Just Go For It
When I was growing up in West L.A. in the late 1970s, every kid was enamored with the burgeoning southern California skateboard culture. The freedom, the attitude, the rebellion, the look, and of course the skaters themselves. Jay Adams and Tony Alva were the kings, but my favorite was Shogo Kubo.
There was something about Shogo that came through in magazine photos of him carving the lip of swimming pools. He seemed introspective, quietly determined, the outsider among outsiders in what was then an outlaw hobby. While Adams and Alva had the aggression and bravado, Shogo was the laid back cool cat simply doing his thing – seemingly all for himself.
Maybe this is pure self-revisionist history, but the images of Shogo told me I could also go for what I wanted without making a big deal about myself.
Long before Nike said Just Do It, Shogo and the boys from the Zephyr and Dogtown skate teams proclaimed Just Go For it. The difference being a spirit borne organically from the surf and the streets rather than from an ad agency’s creative brief.
Shogo, Jay, Tony, and the rest of that mighty crew didn’t have to say the words. Just Go For It radiated in their soulful, fluid, high-flying aerial attack, performing acts that challenged social norms and authority as much as they expanded human athletic possibilities. No one before Alva ever pulled off a frontside air. No one before that crew ever thought, "Let's hop the fence into a stranger's backyard, drain the swimming pool and skate it all day." But who cares about getting hurt or getting arrested? Just go for it and see what happens.
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In ninth grade I wrote an in-class book report about…a fake book; I just made up the whole thing on the spot, including an ISBN number. It was a non-fiction book about Chicago gangsters. Why I came up with that topic, who knows. But somehow I got an “A." That’s when I discovered I could write. It wasn’t easy – writing is never easy – but it felt intuitive, perhaps natural, to string together sentences and paragraphs in a narrative flow. Writing made sense.
After gradating college with a creative writing degree I tried my hand at novels and short stories. I wasn’t good at those. Not at all. I didn’t understand how to develop characters; I didn’t know how to write dialogue that reflected how people really talk; I couldn't come up with any interesting storylines beyond philosophical ramblings, and even when I thought I had a good idea, I was actually trying to convince myself it was a good idea.
Tired of scraping by on rice and beans and cheap beer in Santa Barbara, I woke up from the fantasy of the starving artist slogging his way to becoming a successful novelist. I had to pay the bills, I wanted a more comfortable life, I desperately needed more cash for records and books, but how? Journalism didn’t interest me. I considered teaching but realized I only wanted to do it because of the summer vacations. Sales would be soul crushing.
Out of pure dumb luck I landed a job writing radio commercials. At the time I didn’t even know one could be a writer without being a starving artist. Then I discovered there were such occupations as copywriters, marketing writers, technical writers, business writers, ghostwriters. People got paid good money, in many cases great money to write? Who knew? The skies opened up for me.
Somehow my career has always evolved without having much of a plan. An idea comes to me and I just go for it. I’ve pulled off some decent landings, but have also endured many wipeouts. And it’s not as if I’m an entrepreneur who pursues one venture after another. I simply had no choice – writing is the only skill I’ve ever had with any market demand.
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In the early 80s some neighborhood hooligans broke into our house and stole my Shogo Kubo Dogtown model skateboard. I’ve never felt so violated. My delusion of becoming a professional skateboarder faded that day. Good thing I learned how to write. Because the truth is, I was a mediocre skateboarder, at best.
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