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Where do old men go when they die? They don't go to Heaven and they...
They buy themselves 46" Sector9 decks, Randall trucks, 76mm 78A Krypto wheels, and throw themselves from hills. Well, they do in summer. Certifiable as seniors going on masters, Zonker and I are keen to hit the local hills again and relive our rubber-boned youth as soon as winter's behind us.
Zonker turns 50 this year.
Jeneane stopped by and, chatting to her, I cast my mind back to 2001/2, when Blogger was our toy of choice. We get older; but we certainly don't grow up. And you're always going to find the same kids trying the latest gizmo going. As it is with blogging, so it is with skateboarding, photography, RSS, podcasting, broadband, BubbleShare, or Flickr.
And so it is with those on my blogroll. Most are kids at heart. They will never grow old.
Continuing our two-month digital retrospective (and trying to stuff as many graphics on one page as possible), I've taken a few snaps from the fast-ageing Skateboard Diaries — rain's interrupted play for the winter — and strung them together in sequence to get a moving effect; in the kinetic sense, I hasten to add.
Does it work? I dunno. So what?
Tell me, those who frown upon such foolishness; what is there if one's life is not filled with a sense of humour, the absurd, paradox, awe, wonder, love and laughter? Not much. When we lose those attributes, we die. When we lose the voice with which little Jenna speaks, when we stop being ourselves, we finally go to the Lake of Fire and fry.
