Waxing the Curb

The Psychoanalytic Skatepark 
     Dan Graham, Skateboard Pavilion, 1989. 

Review: Turkey Neck TV


They go by Vic the Prick, Lil Zay, Turk, and Aidan Fuller666. Shay, Tripp, Chubbs, Sloth, Pat Pouder, and Drunk Sean. But we don’t find this out until the credits roll on Turkey Neck TV, a video from a roughneck crew of Bay Area-based skaters. The rest of the video documents this underground network skating their local skateparks and DIYs, and only at the end, when the theme song from the 1980 teensploitation film, Skateboard Madness cues the handwritten title cards, do we learn their vulgar monikers. The gesture comes off as standoffish at first, the need-to-know basis of personal information demonstrating that the macho, locals-only mentality is still alive, in spite of a skateworld defined by greater inclusivity and diversity. But taken in a broader context of the Bay Area, where income inequality and a housing crisis have brought class and racial tension to a fever pitch, the group’s refusnik ethos puts forth a rather decent code of conduct: amateurs and pros, lurkers, park sharks, hangers-on, builders, and the guy behind the camera are all given equal billing. Access is granted so long as they contribute some kind of work. It’s like a union, this crew. To skating, every member pays their dues.

This is no grassroots campaign, however. Turkey Neck TV depicts a group of misfits, fuck ups, and nincompoops through and through. The video is fashioned after Real TV, a late-90s reality show on which skating often appeared sandwiched between car accidents, powertool mishaps, failed robberies, animal attacks, and other instances of idiocy—its scripted dramatization of events also situated it in a daytime, rather than prime time slot. Emulating the original, TNTv is broken up into segments, with each dedicated to a single skatepark: Berkely, Lower Bobs, Bolinas, and Chaka’s Ramp. The effect is to put emphasis on the session, rather than the individual skater, and though each segment comes off like a laundry list of who happened to show up that day, everyone rips. At Berkeley park, one guy snaps a backside blunt off the coping like a rubberband on a bare leg, making a quick exit to the other side of the bowl as if to avoid retribution. Later, another shirtless skater props himself on a frontside 5-0 with such precision that he resembles a stationary paper cut-out being pushed around the coping by some invisible hand. The segment includes plenty of dork tricks: a body varial rock and roll on an awkward two-foot section built on the side of a bowl. A clip of some old guy doing a Bertlemann is thrown in, too.
Given the reference to Real TV, it should come as no surprise that plenty of skaters also fall flat on their face. Slams range in severity, from aborted handplants to Baker-makers, from cartwheels and run-outs to the type of deck check that invariably returns the skater back to earth head first. The filming and editing, too, keep the video from approaching the heroic. At Chaka’s Ramp, one guy is shown doing the same handplant multiple times, in a display about the finer points of ramps with steep transitions. The repetition, however, dulls the sense of accomplishment. In other segments, a guy’s best trick is buried under a whole run, including its conclusion, when he heaves himself exhaustedly onto the deck. Overall, the video makes a good point about skateparks: filled with people just needing someplace to go, the scene often represents a distorted version of reality. In short, TV and the skatepark are both good ways to kill time on a bored afternoon.

Other facets of the video stage it more as a sketch comedy show, and lay bare the group’s mordant sense of humor. In the very first clip, two guys play stickball with a videocamera, accompanied by a voiceover from comedian George Carlin: “I think the very idea that you can set off a bomb in a marketplace and kill several hundred people is exciting and stimulating and I see it as a form of entertainment.” Skateboarding has always been considered a gimmick, sold on the basis of equal parts rebellion and destruction, something this group parodies in its practiced idiocy, bow-legged balletics, or, in one particular clip, confronting us with the image of one member as he strokes the blunt edge of a knife across his armpit and neck. By adopting Carlin, another free-thinking outsider who made a career of dissecting the language of power, this crew similarly sees skating as a form of “punching-up,” that skating is low-grade civil disobedience, a way to take the piss out of authority figures. Perhaps from within the group, that is the impact they seek, but taken out of context, like Carlin’s quote, their comic foibles come off as aggressive. As recent events illustrate, comedy is no sure fire pressure valve: its a fine line between grievances with the establishment, and posing an actual threat to others.

Later, Carlin is brought in to do the dirty work, again. “I don’t know which is worse: the jogger ass holes or the bicycle riding creeps,” he says. “They’re basically riding a toy, but they try to act mature by giving hand signals...I’ll tell you where you’re going. You’re going
30 feet up in the fucking the air is where you’re going.” It accompanies footage of uniformed cyclists climbing a hill, a common hobby of Bay Area technocrats, and is clearly meant as a jab at the city’s elite. It doesn’t take much imagination, as a later clip might suggest, that skaters and cyclists could find common ground in bombing hills, though cycling for fitness is a far cry from this crew’s more self-destructive ethos. Nonetheless, the joke brings some clarity to a rant by one of the crew members. Mid-toke, he complains about the inauthenticity of fashion—chiefly, a guy wearing chinos and low-top Vans—and argues that, though he’s not from Oakland, anyone coming to the spot and playing it safe—basically, not completely destroying themselves—doesn’t deserve his respect. “Trippin’,” he says, “trippin’.” It lays out the crew’s honor code and sense of sacrifice: go hard, because others put their money and labor into this. Or go hard, because others can’t: the video is dedicated to the memory of Thrasher editor, Jake Phelps, filmer, Preston “P-Stone” Margietta, and progenitor of the DIY skatepark movement, Mark Hubbard, all of whom died in the last two years. The rant also pulls back the curtain on what comedy lets the crew get away with, namely that tell-it-like-it-is insights mask a deeper, and more violent expression of rage.

Comedy does serve another function throughout the video: to steer the crew’s antics toward pratfalls and slapstick. How else would they feel comfortable putting forth a self-portrait? The video includes an infamous sketch from Saturday Night Live, in which Chris Farley plays Matt Folley, a motivational speaker who has been hired to talk sense into a teenager played by David Spade. The clip is best known for Farley’s eternal warning—“When you’re living in a van down by the river”—but it’s conclusion is no less noteworthy. Having worked himself into a froth, Farley fumbles over his own body, and falls onto a coffee table, completely flattening it. The pratfall seems like the perfect conclusion to something TNTv started in a segment focused on Lower Bobs, the Oakland-based DIY at the center of their operations. A burning christmas tree introduces the skating. Later, it reappears as a high-bar, and two skaters pull a doubles routine ollying over it. Obviously, these guys don’t suffer from lack of athleticism, as we might assume of Farley’s hey-fatso routine, but their skating does borrow something from the abject cast of his comedy. In fact, abjection offers a clue for why skaters would want to occupy overlooked public space, as Bobs is located on Department of Transportation land, and
insight into what is so fun about leaping over old garbage. Farley’s inclusion puts forth the idea that skating, too, is body comedy. The set up is that you don’t fit in anywhere. The punchline is to put your person where it doesn’t belong.

From within skating, Anti-Hero and old Thrasher videos are the most obvious influence on TNTv. It’s practically a Hollywood feature compared with Fucktards (1997) and Cow (1998), which register somewhere between spontaneous, careless, and slovenly (I might also call it whimsical and capricious, but god forbid, it’s straight white men I’m writing about). Similar to these earlier videos, TNTv only gets better when it veers away from its initial structure, seeming to get distracted by the skating itself. Toward the end of the video is Whatnots, a grab bag of footage from various skateparks. One skater is deservedly given a micro-part after he surgically disassembles a cramped, pre-fab skatepark, using speed to stitch all the wasted space—a defining feature of these types of facilities—into the connective tissue of a trick. Example: a backside powerslide that drifts blindly across the deck of a wedge ramp. It must have felt as good as it looks, because the skater shows no concern for anything but the screeching wheels until the slope of an adjacent ramp reminds him that landing it remains an option. One of those rare clips that adequately conveys the rewards of breaking from skatepark convention.

By the time the credits roll, TNTv has given plenty of reasons—good and bad—to want to know who these people are. Though the cast list is mostly made up of first names. The video closes on a blooper real, showing half-completed runs, bails, and other noteworthy outtakes. One guy trie to air between the two walls of a narrow ditch, but is left boardless, standing there, stupefied. The credits’ in-video sidebars are also the only time we glimpse the work they put into skateparks like Lower Bobs. Beers are passed between the guys, as is the jambox, while they mold freshly poured concrete into the latest addition to the park, or reshape some earlier segment that required reenvisioning or repairs. From the looks of it, build-outs are an occasion to celebrate. As the men work on, a party seems to grow around them, the disused grounds around Lower Bobs garnering a collegial atmosphere. They have a lot of members, but it must still mean a lot to be part of this crew. Now that I know their names, the only question I have is this: besides SNL and TNTv, how many groups can actually count Chris Farley as a member?  •••

Review: Industrial Light & Magic


At the 1:05 mark of Industrial Light & Magic, the latest video release from Fucking Awesome/Hockey, the camera pans from an enticing bank spot to the skaters themselves. They are huddled together in an alcove at the foot of a stairwell, away from the action. Unphased by their surroundings, and even less interested in the scene unfolding around the corner, they barely notice that the camera has turned in their direction, giving the impression of a group of weary performers waiting backstage. Tellingly, no one seems to have his board with him. FA/Hockey has certainly made the rounds since the release of Cherry, the video that introduced most of these skaters to the world in 2014, and this scene captures the ennui and in-betweenness of the ensuing five years. It can be a challenge to keep the schtick fresh, especially for this group of taste-makers, but, they took the act on the road like a travelling circus, hoping to find new inspiration on the streets of Europe. For the most part, the magic is still there.

FA/Hockey distills its allure from a combination of ability and persona—a trick, for these skaters, depends on skill as well as wit—and the companies’ founders, each of whom represents one of these two poles, introduce the show. First, Strong Man Anthony Van Engelen performs twin feats of strength. His choice of tricks is modest, a switch kickflip and switch heelflip, respectively, but he snaps each one with the unflinching resolve of a black belt breaking a stack of bricks at a karate convention. He just utterly pulverizes them. Jason Dill, the company’s flamboyant barker, soon relieves his companion, swooning the crowd with a beguiling impossible. The next two clips are more irksome: a nose manual, ordinarily a benign trick, exudes perversion when Dill balances it across the surface of a discarded mattress, and he comes off like a complete fool when he slams on a primo slide, a hackneyed freestyle maneuver. The tricks are intended to shock—indeed, such strategies are at the heart of the FA/Hockey act, evident in their graphics, which court taboo, or even their name, which harkens to the convoluted rights surrounding freedom of expression. The spectacle nonetheless makes his great escape all the more stupefying: he wedges himself onto a bench for a boardslide, only to pop out the opposite edge as if by trap door.

The rest of the bill includes Andrew Allen’s poetic clown routine. When he backside flips into an especially gritty bank located in some brutalist courtyard, the trick wilts down the steep slope like a dying flower in a vase. On trapeze is Sage Elsesser. The average person might find his repertoire a bit limited, but a tailslide, an impossible, and a really high ollie done at such heights permit each trick its fullest expression of grace. For his grand finale, Elsesser heelflips over a guard rail like a feather caught in an updraft, unencumbered by the uneven ceramic tiles on the landing as he drifts down the ensuing bank to drop. Elsewhere, the One-Man Freakshow, Ben Kadow never ceases to shock and disgust with his

eccentric skating. Watching him contort a nollie-front shuv into a manual is absolutely putrefying—his legs are as stiff as a corpse suffering rigamortis. And then there’s Dr. Disaster, the bespectacled Diego Todd. His style has a frenetic magnetism about it, making the chaos of city life appear perfectly timed to his skating; comparisons could be made to Buster Keaton. This quality brings a true thrill to the wallride he pitches into the widening void above a set stairs, or a street grab that detonates under his feet. His slams are also the result of an invisible choreography. Even though it was Todd’s own momentum that drove him headfirst into a wooden bench, the stationary object appears to rise up to meet him.

Other aspects of Industrial Light & Magic are less convincing. It doesn’t necessarily have to look fun—for some people, skating is more metier than hobby—but the video seems overly art directed when the skating isn’t commensurate with the fashion or attitude of the skater. This situation is illustrated most starkly in the case of Kevin Rodrigues. The guy clings to walls like a bat, as when he nollie wallies over a guard rail. It really suits his post-punk persona that his preferred bag of tricks, slappies and wallies, often poses him like a vampire about to pounce on his next victim, but an overall scarcity of footage—this is his only clip—suggests that his melodramatic sensibility doesn’t respond well when taken out of Paris, his native habitat. Sean Pablo, another skater who built his style on simplicity and execution, similarly banks his reputation on scarcity, but it is tough to balance the ledger when the only line item is a backside salad grind—pardon the pun, but he seems a bit out to lunch on this one. Perhaps this is why the video is called Industrial Light & Magic. It borrows its name from the special effects studio George Lucas founded in 1975, and which hatched the immersive movie universes of Star Wars, Indiana Jones, Back to the Future, Terminator II, and Jurassic Park. Yet, when applied to FA/Hockey operations, the title rings sarcastic, and draws attention to the oblique nature of the companies’ branding, and the deliberate gaslighting of their intentions (skaters, afterall, are frequently categorized as fuck bois). Of course, tour videos are a narrow window onto an individual skater’s abilities, and the demands of shoe companies, from which skaters receive their largest paycheck, frequently limit the amount of footage available for other video productions. Still, there are moments when Industrial Light & Magic shrugs at the audience, as if to say, it’s a lifestyle, man.

What saves the video, and ensures that the FA/Hockey circus is a legit affair, is the skating of Louie Lopez and Kevin Bradley. Their skating is so impressive, that, together, they represent a money-back guarantee for anyone who buys into the hype. The video doubles as an introduction for Lopez, the newest addition to FA. His inclusion on the team is surprising: the former child prodigy, and current Olympian, selected to represent the United States at the 2020 Tokyo
Olympic Games, at first seems out of character for a brand that promotes skating as a cliquish subculture. Lopez’s relationship to the act of skateboarding also differs from his teammates: skating is his public persona, whereas most members of FA/Hockey supplement their professional identity with other creative pursuits (i.e. music, DJing, art, etc). The contrast extends to the language I would use to articulate his particular talent. So pure and unadorned is his style, and yet so well-rounded is his grasp of tricks, that a straightforward enumeration of the first four lines of his part is all that’s required to convey his skating’s uncanny significance: nollie half-cab crooks revert followed by a back tail bigspin; nollie half-cab crooks revert, back tail 360, then frontside 360 on flat; front blunt, back noseblunt pop out, back 180 switch nosegrind fakie front shuv; and a frontside flip accompanied by a fakie noseslide switch flip fakie.

To the uninitiated, this list might simply come off as nonsensical babble, and to those fluent in the dialects, it could be read as a parody of skaterese, but whether falsity or farce, both interpretations illustrate how even the most weathered skater is reduced to boyish fandom when Lopez pops out of a back noseblunt; doing the trick midway through the line, rather than as a flashy ender, only reinforces the lesson that there is equal value in all tricks. Later, when he returns to fakie after starting fakie, it offers skateboarding’s equivalent to profound funerary verse. Of course, to anyone watching Lopez’s performance, the tricks comes off like small miracles. No fashion distracts from their pure appeal—his austere uniform comprises straight-legged dickies and a short-sleeve t-shirt over one with long sleeves. No attitude supplements his ability—at most, we might glimpse a celebratory smile. In the end, Lopez is so good, that his kickflip, that most pious of all flips tricks, which he does with an angelic flick, threatens to make good men of FA/Hockey, who ordinarily traffic in idols and graven images. 

Lopez’s abilities call into question the role personality plays in the un-sport of skating. In the absence of a universal scoring system, or any written rules whatsoever, skating lacks an objective criteria to differentiate between professionals and amateurs. Historically, there are clear signifiers that differentiate the two categories: one’s name on a board, visibility in skate media, the ability to support oneself through royalties. Skateboarders were influencers long before the category existed: professional status was a matter of corporate sponsorship, rather than games won or points scored; careers were the product of collective identification, and therefore the ability to sell branded products. Because skateboarding maintained its status as a subculture, and global mega-brands found it difficult to enter the market until the mid 2000s, the business side of skating was seen as a very local ecosystem, in which money recirculated within a small community. Skateboarder personal connection to brands primed it for the current paradigm of social media, which reduces culture to an atomized
consumer base. To maintain the same trust from skaters, companies either adopt the polarizing strategy favored by FA/Hockey, which relies on exclusivity and scarcity, and toes the line between standoffishness and authenticity. Or there is the general appeal model. The cynical view is that Lopez, whose humility makes him more of a positive example, than an outright evangelist, seeks to split the difference by joining the FA/Hockey roster. Proof can be found in the value these companies’ approval imparts to his pro-model shoe. Without it, only someone with Lopez’s preternatural ability could make something so generic seem like a virtue.

In the end, skateboarding is judged on its ability to entertain—every generation will have its own standard by which it evaluates a kickflip. This equation is what’s behind Kevin Bradley’s performance as the rascal ring master, which offers a reminder that a skater’s most important asset is unmitigated confidence. At Berlin’s Gleisdreieck park, he treats his board like a marionette on a string when he conducts a 360 flip over the green hips, landing with such absolute command that there is no mistaking who is that board’s master. (The clip can also be viewed as an homage to the late FA skater, Dylan Rieder. Bradley would have seen his HUF part in 2014, in which Rieder conducts a backside ollie and a backside flip from one end of the undulating landscape to the other). The next two clips are just as stunning: first, he catapults a wallie up and over a giant brick bank, beyond various protective hazards, eventually planting himself in the middle of a sunken courtyard. Then, like a high diver who lands in a deadly shallow pool, Bradley tucks a backside kickflip into the airspace above an impossibly steep bank. The clip is presented in slow-mo, which enhances that brief moment of panic and disbelief when we realize he has actually done it.

It is no surprise why the video chooses Bradley for the finale. To some, FA/Hockey is a superficial representation of skating’s current paradigm, and others are captivated by their showmanship. Given the polarizing assessment, it seems wise to stake the companies’ reputation on a skater like Bradley. The spectacle produced by his mix of theatricality and athleticism ensures that the debate will continue—though, I must admit, its hard for me to see his prodigious talent as anything other than the real thing. What ensues is a gorgeous backside tailslide down a long, slightly slanted ledge. He conducts the trick in one sustained, sweeping motion. He never flinches. He never looks back to see where he’s going. He knows this is what places him in high demand—frankly, it almost taunts the audience to look away. Then he sticks it. Some might be dismayed by his outfit (all Supreme), while others might rewind it immediately, but after watching Bradley roll away, the only question left is when the FA/Hockey circus will come back to town.   •••

Board-breaking for Emotional Pretend: On the Trope of Breaking Skateboards


It probably wasn’t the first time I saw someone break a skateboard, or the most aggressive, but watching Mike Carroll’s part in Yeah Right (2003) revealed to me the full emotional complexity of focusing—aka breaking—one. The introduction is a fast-paced montage of destruction. He spears his board nose-first into the ground, intending to splinter it. He pitches it headlong at a picnic table, the board spinning end to end like the menacing rotors of a helicopter. He slaps it on the ground so hard, it bounces back up head high. In perhaps the most emotional clip of the entire montage, he doesn’t actually throw the board. Instead, he throttles it, clasping it to his person like some Shakespearian character wracked with betrayal. Throughout the montage, Carroll’s performance runs the gamut of masculine rage, but in the only depiction of him actually breaking a skateboard, he eschews emotion for violent efficiency, as if to merely illustrate that he can, and that it is as simple as foot meets board. At fourteen, I was mesmerized by all of it, as much, and perhaps more than the skateboarding that followed.

There were many things that attracted me to Carroll’s performance. He was loud, aggressive, but most of all, the outcome of his behavior resembled a performance, meaning whatever personal consequences he sustained—such as a broken skateboard—were part of the act, even coming off as playful. Somehow, it connected to the anger I experienced at home: my Dad yelled, and sometimes he yelled at me, but his short-tempered anguish would ultimately be considered out of character, an outburst. Here was an arena that granted me the same privilege as my Dad enjoyed at home, a masculinity that didn’t require me to take my anger seriously—like my constant recitations of Simpson’s quotes during the same period, these emotional expressions could always be dismissed or celebrated as playtime, artful, witty, or ironic, as the case may be. Other factors contributed as well: first, it felt good. Second, it represented an escape. And third, I was slow to advance at

skating. Learning flip tricks was as difficult as tying a shoe with my elbow, but such pantomimes of anger, along with breaking boards was a trick I could always do.

Indeed, breaking boards looked fun, and it was a whole lot easier to pretend to be angry and break my skateboard, than to actually spend the countless hours trying to learn flip tricks, or to work up the bravery to jump down a set of stairs, or to re-evaluate it all after having thrown myself against the ground. These are the other means of expression that skateboarding offers, but they were little in my command at the time. It required a certain desire, and a certain confidence in that desire, both of which I lacked. Or, rather, an actual, kneejerk expression of anger at my own failure, and the subsequent sense of humiliation and disappointment readily stopped me at the start—little familiar with these overwhelming feelings, I asked myself, why endure? Friends often tell me they quit skateboarding because they weren’t any good at it, or that they didn’t advance quickly enough, but clearly they didn’t understand the full emotional scope of the sport. I didn’t continue because I was good—and I wasn’t—I continued because it was a forum for emotional pretend. The pathos of a broken skateboard was enough to defend the physical consequences of a broken hand, three broken wrists, a broken foot, a black eye, countless sprained ankles, and a few knocks on the head. 

Hence, every broken board offers a marker of who I was, or wanted to be at that time. The first one was a nearly unbreakable Lib Tech, a counterintuitive choice that showed how easily I was convinced by the theatrics of one part of the culture, as by the salesmanship (and gimmickry) of its opposite. It was so durable, I nearly sprained my groin attempting to rend the indestructible plastic sub layer, and even after I managed to crack the thing, I could still ride it all the way home. Later, an Andrew Reynolds Baker pro model

was perhaps  doomed from the start—the company’s image was so notoriously destructive that, if an instruction manual came with one of its products, focusing your board would have been step 2, even if it was a t-shirt. Years later, the disapproval of some older skaters—how old could they have been, 20?—meant irreparable damage for a Zero skull board, though I didn’t break it in front of them, waiting a day or two to do it privately.

That incident was likely the last time I deliberately broke a skateboard. My abilities started to improve, even though I still couldn’t do very many flip tricks, or ledge tricks, and the nearest mini ramp was an hour away. But my ollies were consistent, and the theatricality of breaking boards eventually evolved into the bravado of jumping off tall things. I had also begun dating around the same time, too, though my relationships were often incompatible with my activities on a board—rage had been thoroughly sequestered to skating, and with it a range of difficult emotional responses, which unfortunately meant I was too embarrassed to include women in that world. I no longer broke boards on purpose, but severing a relationship played the same role in my love life as it did in the skate world, offering a quick way to deny access to the theater of my inner world. The subsequent disappointment, anger, and dismay I had with myself over this act of self-preservation was readily processed back through skating, as in the breakup with my first real girlfriend, which was immediately followed by an ollie down the local big-four, the measure of stair-jumping for me and my friends at the time. Taking the leap was also how a Habitat team deck and a SEEK both met their end.

There’s not really a happy ending to all this. It’s telling of my adolescent frame  of mind that after I sustained a sprained ankle kickflipping off a bank (rather than *into* the bank, or even riding on the bank whatsoever),
it remained sprained for an entire year, because I just couldn’t stop skating. Nonetheless, my relationship to the board evolved during this period of time. An ankle brace at least scared me off from gaps, stairs, and drops, and considering I had injured my front foot, I finally set about learning to skate switch. Broken boards resulted from actual tricks: I snapped the nose on a Brian Anderson Girl deck learning frontside big spins; a Polar board snapped right in half after a poorly aimed dismount from a fakie 50-50 front shuv. I had come to trust skateboarding, perhaps because the playful destructiveness of breaking boards matured into a more complex appreciation of persona and performance. The culture inspires a kind of humility in the face of its own destructive impulses: though it might celebrate individuality, skating starts from a position of we.

As the last clip in the Carroll montage demonstrates, skateboarding recuperates such emotions into a theater of aggressive energy—somewhere between play and reality. The other clips would lead us to believe that another bit of violence is coming after Carroll bails a front board down a handrail, but rather than retrieve his board after it rolls into a fountain, and enact some kind of punishment on it, he expresses his disappointment by leaving it there. It’s a moment of catharsis: unlike the rage that froths throughout the preceding montage, the last clip repositions our relationship to Carroll, asking us to reconsider this spectacle of angst as a portrayal of the skater’s humanity, as abject as it may be. Similarly, after I broke these last two boards (my last two to date), I did not experience rage, but a kind of warm, existential relief. The flipside to skateboarding’s respect for destruction is a comic appreciation of impermanence. Even if you break your board on purpose, you’ve got to let it go.  

[This text originally appeared in the eponymous zine co-published with Michael Worful. See more of his work here and here.]


Waxing the Curb is ︎ by Sam Korman. 

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