Artificial intelligence and its invasiveness in our everyday lives might be endlessly discussed among academics, government officials and social media provocateurs, but Los Angeles Comic Con has injected a dose of gamma radiation and showmanship into that debate.
Stan Lee has entered the chat.
L.A. Comic Con is introducing its Stan Lee Experience, a 1,500-square-foot booth in Aisle 200 that features an AI-powered holographic image of the late comic book legend that interacts with attendees. Curious fans can ask questions of “Stan Lee” and probe dozens of years’ worth of comic book and comic book-related data that’s been fed into the AI, which has been drawn from footage, conversations and even Stan Lee’s Soapbox — where Lee would expand on happenings of the day or riff on comic book goings-on in the back pages of Marvel comics from 1967 through 1980.
Chris DeMoulin, chief executive and general manager of L.A. Comic Con parent Comikaze Entertainment Inc., says the Stan Lee AI project took months of planning and years of being connected to the parties involved.
“For me, personally, one of the most thrilling things of my entire life was getting to work with Stan Lee when this was Stan Lee’s Comic Con and Stan Lee’s Comikaze Expo before that. What was such a joy was watching him interact with fans. Old fans and then people that were bringing their 8-year-old kid who had just read their first Spider-Man comic book,” said DeMoulin, who has collected comics from an early age.
“This avatar, to us, is an entry point into the world of storytelling that he created. We wanted to create something which can be part of maintaining and expanding on that legacy so that Stan’s role in creating a lot of this is acknowledged.”
The hologram, at least the one on the show floor, is not really a hologram. With a box built by Proto Inc., the company that also launched an interactive mirror from “The Conjuring,” and Hyperreal, a company whose chief executive Remington Scott helped bring Gollum and Smeagol to life for Peter Jackson’s “The Lord of the Rings” movies and creates realistic avatars, it is an interactive Stan Lee image that processes questions and formulates responses.
“Hologram is a technology that’s different than this. This is more of an avatar presence, or a telepresence, if you will. Unlike ChatGPT, this is not a web crawler. This is a large language model which has got guardrails on it,” says George Johnson, a member of the Hyperreal technical team.
“It’s specifically Stan’s words. Red carpet interviews, everything he wrote, like Stan’s Soapbox, but with guardrails. Meaning, if you ask him sports questions or politics questions, he’s not going to answer those. But the Stan Lee Universe is feeding us more and more stuff that we can add to the model.”
David Nussbaum, Proto Inc. founder and chairman, knows that Stan Lee is only the first step for this technology.
“Any Proto device can have any piece of content in it, and we also beam people in live. So if you’re interviewing someone in Japan, you could beam there and appear like you are physically among them,” Nussbaum said. “These are great for classrooms, museums, labs, retail.”
Proto technology is also HIPAA-compliant, he said, meaning doctors and patients can use it to have “in-person” consultations without being in a room together.
As it learns, it can — as AI does — go a bit off script. While folks behind the scenes said they didn’t want Stan Lee to be used as an advertising gimmick, its makers had asked it so many questions about Coca-Cola, it had changed its answer from a generic “I don’t deal with that kind of thing” to a thoughtful answer where, at the end, Lee says, “Who wouldn’t want to be in business with the company that been quenching thirsts for a hundred years?”
That was Stan — ever the showman.
The Stan Lee Experience costs $15 plus service fees with tickets available for purchase via the L.A. Comic Con website. The pop culture gathering runs through Sunday at the Los Angeles Convention Center.
Last fall, the country singer Parker McCollum played a gig on the south shore of Lake Tahoe — the final date of a lengthy tour behind 2023’s “Never Enough” — then flew directly to New York City to start work on his next album.
“Probably the worst idea,” he says now, looking back at his unrelenting schedule. “I was absolutely cooked when I got there.”
Yet the self-titled LP he ended up making over six days at New York’s storied Power Station studio is almost certainly his best: a set of soulful, slightly scruffy roots-music tunes that hearkens back — after a few years in the polished Nashville hit machine — to McCollum’s days as a Texas-born songwriter aspiring to the creative heights of greats such as Guy Clark, Rodney Crowell and Townes Van Zandt. Produced by Eric Masse and Frank Liddell — the latter known for his work with Miranda Lambert and his wife, Lee Ann Womack — “Parker McCollum” complements moving originals like “Big Sky” (about a lonely guy “born to lose”) and “Sunny Days” (about the irretrievability of the past) with a tender cover of Danny O’Keefe’s “Good Time Charlie’s Got The Blues” and a newly recorded rendition of McCollum’s song “Permanent Headphones,” which he wrote when he was all of 15.
“Parker’s a marketing person’s dream,” Liddell says, referring to the 33-year-old’s rodeo-hero looks. “And what happens in those situations is they usually become more of a marketed product. But I think underneath, he felt he had more to say — to basically confess, ‘This is who I am.’” Liddell laughs. “I tried to talk him out of it.”
McCollum, who grew up in privileged circumstances near Houston and who’s now married with a 10-month-old son named Major, discussed the album on a recent swing through Los Angeles. He wore a fresh pair of jeans and a crisp denim shirt and fiddled with a ZYN canister as we spoke.
I was looking online at your — Nudes?
At your Instagram. The other day you posted a picture of a box of Uncrustables on a private jet. That photo was not supposed to make the internet. That was an accident — my fault. I don’t ever post about my plane on the internet.
You’re a grown man. Why Uncrustables? That’s an adult meal that children are very, very fortunate to get to experience.
Did you know when you finished this record that you’d done something good? Yes. But I didn’t know that until the last day we were in the studio and we listened to everything, top to bottom. The six days in the studio that we recorded this record, I was s—ing myself: “What the f— have I done? Why did I come to New York and waste all this time and money? This is terrible.” Then on the last day we listened all the way through, and I was like, Finally.
Finally what? I just felt like I never was as focused and convicted and bought-in as I was on this record. I felt kind of desperate — like, “Am I just gonna keep doing the same thing, or are we gonna go get uncomfortable?”
Why New York? One reason is that city makes me feel like a rock star. In my head when I was in high school dreaming about being a songwriter or a country singer, I was picturing huge budgets, making badass albums in New York City or L.A., staying in dope hotels — just this fairy tale that you believe in. The other reason is that when you’re cutting records in Nashville, people are leaving at 5 to go pick up their kids, or the label’s stopping by and all this s—. I just wanted to avoid all of that — I didn’t want to record three songs on a Tuesday in June and then record three songs on a Tuesday in August. I wanted to go make a record.
Lot of history at Power Station: Chic, Bruce Springsteen, David Bowie. John Mayer wrote a song and recorded it in a day there — that song “In Repair,” with him and Charlie Hunter and Steve Jordan. That’s how I found out about the studio years ago. We actually ended up writing a song in the studio: “New York Is On Fire.”
A very John Mayer title. I wanted to go in the late fall when the trees were changing colors and the air was cool.
Why was Frank Liddell the guy to produce? I knew if he understood Chris Knight and the songs he had written that he could probably understand me and the songs I had written. I’d made half a record with Jon Randall, who’d produced my last two albums. And I love Jon Randall — he’s one of my closest friends in the world, four No. 1s together, multi-platinum this and multi-platinum that. But I just needed to dig deeper, and Frank was a guy who was down to let the songs do the work.
What do you think would’ve become of the record you were making with Randall? It would’ve sounded great, and it would’ve had some success. But I don’t know if I would’ve been as emotionally involved as I was with Frank. Frank got a better version of me than Jon did.
What if nobody likes this record? It’s like the first time I’m totally OK with that.
Country radio moves slowly, which means “What Kinda Man” may end up being a big hit. But it’s not a big hit yet. It probably won’t be. The only reason that song went to radio is because “Burn It Down” had gone No. 1, and the label wanted another one. I was like, “Fine, go ahead.” I’ve never one time talked with them about what song should go to radio.
On this project. Ever. I just don’t care. The song that goes to radio is very rarely the best song on the record.
What was the best song on “Never Enough”? Probably “Too Tight This Time.” It’s slow and sad, which is my specialty.
You recently told Texas Monthly, “I don’t write fun songs. I’ve never really liked them.” There’s some I like. “Always Be My Baby” by Mariah Carey f—ing slaps. I love feel-good songs. But in country music, feel-good songs are, like, beer-and-truck-and-Friday-night songs, and those have never done anything for me.
“What Kinda Man” is kind of fun. But I think it’s still well-written. It’s not all the clichés that every song on the radio has in it.
What’s the best song on this album? “Hope That I’m Enough” or “Solid Country Gold” or “My Worst Enemy” or “My Blue.”
Lot of choices. I love this record. I don’t think I’ll ever do any better.
Is that a sad thought? Eh. I don’t know how much longer I’m gonna do it anyways.
Why would you hang it up? I don’t know that I’m going to. But I don’t think I’m gonna do this till I’m 70. We’ve been doing these stadium shows with George Strait — I think I’m out a lot sooner than him.
You watch Strait’s set? Every night.
What have you learned from him? When it comes to George, what I really pay attention to is everything off the stage. No scandals, so unbelievably humble and consistent and under the radar. The way he’s carried himself for 40 years — I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody else do it that well. I’d love to be the next George Strait off the stage.
I’m not sure his under-the-radar-ness is possible today. I fight with my team all the time. They’re always trying to get my wife and kid in s—, and I’m like, “They’re not for sale.” I understand I have to be a little bit — it’s just the nature of the business. But at home, that’s the real deal — that ain’t for show.
“I can’t explain how deeply emotional songs make me — it controls my entire being,” McCollum says. “The right song in the right moment is everything to me.”
(Matt Seidel / For The Times)
I’d imagine People magazine would love to do a spread with you and your beautiful wife and your beautiful child. They offered for the wedding. I was like, “Abso-f—ing-lutely not.” I don’t want anybody to know where I live or what I drive or what I do in my spare time. And nowadays that’s currency — people filming their entire lives. Call me the old man, but I’m trying to go the complete opposite direction of that.
One could argue that your resistance isn’t helpful for your career. I’m fine with that.
Fine because you’re OK money-wise? I’m sure that plays into it. But, man, my childhood is in a box in my mom’s attic. And nowadays everybody’s childhood is on the internet for the whole world to see. I’m just not down with that. I don’t want to make money off of showing everybody how great my life is. Because it is f—ing great. I feel like I could make $100 million a year if I was a YouTuber — it’s movie s—. The way it started, the way I came up, the woman I married, the child I had — there’s no holes.
Where does the pain in your music come from? I’ve thought about that for a long time. I don’t think it’s the entire answer, but I think if your parents divorced when you were little, for the rest of your life there’s gonna be something inside you that’s broken. My parents’ divorce was pretty rowdy, and I remember a lot of it. And I don’t think those things ever fully go away.
How do you think about the relationship between masculinity and stoicism? It never crosses my mind.
Is your dad a guy who talks about his feelings? F— no.
Was he scary? I think he could be. My dad’s the s—. He’s the baddest son of a bitch I’ve ever met in my life.
What image of masculinity do you want to project for your son? When I think about raising Major, I just want him to want to win. Can fully understand you’re not always going to, but you should always want to, no matter what’s going on. I hope he’s a winner.
When’s the last time you cried? Actually wasn’t very long ago. A good friend of mine died — Ben Vaughn, who was the president of my publishing company in Nashville. I played “L.A. Freeway,” the Guy Clark song, at his memorial service a couple weeks ago. That got me pretty good.
You said you’re OK if fans don’t like this record. I don’t need anyone else to like it. I hope that they love it — I hope it hits them right in the f—ing gut and that these songs are the ones they go listen to in 10 years when they want to feel like they did 10 years ago. That’s what music does for me. But I know not everybody feels music as intensely as I do.
Was that true for you as a kid? Even 6, 7, 8 years old, I’d listen to a song on repeat over and over and over again. I can’t explain how deeply emotional songs make me — it controls my entire being. The right song in the right moment is everything to me. Where I live, there’s a road called River Road, in the Hill Country in Texas. It’s the most gorgeous place you’ve ever been in your life, and I’ll go drive it. I know the exact minute that I should be there in the afternoons at this time of year to catch the light through the trees, and I’ll have the songs I’m gonna play while I’m driving that road.
You know what song you want to hear at a certain bend in the road. Probably a little psychotic.
Are you one of these guys who wants the towels to hang on the rack just so? I like things very clean and organized.
Is that because you grew up in that kind of environment or because you grew up in the opposite? My mom was very clean and organized. But I don’t know — I’ve never one time gone to bed with dirty dishes in the sink. My wife cooks dinner all the time when I’m home, and as soon as we’re done, I do all the dishes and load the dishwasher and wipe the counters down.
You could never just chill and let it go. No, it’s messy. It’s gross.
Parker McCollum performs at the Stagecoach festival in 2023.
(Allen J. Schaben / Los Angeles Times)
Do people ever interpret your intensity as, “This dude’s kind of a d—?” People would always tell me I was cocky, and I’d be like, I don’t feel cocky at all. I was raised to have great manners: take my hat off when I meet a lady, look somebody in the eye with a firm handshake, “Yes, ma’am,” “No, ma’am,” “Yes, sir,” “No, sir,” no matter the age or the gender of the person. Manners were such a crazy thing in my childhood — it’s the only way I know how to speak to people. So I’ve always thought it was so weird, in high school, girls would be like, “Oh, you’re so cocky.”
I mean, I’ve seen the “What Kinda Man” video. You obviously know you look cool. I don’t think that at all. I think I look kind of dumb.
I’m not sure whether to believe you. I couldn’t be more serious. This is very weird for me to say, but Frank finally put into words what I’ve always felt with every photographer, anybody I’ve ever worked with in the business since I was 19 years old — he said, “This record sounds like Parker’s heart and mind and not his face.” The fact that I’m not 5-foot-7 with a beard and covered in tattoos — it’s like nobody ever thinks that the songs are gonna have any integrity.
Boo-hoo for the pretty boy. People always called me “Hollywood,” “pretty boy,” all this stuff. I guess it’s better than calling you a f—ing fat-ass. But I’ve never tried to capitalize on that at any point in time. I’ve always just wanted to be a songwriter.
But you know how to dress. Kind of?
Come on, man — the gold chains, the Lucchese boots. That’s all to compensate for the fact that I don’t know what the f— to wear. I know I like gold and diamonds. Loved rappers when I was younger. Waylon Jennings wore gold chains and diamonds, Johnny Cash did — they always looked dope. I was always like, I want to do that too.
If the fans’ approval isn’t crucial, whose approval does mean something to you? George Strait. John Mayer. Steve Earle. My older brother. My dad.
You know Mayer? We’ve talked on Instagram.
Why is he such a big one for you? The commitment to the craft, I think, is what I’ve admired so much about him. It’s funny: When I was younger, I always said I was never gonna get married and have kids because I knew John Mayer was never going to, and I really respected how he was just gonna chase whatever it is that he was chasing forever. Then he got into records like “The Search for Everything” and “Sob Rock,” and he kind of hints at the fact that he missed out on that — he wishes he had a wife, wishes he had kids. That really resonated with me. I was like, all right, I don’t want to be 40 and alone. It completely changed my entire perspective on my future.
You played “Courtesy Of The Red, White And Blue” by the late Toby Keith at one of Donald Trump’s inaugural balls in January. What do you like about that song? I bleed red, white and blue. I’m all about the United States of America — I’m all about what it stands for. A lot of people get turned off by that nowadays. I don’t care — I’m not worried about if you’re patriotic or not. But Toby was a great songwriter, and I love how much he loved his country.
In that Texas Monthly interview, you said you felt it was embarrassing for people to be affected emotionally by an artist’s political affiliation. Nobody used to talk about it, and now it’s so polarizing. Am I not gonna listen to Neil Young now? I’m gonna listen to Neil Young all the f—ing time.
Why do you think audiences started caring? Social media and the constant flood of information and political propaganda that people are absorbing around the clock. It’s just so dumb. I’ve got guys in my band and in my crew that are conservative and guys that are liberal. It makes no difference to me.
Of course you knew how your involvement with Trump would be taken. Think about being 16, wanting to be a country singer, then getting to go play the presidential inauguration. What a crazy honor. There’s not a single president in history who was perfect — not a single one that didn’t do something wrong, not a single one that only did wrong. I just don’t care what people think about that stuff. Everybody feels different about things, and nowadays it’s like two sides of the fence — you either agree with this or you agree with that. I’m not that way.
What do you think happens next for you? This is the only record I’ve ever made that I didn’t think about that as soon as I walked out of the studio. I have no idea what the next record is gonna be. Not a clue.
If we meet again in two years and you’ve made a record full of trap beats, what would that mean? Probably that I was on drugs again.
Chad Rivera gingerly makes his way to the edge of what looks like an emptied out swimming pool, a lime-green skateboard in one hand, a white cane in the other. At 58, he’s legally blind, but he’s been skateboarding since he was 5, so what’s about to happen is part muscle memory, part “trust fall.”
Deathracer Chad Rivera is 58 and blind, but says he’ll never give up skateboarding.
Dozens of other skateboarders — mostly men in their 50s and 60s decked out in skating gear — roll along the periphery, watching on, at Encinitas Skate Park near San Diego. It’s not yet 11 a.m., but punk music blasts from the speakers, punctuated by the rumbling and clanking of skateboard wheels on concrete.
Standing at the deep end, Rivera considers the pool bowl’s nine-foot concrete walls. He sets down his white cane and secures the tail of his board on the pool’s rim with one foot, the rest of the board hanging in the air, like a mini diving board. He then steps onto the front of the board with his other foot and throws his body weight forward, “dropping in.”
He races down and around the sides of the walls before flipping around and landing back up on the pool deck.
It’s a frightening move to watch, but Rivera now beams, triumphant, eyes shining.
“Woo! Feel it and kill it,” says Rivera, a retired grape grower who’s suffered from a rare optic nerve disease since he was 22. “It always feels good, so I keep doing it. I’ll never stop, no matter how old I get.”
Rivera is a member of Deathracer413, a group of older skateboarders who believe that skateboarding is their key to longevity. They grew up amid the ’70s and ’80s skate scene and are as passionate about the sport as when they were teens. Many of them are now retired and the joy they get from skateboarding, the sense of community and the health benefits, such as core strength and balance, keep them young, they say. The inherent danger gives them an adrenaline rush that, they argue, keeps their brains sharp.
“Our slogan is: Keep dropping in or you’ll be dropping out,” says the group’s founder, Doug Marker, a former professional skateboarder and retired construction worker who’s lived in San Diego his entire life. Marker, who also surfs, plays guitar and rides motorcycles, is 63 going on 16, with silver hair and a skate-park suntan. On this Saturday morning, he’s wearing baggy shorts, Vans sneakers and a graphic T-shirt featuring “Death Racer” in heavy metal band-like typography.
“Knowing you can get hurt keeps you ultra-focused,” Marker says. “And trusting that you can do it — believing in yourself — is hugely empowering. I keep dropping in, I keep going. It’s put me into a bubble where I never feel like I’m getting older.”
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Marker founded Deathracer413 in 2011 to draw like-minded people who are “living life to the fullest,” he says. The name Deathracer reminded him of a motorcycle club and 413 are his initials, numerically. It was just a loose social affiliation at first, but in 2020 Marker launched the Deathracer413 Road Show, an invitation to join him in skating a different skate park every Saturday.
Deathracer413 now includes former and current pro skateboarders doing tricks alongside average enthusiasts and late-life skating newbies. There are a handful of women in the group as well as a few children honing their skills with the masters.
Marker estimates there are about 1,300 members of the group internationally, though typically only about 20-30 locals attend on any given Saturday. He welcomes anyone into the club and mails them a “welcome letter” and custom Deathracer413 patch that he designed. Hundreds of recipients remain members from afar, kindred spirits who share a “full throttle” outlook on life and participate via social media. Others have trekked from Australia, Germany, Belgium and the UK to skate with Deathracer413.
“’Cause now everybody’s retired and can travel,” Marker says. “They’re finding destinations to come and skateboard and San Diego’s a top one. So they come.”
‘I’ll stop when my body tells me to stop’
The deathracers catch up with one another, fist bumping and drinking beers, as one of them drops into the pool bowl.
As Deathracer413 celebrates its 200th skating session, the vibe is affectionate and rambunctious, jovial retiree backyard barbecue meets heavily tattooed skater meetup. More than 50 members — many with bushy gray beards, paunchy bellies and caps reading “The Goonies: Never Say Die” or “Independent” — mingle on the pool deck, cracking open beers, fist-bumping one another and catching up on life as the Ramones’ “I Wanna Be Sedated” fades into Bikini Kill’s “Rebel Girl” on the sound system.
The skaters drop into the pool one after another — swirling and swooshing around, “carving” and “grinding,” before popping back up — in such tight succession it feels choreographed. It’s as if we’re inside a pinball machine, with tiny objects orbiting around one another maniacally, wheels spinning, helmets twisting, boards whizzing by or flying into the air before crashing back down. Every so often someone wipes out, sliding across the pool bottom, sparking cheers of encouragement.
“I feel like the older I get the more I worry about getting hurt — because it lasts longer,” admits skateboarding legend Steve Caballero, 60. “If you think about it, it’s kind of a scary sport. You can get really hurt.”
Caballero has been a pro skateboarder since he was 15 and fear doesn’t stop him today — “I’ll stop when my body tells me to stop,” he says. He performs one of his signature moves, sliding along the rim of the pool on the skateboard truck instead of the wheels. No small feat for a body that’s endured more than 45 years of extreme athletics. A documentary about his life, “Steve Caballero: The Legend of the Dragon,” debuts this November.
Legendary skateboarder and deathracer Steve Caballero, 60, has been pro since he was 15.
“It definitely keeps me in shape,” he says. “It keeps me youthful-thinking, staying creative and being challenged. I think when people get older they quit doing these things because they feel like they should. I’m trying to show people, hey, even in your older age you can still have fun and challenge yourself.”
The feeling of freedom, the thrill of sailing through the air, is worth the risk to Barry Blumenthal, 60, a retired stockbroker.
“I’m more worried about crashing my car. I mean, I wear gear in here,” Blumenthal says. “Skating is just extreme fun where you can’t help but grin. It’s kid-like. It’s a fountain of youth experience. You’re chasing stoke.”
Pushing the boundaries of skating
Wiping out is part of the process, the Deathracers say. It’s still “kid-like” fun, “a fountain of youth experience.”
No doubt “dropping in” and “chasing stoke” for eternity would be “rad.” But is there any validity to Deathracer413’s claims that skateboarding promotes health and longevity?
“I’d worry about fractures,” says Dr. Jeremy Swisher, a UCLA sports medicine physician. “As you get older, it takes the body longer to heal. But it comes down to a risk-benefit analysis. The endorphins, the adrenaline — the joy of it — as well as the new challenges that stress the mind in a good way would be very mentally stimulating. You’re forming new neural pathways as you’re trying new moves. It would help keep the brain young and fresh.”
“I race cars for a hobby, and I know what that does for my aging,” adds Dr. Eric Verdin, president and chief executive of the Buck Institute for Research on Aging in Northern California. “Finding a thing that you’re passionate about, having a sense of community, not to mention the balance and motor coordination — skateboarding is extremely physical — all of that is part of healthy aging.”
Skateboarding has been around in California since the 1950s — a way to recreate surfing, but on dry land. “Vertical skateboarding,” which the Deathracers partake in, grew out of SoCal kids commandeering emptied backyard swimming pools. It was especially prevalent during the 1976-77 drought, when residents had to drain their pools and kids began performing elaborate airborne tricks. Skate parks emerged and “vert skating,” as it was dubbed, became a phenomenon.
Doug Marker, founder of Deathracer413, shows off the ring and patch he designed, bearing the group’s name.
The first park in California opened in Carlsbad in 1976 and the San Diego area is still considered a central hub for the sport. So today there’s a critical mass of ’70s and ’80s-era skateboarding devotees who still live nearby. That’s why Deathracer413 — the only club of its kind in the area, Marker says — has so many active members.
“There hasn’t ever been 60-year-plus [vert skaters] before,” Marker says. “The sport’s not that old. So that’s kind of our thing — we’re just gonna keep pushing the bar.”
In that sense, Deathracer413 is more than a subcultural vestige — its members present a sports medicine study of sorts, says Michael Burnett, editor in chief of “Thrasher Magazine,” a longtime skateboarding publication.
“A lot of people here are older than me,” says John Preston Brooks, 56.
“There were a few old-guy outliers, but this is the first generation of older skaters,” Burnett says. “We’re now witnessing how long someone can physically skateboard for — this is the test. It’s uncharted territory.”
Still, many of the Deathracers have modifed their skating techniques as they’ve aged. Marker says he now skates within 80-85% of his ability range to be safe. Others admit that the inevitable — death — is on their minds.
“As an older adult, you can get into your head about, oh, how much time do I have left?” says John Preston Brooks, 56. “But a lot of people here are older than me and it just makes me realize I got a lot more time to do the things I love and make the best of life.”
David Skinner, 60, a retired school teacher, says he’s realistic about his physical limits.
“A lot of us have health issues,” he says. “We’re not necessarily trying to cheat death, but we’re definitely trying to stay ahead. We know it’s coming, but we wanna keep dropping in and having fun, and this gives us a venue to do it.
A brotherhood, even if you no longer skate
As the day grinds on, the skate session morphs into an actual barbecue. Marker fires up the grill, tossing on an assortment of meat: burgers, bratwursts, hot dogs. Plumes of aromatic smoke float over the pool bowl, which is still getting some action.
Lance Smith, 74, stands off to the side of the bowl, a Coors Light in one hand, a Nikon camera in the other. With his dark sunglasses, soul patch of facial hair above his chin and trucker hat that reads “Old Bro,” he appears like someone’s cool great-uncle. He can’t skate anymore due to three replacements — two hip, one knee — after years of skateboarding injuries. (“I wouldn’t trade it for anything,” he says.) But Smith, who documented the SoCal skateboarding scene in the ’70s and photo edited the book “Tracker: Forty Years of Skateboard History,” still attends Deathracer413 events nearly every Saturday. He photographs club members in action.
Doug Marker mans the grill as the afternoon skate session morphs into a barbecue.
“It’s the community,” Smith says, stretching out his arm and snapping a passing skater. “I get enjoyment out of shooting pictures and seeing my friends skateboard. And, yeah, drinking a Coors Light.”
Deathracer413 is both a brotherhood and a sisterhood, says Tuli Lam, 31, a physical therapy student and one of the only women skaters in attendance today. “When I’m here, I’m just one of the guys. We’re bonded by skating.”
That camaraderie is evident when the group presents Marker with a gift of thanks.
“OK, gather round! Bring it in!” yells Lansing Pope, 58.
The skaters crowd around, stretching their necks to see what’s in the wrapped box Marker is tearing open.
“It’s a knee brace!” someone yells.
“It’s a crutch!” says another.
“Something for his prostate?” jokes a third.
“Whoa, super dope,” Marker says. (It’s a leather Deathracer413 bedroll for his motorcycle.) “I’m super stoked.”
The skateboarders presented Doug Marker with a gift, a custom Deathracer413 bedroll for his motorcycle.
“Till your wheels fall off!” several guys scream in unison, fists in the air.
Then, as if on cue, the skaters disperse around the pool bowl, streaming in and out of it, the sound of rattling wheels and screeching metal on concrete filling the space.
Tye Donnelly, 54, surveys the scene from a nearby picnic table, an electric guitar on his lap. He noodles on it, playing a mix of Black Sabbath and reggae.
“When I was 18, I never thought I’d be the old age of 20 and still skateboarding,” he says. “At 54, I thought I’d have a hat on, a suit, with a newspaper. But it turns out you can skateboard your whole life. And I’m thankful for this group — because it wasn’t like this back in the day.”
Caballero sums up senior skateboarding best: “This is the new bingo.”
