Spicoli had to bum pizza money off his mother. He only dreamed of winning the big championships where a Jersey Devil like you was smart enough to ignore the other bad-boy boarders who said the Olympics were only for sellouts. Recall that golden television network jacket that mesmerized and eluded Spicoli? You strode around a stage surrounded by 20,000 screaming fans, wearing a silver medal and an official Team USA leather Roots jacket with the collar turned up. Your Spicoli imitation was spot on. “Danny,” your buddy said, training a video camera on you, “you just won the silver medal. Are you going to go home and smoke crack?” “Dude,” you said, “I’m going to smoke the fattest ….” Then, realizing I was standing next to you, you said, “Dude, nice try! You almost got me, man! Drugs are bad! I’ve gotta go take a drug test! I love drug tests.”
You shoved the media into a generation-gap. Telling them that your team manager is a blow-up doll, that if you won gold you’d go on a two-year drug binge–very nice. Talking smack like that sank deep into the background your two broom-mates in the American sweep of the snowboard halfpipe competition. J.J. Thomas and Ross Powers were either too thought-free or earnest to attract the press-moths; you played the white-punk-on-dope card, like some postmodern actor. More than 30 scribes buzzed around you while Powers, the gold medalist, had four.
The old, pasty, fat scribes were most certainly stoked to discover you. They saw in you new quarry on which to turn their old ammo while to you they were old quarry on which to turn your new ammo. “Have you guys heard from anyone important, like the president?” one asked. “Um,” you deadpanned, “I just took a call from the president a few minutes ago.” “Are you serious?” the scribe asked. “Yeah,” you said, packing more laughs on your back. “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you were talking about the president of Grenade Gloves” (cha-ching). “What’s bigger, an X-Games medal or an Olympic medal?” another asked. “Hmmm,” you said sarcastically, “that’s a tough one.” Another mused, “Do you think this is a statement for all the dudes in the world to unite, one of those things?” You broke into your lazy, open-mouthed Spicoli laugh. “I don’t know, man. You’re going to have to send the message out on that one. I think this could unite a lot of dudes.” (Relief swept across the dude diaspora.)
Like Spicoli, you did invent another language, as far as mainstreamers are concerned. “Frontside indie to a backside melon, then a frontside rodeo stalefish,” some of your halfpipe routine, literally brought howls out of the assembled media. “Do you think,” a scribe said to uproarious laughter, “there’ll be a day when we all understand what y’all just said? Like, we’ll be talking about these moves like we talk about axel and triple toe loops in figure skating?” You just sat there, amused. “Um, maybe. It’s kinda hard to all figure out, all the aerials. People don’t have to understand, it just looks cool.”
It was time to gather up your medal. “I’ve got to take a piss!” you said into the kliegs of a television camera hovering over you while you grabbed your crotch. It was odd to watch seven of my brethren follow you to the restroom–and one actually follow you in. They’d bought enough drug humor and were ready to graduate into the bathroom stuff. You were only too happy to sell it. My friend Jeff Spicoli laughed a lot. But unlike you, he never laughed all the way to the bank.
