Landon's a bright dude. With some of the brightest blood I've ever seen. Tire pump justice.
Cruisin' World. Braking for cops. But. Just. Fucking. Barely.
The mini at Thrasher's Texas Death Match. Too many pros; fanning-out for an extended period of time is one of my favorite activities. Sly even worked up the courage to walk up to David Gonzalez and give him his propers. Dude was Skater of the Year!
Hyped. To-the-max.
Did I feel like a perve, snapping this photo? Absolutely. But I digress...
Everyone was staring. Many were photo-ing. BUT- Sylvester was the only guy brassy enough to call her out on it. And it went a little something like this:
Sly: So, uh...you knew what you were doing when you left the house today, right? I mean, must have been a draft...
The woman: I didn't know they were gonna be that short! I swear!
Sly: Right, right...
That's why Sylvester's the king, and the rest of us are schmucks. And she is... I dunno.
Landon, respecting his heritage. Later that same day, we went for burgers at an old joint. Got our food, walked out back to the beer garden and, unbeknownst to us, right into the only geriatric St. Patty's Day celebration in Austin. Crepe paper, banners, ancient instruments, ancient people...everything. One of the old ladies saw none of us were wearing green, and threatened, in the most light-hearted and grandmotherly way possible, to pinch us.
"My last name is O'Brien," Landon whispered. "I don't gotta wear shit."
New face. Think I'm gonna hold off on washing that shoulder for a while. Sylvester's jazzed too, obviously.
Emily and Dave. Rad individuals. Landon always did have good taste.
Pretty whack. But we waited a while for it, so I felt compelled. They were on stage, they're performing- but the pic still felt a little pervy. Not as much as earlier, but still. Catholic guilt. Obviously not enough. Oh well.
This is what precociousness looks like. Precociousness, and wonderment.
Ladies and fucking gentlemen, this is what it's all about. All of it.
In this photo, which a friend took and which I intend to frame and mount beside my toilet, I embrace, WITHOUT QUESTION, the greatest mosher who ever lived.
Didn't get his name. Doesn't matter- might even be better that way. What this dude did during the Black Breath set, well... it's the stuff of legend. That I was fit to bear witness- karma be praised.
He knew every note. He knew every lyric. He showed me moves theretofore nonexistent. He made at least seventy different facial expressions per minute, and in that same time frame shattered at least as many commonly held preconceptions about dudes who listen to heavy music.
He was a monolith. Raw fucking power! But he was gentle. He was in-your-face! But he was respectful. He literally commanded the pit, ensuring everyone had an incredible, but blood-free, time. He wore cut-off jeans, a Hawaiian shirt (that, he lamented, exited the fray with a few less buttons) and the mutton-chops of a seriously bad motherf***er. His presence, and actions, were a show-within-a-show. Watching this dude do his thing was seriously one of the most life-affirming experiences of my short existence upon this planet.
Thanks, dude. For showing me how to live.
