A lot of our crew works during the day so we end up with a lot of night footage which works out perfect. As for editing those videos all had a simple style and format, that’s just what I’m into. Keep it simple and let the riding and vibe speak for itself.

“Sound of the City” is the second 90 East video. After this you are going to start shooting hdslr. Do you think the VX is really dead after all these years?

Nah I don’t think it’s dead yet and it won’t be until they stop making mini dv tapes which I imagine wont be a while. It’s not really so much about the format for us as it is about the actual convenience of using the dslr. It’s much smaller,lighter, doesn’t use tapes and it just generally works better with how we ride. I can carry it in a small backpack and I don’t even notice its in there. we don’t go overboard and carry all there rigs and steady cams and crap, nothing kills a good session more than waiting for someone to set all that stuff up or looking at them running around with all that nonsense. Plus you really don’t wanna be riding some joints in the hood carrying all that stuff.

As for the actual HD format I do like the way it looks, especially when it’s not over sharpened which is a common problem. At the end of the day though what really matters is the riding and the vibe of the production regardless of the format. Message over medium….always.

working the crowd at the premier.

What is next for 90 East?

Right now were in the process of relocating our shop so that’s been a major thing. The Sound of the City DVD will be out soon, and also spring/summer clothing releases as well as some other releases that are in the works. We are definitely keeping very busy this year and can’t wait for people to check out the new stuff. Thanks to all the crew and those who have supported 90East, never forget who your friends are.

Name, age and where you currently hang your hat:
Jeffrey Herbertson, 23 years sore, my hat sits shotgun as soon as my helmet comes out.

Model, year and dimensions of the trailer:
The rig is a 21foot, 1996, AEROLITE, 21RBD.

Your blog details a lot of the work you did on the trailer but do you want to give us a quick rundown on the things you have done and the state you found her in?
I think my big mistake was checking craigslist for trailers in the first place. It was about a two day window in which I went from dreaming up a scheme to put rent in the gas tank, to actually owning a trailer full of dead mice and mildew creatures. I say it was a mistake because excitement and opportunity happen much quicker than wiring and epoxy primer. The trailer was actually in really roadworthy shape. It had been bought and never really used, except as a storage unit/paintball bunker/mouse castle. Once I decided my truck was able to pull it, the strip down and build back up process was a really fun pain in the neck. I left the floor plan really similar to how it was originally laid out, I mostly just replaced cardboard and formica with wood and aluminum.

Any significance to the address 329?
Yes, 3-29 was the birthday of my riding buddy Thomas Lancaster who died a couple years ago. I thought that if I was gonna put much into a address that was a statement of where I’m trying to be, it should bring whatever it could of his legacy to riding spots that he never got to shred.

What’s your plan for the summer?
Ride and roll, I’m gonna be all over the place. The next destination is Woodward West via a extremely indirect route. I’m gonna be instructing the MTB program down there between the different competitions and riding spots that I’m gonna make it to.

Do you ever run into sketchy situations parking the rig? Unfriendly neighbors? Wild animal encounters?
Haha yes. In general my neighbors have been great. I’ve had a few people ask if I’ll stick around cause the trailer is nice to look at. But there’s some sketchy folks around for sure, I’ve woken up to a couple funny situations including someone using the shadow of my trailer to spray-paint a van at 3:00 am. Ironically it seems like I have better luck parking in worse looking spots because a trailer in a sketchy location is less approachable than one on the beach.

What’s your favorite mod on the trailer?
That’s a tough one, I think I’m most proud of my coffee set up. When I started re-building the inside I had a goal of not adding any plastic. It wasn’t as hard as I thought it was gonna be. Without that goal my coffee system would never be what it turned out to be. Coffee has a very special place in my heart.

What’s the best part about owning the trailer?
It might be that there’s a couch at the trails that doesn’t smell like a bum nap. But its probably just having a bed and a fridge full of cold beer where ever you end up. Plus, most people refuse to believe it but, chicks dig trailers.

When will we see ya again in Santa Cruz?
Two weeks hopefully! I’m gonna stop through on my way down to Woodward for a few days, you know where to find me.

For more from Jeff check out:
http://329trailheadway.tumblr.com/
http://www.chromacultureapparel.com/

Our Friend Ralph had an art opening in Philly this past weekend, with some amazing screen prints, on both paper and wood, from photos he had taken around his beloved hometown.
We shot a few pics at the show, and asked his to give us a brief rundown on the premise behind it…

“The name of the show was Lost Treasures (it was the name of an abandoned storefront i saw up there), it was screenprints of photos I’ve taken under the El train line in Philadelphia, the further north you go under the El the worse the area gets, and thats right up my alley, I love old run down buildings, the graffiti, and the characters you see along the way…that area used to be a bustling part of town for shopping, and over time it has become almost a wasteland of abandoned shops and drug dealers…I used my Canon PowerShot G10 digital camera, which I wore around my neck and hidden under a windbreaker, if I saw a cool shot I would unzip and click…i originally drove up there parked on the edge of the “shopping” district and was going to walk a big loop so i could get pics on both sides of the street, after I made it about 2 blocks I was already offered drugs 4 times, asked if I was okay or needed anything, and even had a guy try to sell me loose cigarettes I decided to get back in my car and just pull over when i saw something cool…I almost got to see a fist fight in the middle of the street until the guys girlfriend pulled him back into his car…and I saw a guy in a gorilla suit holding up a sign for used furniture…it was def a good time, im not gonna lie, I was a little sketched out being under there by myself, but I also found an oasis of a diner, it looks like this place was the shit back in the 60′s and they havent changed the decor since, they had the best chocolate chip pancakes I’ve had in the city, and for 3.99 you get 2 pancakes, 2 eggs, and a coffee.” _ Ralph Stollenwerk

The Slingluff Gallery
11 W. Girard Ave.
Philadelphia, PA 19123

The show is up from May 5th-27th

We did a feature on Keith a while back that you should take another look at. A bmx hero to many (myself included), it will be very cool to watch Keith’s new effort with We Have Motive as it grows.

Check out Keith in Dirty Deeds!

Among the amazing number of tributes was this piece that Defgrip put together with words from Mike’s closest friends.

Additionally, RideBMX gathered a number of photos from the archives of Tag along with embedding a number of videos he was part of.

An incredible response, appropriate for the legendary Mike Tag.

Beyond any personal politics, it was much more about a struggle. A struggle to defend whatever absurd belief system you attached yourself to when young.

Beyond even that, skins, en masse, were imbued with the brute force to whip anyone’s ass.

And there were infamous skins.

“The Medical Skin” was one of the crowd favorites. He wore medical scrubs to every show. And it was tradition for anyone (and sometimes everyone) to take a preemptive strike. Before any racial slurs, any puerile, ungrounded propaganda came out of his mouth, he was batted around like a beach ball. Eventually he got tossed out the threshold of the venue. And the next weekend, like clock work, he’d return.

There was the “Ear Biting Skin.” A massive dude rumored to have bitten off someone’s ear in a brawl. His size was off limits: a bull always seeing red. There were instances of him pounding people into the ground: like a sledge, hammering a railroad tie. You steered clear. Always.

And there was the “Deaf Skin.” Solid middle class. Clean cut. Always dressed in finely pressed neo third-reich attire. We thought him ironic considering the disabled were first to go during Hitler’s purges. For the most part, he was physically harmless.

Regardless of who you were, or what side you took in a stand-off, absolutely no one was exempt from getting their ass kicked by the skins. Not even other skins. After all, the “mosh” pit was perpetuated by chaos. If, by chance, you got sucked in, no one was immune.
A swung fist, a stomping boot: once thrown, it stops when it connects.

The skin threat peaked when “Skinhead Island” formed. What seemed like 10 heads wide by ten broad shoulders deep, the column of skins stood static in the middle of the dance floor. With shirts off, arms crossed, and “braces” pulled up over their shoulders, the formation existed to inflict pain. The only virtue was, like an island, it stood still. And like an island, it was surrounded by a sand bar. And that sand bar, a void, was devoid of us punks. We dwelled in the shadows, a giant morphing jellyfish of thrashing kids. En masse, on the periphery, we changed shape to the speed of the music. And away from us, away from our safety in numbers, a drunk kid would often break from the depths. Stumbling inward, he’d spiral towards the island. If he got close, he got punched. And if he beached himself, there was an inevitable boot to the stomach, a brass knuckle to the skull. Sometimes he’d stumble away. Sometimes he’d lay on the floor, knocked into oblivion, with a pool of blood exiting his head.

Like the natural ebb of events, of counter cultures, of political movements, there is reciprocal flow.
In the summer of my junior year of high school was the most massive of fights.
Being the pacifist, I held back near the exit. From there I watched the silouettes of moving bodies. Of kicking. Of elbowing. Of head-butting.
Then the crowd parted.
A skin walked slowly through the isle of idle bodies. His arms folded over his stomach. His hands pressed near his belt line. I could see the blood seeping through the cracks in his fingers. Each finger holding in a bit of tissue. He brushed up against me, uttering a guttural “sigh” to direct me out of his way.
Descending from chaos, the venue, with hundreds of people inside, became complete and utter silence.
And that night, as if the tectonic plates shifted within our punk scene, “Skinhead Island” sunk into the many, forgotten, subcultural histories of Tampa Bay.

My first intimate encounter in an aircraft was an unexpected, and not so pleasant experience…

After being on a morphine drip for two and half days in a hospital somewhere in Seattle and under going an operation that put hardware in a moving joint in my arm, I had a long journey home home to New York, that started with a cab ride to the airport, and a borrowed twenty dollar bill I unfortunately never paid back…

My flight was uncomfortable, bumpy, crowded and warm, as my system began to withdraw from a short term dependence on morphine, and the man next to me showed no sympathy as my arm in a cast/sling lay at the mercy of his his arm rest unrest.

Being sore, and traumatized from surgery, and generally overwhelmed, I probably exaggerated any idea of being dopesick, on my connecting flight to Chicago O’Hare… Nonetheless, I felt woozy, and ventured to the back of airplane, towards the rest rooms.

It was a big plane, with center rows, several bathrooms, both in the middle and the rear of the plane. All were occupied, until I reached the final unchecked lavatory. The last door I got to, read vacant on the indicator near the door latch.

I opened the door, and to my surprise, it was in use. The woman in the bathroom was a middle aged, short, heavy set, black woman. She had short, buzzed hair, and was in totally disarray. The stench from the bathroom was horrific, as I clumsily tried to shut the door and give the woman her privacy.

What I saw was a mentally handicapped woman, using feminine hygiene products in what appeared to be a very messy part of her menstrual cycle. I was woozy prior, but now I was straight up nauseous and totally shocked.

The image I uncovered by opening that door, was only matched by the smell can hardly be described, and it is forever burned in my memory. It was not good.

Like many of my life experiences, it was nothing like the ideas and stories told me in candy coated tales of muse, and I was left in my own version of a mile high club, with my senses assaulted, my stomach turned, and twisted journey home from another mindfuck of an adventure I was led on by a kids bike, with some screwball friends…