As hospitals strain and financial markets crumble, as skateparks close and street spots sit unmolested, as unemployment soars and uncertainty looms, it could be worse, you could be stuck in quarantine with one of these guys…
Day 1 – Dear Diary, despite the misfortune of my recent layoff from work, I am optimistic about the future as I have recently moved into the spare bedroom of the home of the former professional skateboarder, Sovrn co-owner, and celebrity real estate entrepreneur Mikey Taylor.
Day 2 – Moving day. In addition to depleting my life savings, I had to borrow money from my parents to come up with the first and last month’s rent plus security deposit plus something Mikey calls a cohabitation overcharge that I’ve never heard of before. As Mikey tweets, “You’ve gotta spend money to make money #success.”
Day 6 – Mikey has labeled all of the food in the fridge “Property of Commune Capital, LLC.” When I confronted him about why he wouldn’t let me have a can of his Mountain Dew, he told me it was “my choice to be disappointed” and “If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is. #inspire.” He actually said the word “hashtag.”
Day 12 – He has been acting really sad lately because PRod hasn’t returned any of his calls since quarantine began. This morning when I asked Mikey about City Stars he thought I was talking about a mutual fund.
Day 19 – My stash of toilet paper has run out. This is extra frustrating as Mikey has a garage full of it and won’t let me have any. When I offered to buy a roll from him, he countered that I could lease a roll for $8 down and a “low, low-interest rate of only 8% APR.”
Day 35 – Today I broached the subject of moving out and getting my deposits back, but apparently all that money was invested in timeshares in Arizona. I would just pack up my shit and leave except Mikey is going to give a presentation tonight about an exciting new financial opportunity, and I don’t want to miss out. #thinkbig.
Day 1 – Dear Diary, New York has issued a quarantine and I won’t be able to leave the apartment other than for essential shopping for at least a month. I’m not bummed, though, as I currently live with my hero: Mark Suciu. Mark’s textbooks and scientific equipment take up almost all the space here, but I’m sure we’ll sort it out.
Day 5 – Mark and I haven’t connected as I’d hoped. All he does is read, write notes in some secret language he invented, and Facetime with Frankie Spears for hours on end. When I tried to bring up discussion topics he might enjoy, like the Pyramid Ledges or the latest Jenkem video about Yaje making nutritional yeast stew, I got nothing.
Day 12 – Mark keeps quizzing me about French literature or old Dan Wolfe videos and then shouts “Wrong!” before I can even answer.
Day 23 – Mark has been pacing around the apartment for the past couple days, talking to himself and adding to what he calls his “Grand Chiasmus.” The walls of the apartment have become an interlocking web of math equations, maps of spots, geometric sketches, and pictures cut out of old Transworld magazines. He keeps mumbling things like, “It’s almost within my grasp” and, “Blubba” and then starts laughing maniacally.
Day 29 – Mark has started engineering some type of computerized helmet apparatus. It appears to be made out of my laptop, pieces of a VX camera, some kitchen utensils, and lots of unused SML wheels. He refers to this contraption as his “Precious”.
Day 33 – This afternoon I got back from a trip to the bodega to see Mark sitting cross-legged in the center of the apartment. The strange helmet was strapped onto his head and glowing (yet his hair was still perfect). His voice boomed from everywhere at once, “Rodney Mullen said it couldn’t be done, but I have downloaded all skate videos into my insatiable mind. No obscure issue of Poweredge has escaped my omnipresence. No ‘Ask the Phelper’ has been left unexamined. I’m a different type of skater than I’d ever imagined.”
Mark then sighed deeply, making the lights in the room appear to dim. “I cannot unsee the lack of taste within back 180ing out of back 5-0s; Perfect in their imperfection. I cannot unlearn the infinite Love Park lines that will forever remain undone.” Mark closed his eyes and spoke softly, “I astral project. I go to other places. I travel in time. I’m sorry. I am- I am- Zero.”
I asked Mark, “What now?”
He said, “I don’t know. Maybe when this is all over I’ll go to Grad School or something.”
Day 1 – Dear Diary, Dreams really do come true. I have been invited to be the houseguest of none other than superstar Nyjah Huston. I’ll be moving into his Laguna Beach mansion later today. It’s going to be a non-stop party of girls, alcoholic Monster Energy drinks, and skateboarding in his private park. Best of all, because of the lockdown, David Loy probably won’t be able to come over.
Day 2 – Well, this is a bit different than I anticipated. Nyjah’s Mom is also living here. She is nice and all and makes us snacks, but her presence, combined with Nyjah’s constant whining, has led to a distinctively non-orgy vibe.
Day 3 – I thought I would be staying in the luxurious guest room but apparently that has been converted into another of ‘Jah’s many shrines to himself. So I’m stuck sleeping under the billiards table in the game room. I keep thinking I’m hearing dubstep coming from the attic or some other uninhabited part of the house.
Day 8 – I was awoken last night with the eerie feeling that I was being watched. I know it isn’t Nyjah or his Mom, as they are upstairs together watching his scene from that episode of HBO’s Ballers again and again on repeat.
Day 15 – This morning, after yelling at his Mom to make him breakfast, Nyjah spent the better part of an hour looking tearfully at the Team USA Olympic skateboard deck hanging framed on the wall while whispering, “Why, Corona, why?”
Day 22 – Nyjah keeps accusing me of eating all his Bolds brand Bacon Cheddar cheese-flavored cracker snacks. I would never eat that garbage and said so. “Well, somebody’s been eating them and it isn’t me!” shouted Nyjah, before kickflip backside lip sliding down the curved handrail that leads to the gym room and slamming the door behind him.
Day 34 – Today, when I was alone in the vast Nike storage room, I broke down crying. Living in Nyjah’s mansion and having to perpetually kiss his ass has left me depressed. I cried aloud that I wish I had just followed my own path and never came into Nyjah’s orbit, no matter what the perceived fringe benefits had been. Then, as I sat on the floor sobbing, I heard a quiet, consoling voice from somewhere within the walls. It said, “I feel you, B.”
Day 1 – Dear Diary, While the rest of the world collapses around us, I will be joining the non-stop party that is Justin “Figgy” Figueroa’s Vista house of heaviness. It’ll just be myself, Fig, and his dog Gibby. I love whatever band it is that he is currently in and hopefully I’ll get in on some jam sessions.
Day 2 – I was a bit premature with my roll call of residents here at the house. It appears that Collin Provost is crashing here as well. Also Nuge, Richie Belton, several lesser-known Shep Dogs, and 6 or 7 of the Rhoades brothers. There is a rumor that Frecks lives in the crawl space below the house, although nobody has seen him since he quit $lave. It seems like everybody has an unleashed dog with them at all times.
Day 5 – Figgy somehow cracked his head open when reaching into the cooler for his breakfast beer. There was blood dripping down his face. I thought he might need stitches, but he just wrapped a dirty t-shirt around his head, shotgunned his beer, belched, and went on with his day.
Day 10 – Today we invented a drink called the “Figgy-Wizz.” It is a mixture of beer, Steel Mill coffee, and crushed up Tums. At first, I was grossed out by it but after drinking 4 or 5 of them and smoking 6 or 7 joints, I got a pretty good buzz going.
Day 14 – Last night a bunch of us started a heavy psychedelic jam session out in the garage. After about 4 hours, I was cashed out so I went to sleep. It’s about 10 am now and I’m hungover but the rest of the boys are still out there.
Day 18 – Figgy finally stopped his guitar solo yesterday. He just sort of passed out face down in a pile of pungent flannel shirts and has been asleep ever since.
Day 25 – The odor of sweat and bong water is starting to make me crazy. There is no actual food in the house, just a never-ending supply of beers, acid, and some stale killer pizza crusts. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen Fig, nor anybody else, eat any solid food since I got here.
Day 30 – This afternoon, the crew was drunk on Figgy-Wizzes and skating the park rail when Figgy stacked hard. He somehow sacked, cracked several ribs, and split his forehead open all in the same slam. We put him in a wheelbarrow and pushed him into the house. I asked Fig if he needed an ambulance or something and he just winced for me to get him his guitar and a wah-wah pedal and he would be fine.
Day 36 – Figgy has somehow already miraculously recovered from his injuries and is skating, drinking, and rocking harder than ever.
Day 50 or 51 (I think) – The days and nights have blended together into a haze of spilled beer, broken furniture, Bennett grinds, and bad haircuts. I tried to take a shower but the tub was full of beers. I can’t tell if I’m coughing from the virus or the spliffs. I can’t recall when I got all these stupid meaningless tattoos.
At some point in this quarantine, I adopted several stray dogs and they follow me everywhere. I don’t really miss solid food and I have all but forgotten the tender touch of toilet paper. For all I know, the lockdown may have ended already. I have lost all contact with the outside. This is the world now. I’ve broken through to the other side and there is no turning back.