DECKED OUT From Central Square to Downtown Crossing, the streets, sidewalks, and at least one parking garage belonged to participants of the skateboard pub crawl. |
The first rule of skateboard pub crawl is you need a skateboard. So I dug my old ride out of the closet, dusted the bitch off, and hit up Got Sole 1981 on Centre Street for some fresh wheels. The thing hadn't been rolled in close to a decade; if I planned to break my ass, it wasn't going to be on account of old equipment. It would be because I'm hammered.
>> PHOTOS: PBR Skateboard Pub Crawl by Pat Howley <<
Which brings me to the second rule of skateboard pub crawl: get absolutely shitfaced. To that end, the malt angels from Pabst Blue Ribbon were on hand to fuel us up, and to hook up sweat bands that, incidentally, would come in handy to absorb the blood. Bleeding was a good thing, though; according to the score card, which was more of a joke than anything, the first wounded soldier received 10 points.
My latent Gleaming the Cube fantasies began at the Enormous Room, where more than 50 legit local skaters — all decked in camo pants and white T-shirts — filed in three, four, and five at a time. Cold cans got cracked, daps were given, and by 7:30 pm we were screaming down Mass Ave to Middlesex Lounge for a second round of tallboys.
Knowing my limitations, I rode in the designated drunk bus for the longest and most dangerous stretch of the crawl — across the Mass Ave bridge. I didn't want to die before the Back Bay romp, which began at McGreevy's, then spun around Gloucester Street before heading east on Newbury. With some sauce and a joint in me, I finally got some old chops back, and rode right along, dodging cars against traffic.
After barking at some curbside diners and pedestrians, we filed into Blvd skate shop for a pit stop and to shotgun a few beers. Someone threw some Snoop Dogg on, an impromptu dance party ensued, and then we were off to take over the BPL staircase. Steps got jumped, cops got called, and we skated off, but not before the lone female rider pounded on the window of a Mini Cooper that almost crushed her.
I'm sure the guys will clown me in their video — my antique deck, my fat drunken ass — but, sliding through Copley Square, to the Rattlesnake, and into Downtown Crossing, I felt as proud as any hanger-on could feel. I'm not sure why they do this every year — there wasn't much philosophy talk at the Biddy Early's finish line — but I suspect theirs is the same reason that I had the time of my adult life. It's my third and most important rule of skate pub crawl: to take back the streets from guidos, club chicks, and pastel yuppies, and to give office folks material for their water-cooler circle jerks.
Follow Chris Faraone on Twitter @fara1.
