Long story short.
I write for Kingpin Magazine. They needed a last second write up about a skate trip to Barcelona. They asked me to do it, even though I wasn’t there. I felt weird about lying, so they told me to Dave Carnie it. OK. So, I shifted a story from my LSD eating days of traveling to Barcelona, but the editor of Kingpin thought maybe some of the language was a little strong. He’s probably right, but you know what, so is LSD.
HERE’S THE UN CENSORED VERSION. Now, act like Brody Stephens and ENJOY IT!
“It was all a dream, I used to read Word Up magazine…..”
To be honest with you, I never once read Word Up magazine. Every time I hear that Biggie Smalls lyric I wonder what the hell he’s taking about. I never even saw Word Up magazine. What the hell is Word Up magazine?
I sure as hell know what Kingpin magazine is though, because here I am. Or am I?
BARCELONA! It does feel like a dream. The beach, the babes, the beer. The marble. The European skate mecca! Is this real? Am I really here? Wow. It does feel warm. It feels real. Am I really standing here with the Emerica team, ready to bring that a game? For the record, I loved hanging with the Emerica guys in Barcelona, for the basic fact that when anyone Spanish asked me where I was from, and I said America, they would say America in a heavy Spanish accent, which was, of course, E-MER-ICA.
YES. EMERICA! Exactly.
And yes, perhaps you heard through the grapevine that we ran into two ladies who were fucked off their faces on some kind of drugs, possibly mushrooms or LSD, and they put on a god damn show, right there, in Barcelona. I will get to that, I swear, because there’s nothing like a great drug story to keep people interested and this one is quite entertaining I must say. I also must say, and I’ll say it with passion, that Kingpin, and or Emerica and or myself DO NOT condone the use of illegal substances, like psychedelic mushrooms or even marrijuana. I have to say that, one because it’s TOTALLY true, for real, I mean it, and two, because there’s a small chance that your parents might be reading this, and maybe your dad’s a lawyer and I personally don’t need the hassle of some dick, kid’s dad trying to tell me I convinced his stupid son to eat AT LEAST 7 grams of psychedelic mushrooms, because mushrooms and all mind expanding psychedelic drugs, like LSD and DMT, WEED, and so on are actually a pretty decent tool to push your mind in a direction away from the brainwashed fuckery of money money money society and have actually been used for thousands of years by great minded people and tribesmen and naturalists.
Anyway, this is about skating Barcelona with the EMERICA TEAM!
The Emerica Europe team, I might add. Which is fine, of course, because they have Eniz Fazliov, the readers choice! It was great to see Eniz cruising around with his Bright European Skateboard Award. Just carrying around with him. Holding it up in front of groups of random Spanish people and yelling, I’M THE READERS CHOICE, BIOTCH! Eniz is the man, which is why I voted for him for the readers choice awards, even though I legally probably am not allowed to admit that I did, because I work for Kingpin AND I was hosting the awards and to be honest, I don’t give a fuck. I voted for Eniz, and I stand by it. If you guys at the Kingpin offices wanna fire me for breaking the rules, than go ahead and fire me, because God dammit, this is skateboarding, and I’m a fuckin rebel and I’ll vote online for someone I believe in if I god damn want to and you know what Will Harmon, you won’t do a god damn thing about, because deep in your heart, you know the truth. You know I’m lying my ass off. I didn’t vote for Eniz. I didn’t vote for anyone, because I’m too lazy to click a button online, but you know what, after hanging with Eniz for five minutes, I could see why I’m voting for him next year. What a dude. Photographer Sem Rubio barely had to do anything. Jesus Sem, have you ever had an easier job in your fucking life? This guy nails every thing. And the passion. There’s something about Barcelona that brings it out in people. Am I right? It’s like the whole city vibes on this sexy, smooth steezy kind of thing. The whole city is like the football team FC Barcelona. Dance mother fucker. Score, but more importantly, DAMNCE! And look sexy scoring that goal. Barcelona brings out sexy. Even the beers they sell on the side of the road are sexy That’s what they call them. SEXY BEERS.
Sexy time. Borat would kill it in Barcelona. I would love to see Borat front board an eight stair handrail and then just start grinding up against some random sex pot Spanish woman hanging out drinking in the middle of the day on a Wednesday. A lot of shops and restaurants shut down in the middle of the afternoon for siesta. Go on and sleep, mother fuckers, because while you’re sleepin Nisse Ingemarsson is creepin. He’s not really creepin at all actually, but I didn’t have a word that rhymed with sleepin that would fit into a skateboarding context. If there was a good skateboarding word to fit in there I would throw it in, because, seriously, Nisse Ingemarsson fucking destroyed it. Jesus. Everyone on this trip destroyed. Look at those pictures. Let me tell you something, there was no trickery involved in these shots except skateboarding trickery. Lots and lots and lots and lots of skateboard trickery. I did a boardslide.
On a totally random note, what the fuck is a feeble grind? I mean, I know what it is, but who named it that? And why? Gotta give it up for guys who name tricks something random, and not after their own name. I mean a Caballerial is cool, BUT WHAT AN EGOMANIAC, RIGHT? I mean, imagine if Rodney Mullen had that type of ego, we’d be like, DAMN, that dude just Mullen flipped, to grind, to nollie Mullen flip out! FUCK, then he switch Mullen Flipped a ten stair! A FUCKIN SWITCH MULLEN FLIP?
So yes, I know you’re getting bored, so I will break it down and get to the drug story, which I hope I haven’t hyped up too much. Long story short. Barcelona. Lots of skating. Check the pictures. Shout out to Manolo Bar. Hanging out. All the young dudes, carry the news, and shout out to Emerica. Good stuff.
And now, you’ve made it to the bonus round. THE DRUG STORY!
People hang in Barcelona. On the streets. In the streets, drinking, carrying on. It’s like a party at night. Then everyone goes to clubs at like 3am and parties some more. So we’re all just hangin. Not even going hard in the paint or anything. Literally, just chillin. The air is warm, everyone’s relaxed. No beef. These two young, good looking girls, come up to us, I guess they’re about 20. I have no guess where they’re from, but now that I’ve seen the whole story already, I’m gonna guess either Canada or America, due to the accents. They both have a similar look. Long straight hair. Jeans, t shirts, sneakers. So far, so good. Right? Everyone’s probably wondering who they recognize in the group, or do they like skaters, or whatever, but before anyone has a chance to say anything, one of the girls comes right up to us, and just starts screaming her face off,
“FINE, FUCK ME ALREADY. FUCK ME. I AM A WHORE. I AM. FUCK ME.” I can instantly see we are in the midst of a drug freak out. Her face is kind of contorted and her eyes look like some kind of Bugs Bunny, pop right outa your head shit. I would have laughed, but it was kind of tense. She started screaming in every general direction as her friend, grabbing her arm, tried to cool her off. She just kept screaming like a maniac.
“I’M A FUCKIN WHORE. I’M A FUCK MACHINE. FINE, I’LL ADMIT IT! EVERYONE ON THE PLANET, FUCK ME!”
Some of the guys laughed, out of sheer unexpected weirdness. Laughing was the only way to break the tension. It was surreal. Like a Dali painting. Time slowed down like the peak of a ten stair handrail backside front blunt slide. She was panicked, which is not sexy. She was not bringing the A game. Like the Grateful Dead song says, “Maybe you had too much too fast?”
She was buggin out. She laid on the ground as her friend sat with her and held her head. She screamed again,
“THIS IS HELL. THIS IS FUCKING HELL!”
At this point, people are gathered around, and I hear one dreadlocked hippie over my shoulder say,
“Ah man, the old heaven and hell trip. That’s a heavy one. I’ve been there.”
And at that point, we were all there. In Barcelona. Heaven to us, but hell to that chick on the whatever drug will make you realize that reality is the perception of your own thoughts and ideas.
We were all there.
Or were we?