Once, when I was young and wayward, all the kids from juvenille hall were taken out for a special treat to an indoor skating rink in a bad part of town. That's ok, we were all from there anyway. We skated around and around, and listened to music on the p.a. system we had never heard before, and had a pretty good time of it. Then the dj came over the mic and announced it was time for a SPEED SKATE, and all manner of flashing lights started going off. Now I don't know about you, but us young and wayward children had already had way more than enough of flashing lights and loud noises, so everybody ripped off their skates, ran out the door, and hightailed it over the back fence. Some were never caught, I'm not even joking. I, however, having never skated before in my life, and being worse than horrible at it, tried to make a line for the exit, but got caught in the throng of adults making their way to the starting line. An air horn went off, and I did everything in my power to get away from all the adults, and toward the door, desperately trying not to leave my teeth all over the floor as I did so. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I was shocked to find once I had reached (read: slammed into) the barrier, that the speed skate was over, and lo! I won. Ah yes, that meat pack was mine. Pfft.
Many years later, my friend Ross International and I worked in a skateboard shop. It was the only skateboard shop in the city of Wellington in NZ, and we were pretty much the cool guys to know. We had a big ass reputation to uphold, and all the kids looked up to us to never do anything uncool. But this was the early 90's, and rollerblading (and EXTREME rollerblading) had pervaded the national consciousness, and Ross and I, tired of constantly deriding everyone who did it, decided (in absolute secrecy) to find out what all the fuss was about. We selected a deserted patch of road out past the airport, where the only traffic was service vans and criminals, and took 2 sets of hire skates out there to unravel. I can tell you it was hilarious to behold, as 2 rough young guys who could sail through the air like a couple of gazelles on skateboards, watched one leg go behind the other, to resemble a 2 legged octopus on an oil covered floor with some ball bearings thrown onto it for good measure. We spent way more time falling over than skating. And just as we got it dialled, and made a straight line, a photographer for the local paper who was walking along the rocks took our picture for a "Moods of Wellington" spread, and everyone in NZ saw it the next morning. It wasn't so bad as we thought though. Our reputations saved us, and instead of being ostracised or run out of town, inline skatings street cred went up about 5 bazillion points, and now knows the legitimacy it enjoys today. Thank me later.
I had a crush on a girl a few years after. Her name was Melanie. Her father was a famous politician, and she was a few years older than me. So hot. She made me shy and nervous, which was rare. So when she asked me out on a date one evening, there was no way, shy or not, that I would say no. We went to dinner at a little Italian family restaurant, and I swear to you I have never tasted Italian so good since. Then she decided we were to try Ice skating. With ice. And sharp bits under your feet. The smell of disaster was deafening. Well, you know what I mean. So there we went, and she took my hand, and I felt like I was constructed entirely out of pink fluffy clouds. And we swooped and swooshed and all manner of other fast noises around the rink until Melanie was tired and I drove her home. As we got to the door, her eyes searched mine for a sign of a kiss to come, and as I held her hands, and slowly stepped one step closer to finally know the sweet agony of her kiss, her father came out with a "Good work! You got her home on time! Tell me J, have you considered joining young Labor?", and with only our horrified looks to mark that moment of potential sweetness forever, I bade them both farewell and made haste to my 1966 Plymouth Fury, which was confidently taking up at least four parking spaces kerbside, and the comforting sounds of Van Halen in the tape deck.
This is knifey, from 'the internet'.
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