To my great surprise, JP asked for a skateboard for his sixth birthday this year, which was at the end of last month. Great surprise, I say, because he’s never expressed any interest in skateboarding before, I don’t skateboard, and as far as I know, none of his close friends skateboard. But he wanted it, I couldn’t think of any reason he shouldn’t have it, and so I bought him one, at this store in Brooklyn called, for some reason, Hommage.
Only problem with said gift is that skating is relatively dangerous and I can’t show JP how to do it. So, I took the fateful and gloriously uncool step of arranging for a skate LESSON for JP. This sucks on a variety of levels. First, you shouldn’t be taught how to skate, right? It’s something you master on your own, after much practice and loss of blood and teeth. Second, if you are going to be taught how to do it, shouldn’t the teacher be your father? I’m afraid that is beyond my admittedly limited athletic capacities, even if my arm wasn’t still useless after my bike accident. Thus, professional skate education awaits JP, at $30 a lesson.
Of course, as I understand it, Matt is a skilled skater. Perhaps, with a little encouragement, he could be prevailed upon to show JP a few things, and in the process save me some dough and alleviate the need of the skate dudes at the skate shop knowing that I can’t skate. I’d never think to ask Matt such a thing, but maybe, just maybe, he’ll think of it himself.