By Joel Warner
By Michael Roberts
By Alan Prendergast
By Michael Roberts
By Michael Roberts
By Amber Taufen
By Patricia Calhoun
By William Breathes
We've gotten into some crazy shit. I admit it. Peeing on fools. I pissed on Chalky; that's how he got initiated. Thomas dumped a forty on his head and I peed on his feet and made him dance. Like, "Dance, you sumbitch!" He got it pretty easy, actually. I made out with some fucking dudes. It's gnarly. But if you like guys, I guess it's not gnarly. But fuck. At first people won't do it, but once you get drunk, they're like, "Whatever," then they're like 'Rawwr!' That's the only way to do it.
Back in the day, we'd only work at a job just to get a paycheck and then quit. Shit like that. I worked at a pizza place, and when I went in for my check, I walked in with a T-shirt that I wrote "I QUIT!" across the front. They told me about it later. I was blacked-out drunk. Right now I got a job busing tables. I'm mostly couch-surfing now. You know, saving up.
I don't really think about the Wetboys as a thing. We're just a group of people who found the right group of people. Nothing else. We were all in the same shit, just having fun. It's skateboarding, dude.
Sixth. Some Wetboys don't kiss and tell. Paul, for example. He's sitting on a keg shell in the back room of the Lion's Lair, which is reserved for employees and Wetboys. Tonight is $2 U Call It night, also known unofficially as Wetboy Wednesday, when the tribe convenes to burn through their hard-earned tip money and get "stupid drunk" as efficiently as possible. Ever since last summer, when they moved out of the "Wetboys Compound," a row of houses on Capitol Hill, bars have been their gathering place.
Paul, who just broke up with his girlfriend, doesn't even want to think about making out. He rubs his beard and looks like he might tip over, like one of those balancing rocks in the Utah desert.
Even as their reputation as hard-core skaters and partyers spread beyond Colorado's borders, it became clear to the Wetboys that their making-out ritual had crossed some line. A 2005 article in Automatic, an Orange County-based skateboard magazine, promised an interesting look at the Wetboys, but quickly degenerated into a snarky, innuendo-filled rant. Skaters from Kansas on tour in Michigan had to endure hours of Wetboy jokes just because they were friends with skaters in Denver. Mark Spencer got anonymous phone calls from out-of-state skaters threatening to beat the shit out of the Wetboy faggots. Skateboard teams touring through town were reluctant to meet with the Wetboys, thinking they were some clan of crackhead queer skaters who might, like, try to rape them or something. Big-name professional skaters who'd formerly professed their allegiance covered up their Wetboys tattoos.
The Wetboys had caught on fast, and they fell out of favor just as fast. "People of no formal affiliation got tattooed and claimed Wetboys," remembers Greg Robinson, team manager for Zero Skateboards. "But then it was gone like nothing ever happened. Everyone on the outside cusp retracted their support, and all that was left was this general distaste, like, 'Oh, you're from Colorado? Are you a Wetboy? Those guys are fucking fags.'"
The Wetboys became the bogeymen of the skate world.
"It was just like high school all over again," Micah recalls. "Part of skateboarding is that you're not the jocks. Skateboarding was supposed to be a scene that accepted all the outcasts, was more tolerant."
Drunk girls making out for a room full of guys is now a Girls Gone Wild cliche. No one assumes that smooching sorority sisters are actual dyed-in-the-wool dykes ready to write off men forever. But for boys, even Wetboys, the standards are different.
"But our thing is that we aren't gay, we aren't faggots," Paul slurs. "I bet we get more chicks than anybody. Really. We don't really make out with dudes anymore. It was kind of a phase." Paul recently adopted a puppy from a friend. He named it Rufio, after the red-haired Lost Boy in Hook, the one who took over when Peter Pan left, who couldn't fly but could fight and skateboard. He says he never considered the connection to Micah's Bangarang! company, but just liked the name.
Naughty bursts through the door, screaming that his dance moves are the best: "I'm a walking, talking dance par-tay!" Naughty often makes such proclamations — about his moves, or how he likes the way his boogers smell, or how just once he'd like to do it to a really, really old lady.
"But if we had to put down someone else into the crew," Paul says, his eyes closing and head bobbing, "we'd for sure have to get our kiss on."
Hearing this, Naughty starts to laugh, but the whiskey he's pouring down his throat gets in the way. A mixture of vomit and bad liquor sprays out his nostrils and onto the floor. "Ugh, I'm okay," he says, pauses. "I'm fine."
He uses a rancid bar towel to wipe down his flannel. "I forgot that I hate whiskey," he proclaims. Then he heads back out the door to find some chicks to dance with.