The Many Faces of Greydon Clark

She is dying for our sins.

At the Mudai Lounge in Portland.




This song is for Zeta.

Push-push-push. Set-up (nervously).

Pop (awkwardly).

Yikes. This act should be hardwired into your muscle memory (but isn’t).

Legs flailing, you abort the frontside ollie (which given the pitiful size of the bank is a generous description of the act).

Pushing onward dejected but not defeated to the bowl. Thank god only one other person there. Drop-in. Slash microscopic backside “grinds” on the coping. This feels less awkward and more enjoyable as pumping transition is inherently fun.

Mongo-footed Hesher-Girl (Heshette?) arrives with dog on a haggard board with wheels the size of monster truck tires. She doesn’t skate. Just watches.

Growing bold you try to leave you mark on the lip of the pool. Six inches of grey is etched into the coping, a small victory. Time to leave.

Dog growls. Lunges. Heshette, scolding the canine, “Don’t chase people. Don’t chase sk-a-a-a-ters…"

Chuckle to yourself. “Skater.” Quite a compliment, all things considered. Would she categorize you as such if she knew you were going to the grocery to buy organic Swiss chard and tofu, not hot dogs and Hamm’s beer?

Hamm’s gives me the shits.