5-0 Frontside Shuvit Out.

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NATHAN PORTER IS TWENTY YEARS OLD AND HAILS FROM CHICAGO, ILLINOIS. SAM, THE NEW KID, RECENTLY DID AN INTERVIEW WITH HIM OVER THE PHONE, AND, LIKE MOST OF OUR AM INTERVIEWS, TO CALL THE RESULT A PILE OF SHIT WOULD BE AN INSULT TO PILES OF SHIT EVERYWHERE...

I don’t blame Sam, he never wanted to do the interview. He just happened to be the only person in the office when Nathan called, and since Mr. Porter is a nomad (that is, homeless) it was pretty much the only chance we’d get to do the interview. And, since it sucked, it once again fell to my particular brand of genius to spin gold from garbage.

Once, when Nathan was hitchhiking, he was picked up by an elderly lady who had an interest in smuggling her way into his shorts. Nathan, being the young lad he is, had no interest in any geriatric amour, and so had her drop him off in some woods, where he spent the cold night alone, no doubt attending to some wood of his own. A little rude on his part, especially since after giving him a ride, she bought him beer. The very least he could have done is give her a ride of his own.

Now I know that a lot of the kids reading this are thinking, “Of course he didn’t bone her, old ladies are gross.” Well you’re right, old ladies are kind of gross. Saggy boobs, that weird, crinkly, old lady skin; it’s not exactly a recipe for sexual desire. But the thing is, the old ones really, really know how to rock it.
I speak from experience. Older women (along with fatties and older gay men) have a certain, inexplicable attraction to me. In my younger days I would refuse the advances of the elderly (elderly being a subjective term, I’m talking about those ladies who have broken the half century mark) but now I know better. Sure a young lass may have firm, rosy skin, taut breasts and an ass that can crack walnuts, but there is one thing young girls lack. That’s gratitude.
At one time Nathan lived in an abandoned bus in a field somewhere. Or so Sam says, the interview transcript I was sent only mentions it in passing, without giving any details. As a Roald Dahl fan I’d like to think that the bus was something out of Danny: Champion of the World, a magical place full of fun and adventure. But life doesn’t work like that, and though I’d love for it to be a cool, happy place, more likely it was a dank pit, full of dirt and disease. The kind of place where the local tweakers go to smoke glass and take apart electronics they’ve stolen from the surrounding neighborhood. But I can’t swear to that. Maybe Nathan liked living in the bus and spent his days dancing in the woods, picking wild mushrooms and communing with the woodland folk.

In closing I’d like to use this space to remind young skaters that, should they ever be afforded the opportunity to have an interview in a skateboard magazine, they need to be more fucking forthcoming. I know that telling a stranger about yourself can be a strange and uncomfortable experience, but you need to learn to get the fuck over it. Otherwise you’re liable to end up with a bunch of pictures of yourself run above a nonsense article about magical school buses and old lady vaginas.