How Did I Get Here Read Online Free
Author: Tony Hawk, Pat Hawk
and accessories widely available and affordable.
Powell took a particularly steep dive, partly because it and the Bones Brigade symbolized the clean, parent-approved side of the sport. The newcomers, most notably World Industries, were true anarchists who captured the skate world’s attention with their ballsy, uncensored approach. Powell tried to look cool by making videos mocking mainstream exploitation of skateboarding. World ran ads mocking Powell.
To outsiders, the distinction between the old brands and the upstarts was probably hard to discern, since even the biggest skate companies profited by painting themselves, and skateboarding, as counterculture. Powell’s graphics featured skeletons, rats, skulls, and snakes—sometimes skulls with snakes. My most popular insignia was a bird skull against an iron cross background, created by Powell’s gifted artist, Vernon Courtlandt Johnson. None of it was Sesame Street fare.
But companies like H-Street and World pulled out the stops. They openly ripped off logos from corporate America (Looney Tunes and Burger King, among others). One of World’s most infamous skateboard deck graphics had a naked woman in a spread-legged pose—an anatomy lesson. World’s founder, Steve Rocco, also got pissed when TransWorld Skateboarding magazine wouldn’t publish some of his attack ads, so he created his own skate mag. It was called Big Brother , and it did a good job of covering the hard-core corners of the sport, amid reviews of porn movies and articles like “How to Kill Yourself.” (The Big Brother crew would later create the massively successful Jackass TV series and movies.)
By 1991, the skate industry was reeling from uncertainty, civil war, and a declining market. My income from Powell had shrunk to $1,500 a month, and I was struggling to make my mortgage payments. It occurred to me that if I wasn’t going to make a living wage from royalties, I might as well take the big step of starting my own company. Also, I figured the industry had no place to go but up, right?
I started talking to a fellow Powell rider, Per Welinder, about teaming up to launch a new brand. Per had a business degree, I had the visibility, and we both had access to seed money. We met secretly for months to draw up a business plan. He would run the day-to-day operations, and I would head up promotions and recruit and manage a team. I refinanced my house, which gave me $40,000 to sink into the business. I also sold my Lexus and bought a Honda Civic. We named the company Birdhouse Projects, and we assembled an amazing team of skaters: Jeremy Klein, Willy Santos, Mike Frazier, Ocean Howell, and Steve Berra.
I was still pretty pessimistic about the future of the skate industry and my own career. I was 24—a geezer. It was time to think about putting away my skateboard and focusing on business.
Heelflips on the Titanic
The early years of Birdhouse were predictably bleak. The skate industry was overloaded with inventory, and we were barely turning a profit. When I took the team on tour, we slept five and six to a room. Occasionally, shops that hired us for demos would tell us after we’d skated that they couldn’t afford to pay. One guy offered Chinese food instead of cash. Once, I flew to France for a $300 payday, but an unavoidable ticket change on the way home cost me $100 of that.
I wouldn’t have minded the financial stress—in fact, part of me embraced the way the skate recession had weeded out the wannabes—except I suddenly had a new incentive not to go broke: in 1992, my wife Cindy became pregnant with our first son. At home, we pared our budget to the bone. I was given a “Taco Bell allowance” of five bucks a day and I was eating Top Ramen almost daily.
I started seriously weighing options for my post-skateboarding career. My first choice was to become a film editor. I’d already edited some video segments for Powell and all of the early Birdhouse videos, and had enjoyed it, so I
Powell took a particularly steep dive, partly because it and the Bones Brigade symbolized the clean, parent-approved side of the sport. The newcomers, most notably World Industries, were true anarchists who captured the skate world’s attention with their ballsy, uncensored approach. Powell tried to look cool by making videos mocking mainstream exploitation of skateboarding. World ran ads mocking Powell.
To outsiders, the distinction between the old brands and the upstarts was probably hard to discern, since even the biggest skate companies profited by painting themselves, and skateboarding, as counterculture. Powell’s graphics featured skeletons, rats, skulls, and snakes—sometimes skulls with snakes. My most popular insignia was a bird skull against an iron cross background, created by Powell’s gifted artist, Vernon Courtlandt Johnson. None of it was Sesame Street fare.
But companies like H-Street and World pulled out the stops. They openly ripped off logos from corporate America (Looney Tunes and Burger King, among others). One of World’s most infamous skateboard deck graphics had a naked woman in a spread-legged pose—an anatomy lesson. World’s founder, Steve Rocco, also got pissed when TransWorld Skateboarding magazine wouldn’t publish some of his attack ads, so he created his own skate mag. It was called Big Brother , and it did a good job of covering the hard-core corners of the sport, amid reviews of porn movies and articles like “How to Kill Yourself.” (The Big Brother crew would later create the massively successful Jackass TV series and movies.)
By 1991, the skate industry was reeling from uncertainty, civil war, and a declining market. My income from Powell had shrunk to $1,500 a month, and I was struggling to make my mortgage payments. It occurred to me that if I wasn’t going to make a living wage from royalties, I might as well take the big step of starting my own company. Also, I figured the industry had no place to go but up, right?
I started talking to a fellow Powell rider, Per Welinder, about teaming up to launch a new brand. Per had a business degree, I had the visibility, and we both had access to seed money. We met secretly for months to draw up a business plan. He would run the day-to-day operations, and I would head up promotions and recruit and manage a team. I refinanced my house, which gave me $40,000 to sink into the business. I also sold my Lexus and bought a Honda Civic. We named the company Birdhouse Projects, and we assembled an amazing team of skaters: Jeremy Klein, Willy Santos, Mike Frazier, Ocean Howell, and Steve Berra.
I was still pretty pessimistic about the future of the skate industry and my own career. I was 24—a geezer. It was time to think about putting away my skateboard and focusing on business.
Heelflips on the Titanic
The early years of Birdhouse were predictably bleak. The skate industry was overloaded with inventory, and we were barely turning a profit. When I took the team on tour, we slept five and six to a room. Occasionally, shops that hired us for demos would tell us after we’d skated that they couldn’t afford to pay. One guy offered Chinese food instead of cash. Once, I flew to France for a $300 payday, but an unavoidable ticket change on the way home cost me $100 of that.
I wouldn’t have minded the financial stress—in fact, part of me embraced the way the skate recession had weeded out the wannabes—except I suddenly had a new incentive not to go broke: in 1992, my wife Cindy became pregnant with our first son. At home, we pared our budget to the bone. I was given a “Taco Bell allowance” of five bucks a day and I was eating Top Ramen almost daily.
I started seriously weighing options for my post-skateboarding career. My first choice was to become a film editor. I’d already edited some video segments for Powell and all of the early Birdhouse videos, and had enjoyed it, so I
Readers choose
Mark Alpert
Catherine Banner
Timia Williams
Lesley Kagen
Michael P. Spradlin
Celia Jade
Kim Hunt Harris
Deirdre Madden
Benedict Martin
Nikki Logan