Echoes on the ramp

 by Riley Chambers

The plans had been in place for weeks: Ian and I were finally going to the skatepark—a rare victory over our busy schedules. Having spent my own youth on a board, I felt a warm glow of pride watching my son fall in love with the sport, too.

When morning arrived, we loaded up the car. Public skateparks near our house were rare—in reality, non-existent—so we headed to the closest one, a 30- to 45-minute drive away.

To kick off our journey, we pulled into the nearest gas station for drinks and a couple of roller taquitos. There was a strange kind of magic in a jalapeño and cream cheese taquito washed down with a yellow sports drink—you know the one. It was the ultimate breakfast of champions for a day at the park.

As we rolled down the highway, I plugged in my iPod and played an album from one of my favorite rockabilly-punk bands—a group Ian had grown to love, too. There was a sort of serenity when Mike Ness slid between G & E to hit that classic Social D sound on the song "Let It Be Me" to get that mindset going for a day at the park.

When we pulled up, I noticed a rail and a kicker ramp were gone. Judging by the remnants, it looked like the mounting bolts had been roughly cut. It was pure speculation, though; we really had no idea what had happened.

Despite the absent obstacles, the rest of the park was wide open—a smooth expanse of hot concrete featuring a bank, a quarter pipe, and a pristine mini ramp that quickly became our favorite spot.

Ian didn't care about the missing setups. As soon as his Vans hit the pavement, he dropped his board, gave two hard pushes, and charged up the bank to build speed. Seeing him handle the transition so effortlessly made me grateful we invested in a solid setup rather than a flimsy department-store toy. If you are a parent looking to introduce your kid to the sport properly, a high-quality Powell-Peralta Complete Skateboard provides the exact structural stability and smooth ride a beginner needs to build real confidence on the concrete and ramp.

I watched his entire run from the top of the deck, my eyes locked on Ian's skill. It was like looking into a mirror from years gone by. I tried to show Ian how to execute certain moves as effortlessly as possible, but every skater ultimately has to add their own flavor.

Focused on the session, I didn’t see right away that a handful of locals had rolled into the park. It was only while taking my own turn on the mini ramp that I spotted Ian chatting with them up top.

A few minutes later, Ian and I were standing together on the deck. Just as I set my back trucks on the coping for a frontside smith grind, I overheard one of the kids ask Ian a question. Looking around, it was obvious I was the oldest guy at the park.

“Who’s that?”

Ian didn't hesitate. “That’s my dad.”

Surprised, the kid replied, “Really?”

I dropped in, pumped down the transition, and carved back toward the edge to grind a 50-50 across the coping. As my trucks locked onto the metal, I caught the rest of the kid's response: “I wish my dad skated with me.”

A wave of sympathy washed over me; I knew exactly what it felt like to crave that kind of connection. Yet a subtle smile broke across my face as I pumped back down the transition, popping off my board on the other side of the ramp so Ian could take his turn—a proud, pat-on-the-back type of grin.

Ian hesitated at first, pulling up near the edge of the deck and adjusting his tail on the coping. But skateboarding has its own wordless language. Without a word, father and son locked eyes. With a subtle nod, I gave him the signal: You’ve got this, son.

Ian dropped in. That was all the invitation he needed.

Within minutes, the awkward space between us and the locals evaporated. The half-dozen kids were mostly beginners, watching with wide eyes and drawing inspiration from the effortless way Ian and I moved.

As the kids gained the confidence to start trading drops, the loudest, most encouraging clacks of a tail against the coping came from me, proudly praising my son every time Ian landed a clean run.

Leaning back from the corner of the mini-ramp deck, I watched my son. A hint of nostalgia hit me—the realization that my role was naturally changing from coach to spectator.

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She thinks we’re just fishing

 By Riley Chambers

The ground was still a little wet from the light shower the night before when Sydnie squeezed her dad’s hand, her sandals soaking up dew from the tall grass and squeaking with every step toward the lake. She carried her favorite yellow fishing pole with both hands, like a knight guarding her treasure, while her father slung a pair of worn fishing rods over his shoulder.

“Think we’ll catch anything today, Daddy?” she asked, looking up at him with wide, hopeful eyes.

“We might, Baby Girl.” He smiled, kneeling down to help her set up her pole. “But if we don’t, we will just have to have a good time anyway.”

Once her dad got everything settled, he put a worm on her hook simply because she said it was yucky.

Standing on their favorite dock beside the marina, Sydnie reared her arm back and released her line like a cannonball, hoping to reach the deeper water. Only, she released the button just a little too soon, hurling her hook and bobber straight into the canopy of the nearby willow tree that cascaded over the boat slip.

It was a little upsetting, and her dad spent the next ten minutes untangling the line, but they figured it out and didn’t let it put a dark cloud over their day.

“Okay, Baby Girl,” her daddy said. “Let’s try that again. But this time, wait until your hand is right here.” He motioned toward the front of her head.

“Okay, Daddy,” she replied with a grin. “We want to catch fish, not leaves.”

She pushed the button once more, pulled her arm back, and released the line right where her daddy had shown her, sending it soaring out into the lake.

“I DID IT, DADDY!” she cheered. “It’s where the big ones are!”

“Yes, it is, Baby Girl,” her daddy said. “Now, we have to do the hard part. Wait.”

She didn’t have to wait long. Almost as soon as the line left the reel and hit the water, her bobber was already bouncing.

“Daddy… Daddy!” she shouted, bouncing on her toes. “The bobber is moving in the water! Do I have one? Do I have one?”

“As soon as the bobber goes completely underwater,” her daddy said, kneeling beside her, “that’s when you’ll know. Remember what I said the hard part is? The waiting.”

Sydnie held her breath, her small knuckles turning white as she gripped the yellow pole. The bright red-and-white plastic bobber dipped once... twice... and then plunged beneath the dark water of the lake.

“NOW, BABY GIRL! PULL!” her dad cheered.

Sydnie yanked back with all her weight, bending the top of her rod into a trembling curve. “I GOT ONE! DADDY, IT’S A BIG ONE!”

“Okay!” he said. “Keep the rod tip up and keep reeling it in.”

Her tongue poked out the side of her mouth with sharp concentration as her fingers scrambled to turn the reel handle. A few yards out, the water exploded into a tiny spray as a dark green shape flipped near the surface, fighting against the line.

“I’m pulling! I’m pulling!” she chanted, her squeaky sandals almost slipping on the dock.

“It’s almost here,” her daddy said. “Keep reeling.”

Reaching toward the water just as the fish reached the edge, her dad grabbed the line with a quick lift and pulled the prize out of the lake—a huge bluegill flapping on the hook.

Sydnie let out a gasp, her eyes wide as an August Moon. “WE CAUGHT A MONSTER, DADDY!”

Her father laughed, his heart fluttering secretly with excitement for her, as he set the fish down safely on the wood of the dock. “We sure did, Baby Girl. See what happens when you catch fish instead of leaves?”

Sydnie leaned in close, hands tucked safely behind her back, staring at the flopping fish with a mix of awe and caution. “Is it going to bite me?”

“Not at all,” he smiled, carefully unhooking the line and holding the bluegill steady. “It’s a lot less yucky than the worm, I promise. Want to hold it before we let it go?”

She extended one tentative finger, brushing the wet, shiny scales with a giggle.

Her daddy gently released the fish back into the lake. As it splashed into the cool water and swam away, Sydnie immediately turned back to her yellow fishing pole, already talking about casting out for an even bigger monster.

She didn’t notice the way her dad looked at her as he untangled her line one more time—cherishing the quiet truth that while she thought they were just fishing, he was holding onto a memory he’d keep forever.

The Postbox Paradigm

 —by Riley Chambers

As your eyes slowly close,

 Into a dream filled slumber.

Lego under toes,

 Your mind starts to wander.

 Then your legs start drifting,

 Towards the street they go.

 To that postbox your feet start shifting,

 It appears full but who's to know.

 You grab the lever,

 With a smile so wide.

 Nothing can make this glee be severed,

 Or your thrill be cast aside.

 You open the box,

 And to your dismay.

 Loudly, blares your alarm clock,

 You are now awake. 

Saltwater Stitches

 

Tears fill the holes in a heart left by those who meant the most. And that's okay.

 

- Riley Chambers 6-2026

faults in the reflection

 —by Riley Chambers

People get mad at me
When I say what they see,
Not what they say.

Maybe what they think?

Because, sometimes,
It’s no fun being me.
I had always been told
It’s who I should always be.

The harvest of listening

 —by Riley Chambers

When you think you're alone,

In a field of your thoughts,

Feeling like an unknown,

Where just an ear is sought.

So when someone is there,

Who is having a hard time,

Just show that you care,

They are still in their prime.

—-Riley Chambers 4-12-26

(Just a poem, not autobiographical)
Photo taken by my youngest son 

Never trust a junkie.....

—by Riley Chambers >

I think everyone who knows me is aware of my fandom for the Sex Pistols. It goes back as far as I can remember, listening to them on Z-Rock back in the day during one of "Crankin' Craig's" shows. That was the very first time I had ever heard them. I didn't have a poster on my wall yet or any merchandise, because back then, you couldn't just look up a band instantly on a phone. You had to wait for the radio to play them, catching pieces of the puzzle whenever you could.

At that exact moment, I was completely unaware of their troubles, any addiction, or the dark history behind the music. I just knew the music hit me. As the years went on and I moved into my early teen years, I instantly fell in love with the "look." The spiked hair, the leather, the absolute "I don't care" demeanor—when you're that age, it feels like the ultimate form of cool. I started hunting down every book, cassette, record, and interview I could find, trying to piece together who these guys were.

Because I didn't have the access to information I do now, I lacked a full understanding of the life Sid Vicious lived—albeit a very short one—and the way he died. When I was younger, I idolized him for the look and demeanor I saw at the time. You don't see the syringes or the tragedy behind the eyes in a grainy photograph; you just see an idol. Those photos would come later. However, as I grew older and moved past that adolescent mindset, my perspective changed. For a long time, I held negative thoughts about him because he was an addict. I fell into a rigid way of thinking: that he was just an addict who died doing stupid things and that it was entirely his fault. I always believed that if you’re an addict—no matter the substance—it is totally up to you to quit and seek the help you need.

But over the years, the more I read, the more interviews I heard, and the more background I learned about how things really played out, the more my outlook shifted. I’ve realized that under certain circumstances, the blame can be divided.

Specifically, regarding Sid Vicious and his addiction: When Sid joined the band, he wasn’t addicted to heroin. He was just a naive kid whose technical name wasn’t even Sid Vicious, it was John Ritchie. Johnny Rotten literally named him after his pet hamster (who was named after Syd Barrett), who (in Rotten's words) had no teeth and couldn’t fight his way out of a paper crisp bag. That was the original character of the kid entering this wild world.

But once Sid met certain people and started trying things just to fit into the very look I had fallen in love with, it led to his addiction. He began leading a life that changed him into someone who didn’t fit his true self at all. Malcolm McLaren, the manager of the Sex Pistols, took Sid's naivety and aggressively exploited it. He made Sid feel like he was the "bad boy" and that nothing could stop him. McLaren put that manufactured image in his head, and Sid started to believe his own myth. The drug addiction only amplified the persona he became.

From everything I have read, almost everyone around him fed that addiction—whether it was the people he hung around with, Malcolm, Nancy Spungen, or tragically, even his own mother.

This leads to my updated view on where to place the blame. As I originally said, a person is ultimately responsible for their own life. If someone needs to quit, they must want to quit before they can overcome that addiction. But if the addiction is so severe that they cannot stop on their own, they need a support system. They need a friend or family member to help them find a light at the end of the tunnel that isn’t an oncoming train.

In Sid's case, I don't believe he had that. In retrospect, he had more enablers than people who genuinely wanted to help him. They cheered when he did stupid things because it kept the punk rock spectacle going. It’s those enablers who should carry most of the guilt of a friend’s demise.

That is the u-turn my mind took over the decades. It’s strange how a fuzzy broadcast on a Z-Rock show can stick with you for a lifetime, evolving from a simple soundtrack for your youth into a profound lesson on human nature. When I look back at those cassettes, records, and books I spent my early teens collecting, I see them differently now. I don’t just see the birth of an iconic music movement; I see a cautionary tale about the cost of fame and the danger of losing your identity to a character people expect you to play.

We as fans often buy into the rock-and-roll mythology. We romanticize the "live fast, die young" mentality, treating real human struggles like they are just part of the show. We look at the leather jackets, the sneers, and the chaos, and we forget that beneath the spiked hair, there is often just a naive kid trying to survive an oncoming train.

I still love the music of the Sex Pistols—the raw energy of it will never leave me. But my idolization of the punk rock myth is entirely gone. I don't see Sid Vicious as a dangerous anti-hero anymore, nor do I see him as a moral failure who got what he deserved. I see John Simon Ritchie: a boy who entered a den of wolves with nothing but a toothless hamster's name, and who was ultimately left on the tracks by the very people who should have pulled him to safety.

If the story behind the punk rock myth resonated with you, these essential pieces of media—ranging from classic analog formats to raw documentaries—make incredible additions to any fan's collection:

• The Vinyl Experience: Never Mind the Bollocks, Here's the Sex Pistols (180g Vinyl)
  Nothing matches the blistering, double-tracked guitar wall of their sole studio album quite like the warmth and physical presence of a heavyweight vinyl pressing. It’s the definitive way to experience the raw energy that shook the music world.
• The Cassette Archive: Sex Pistols: The Original Recordings
  For true collectors chasing the authentic, analog charm of tape decks, this collection compiles 20 definitive period recordings spanning 1976–1978. It perfectly captures that tactile, retro feeling of hunting down tapes in your youth.
• The Documentary Film: D.O.A. - A Rite of Passage
  This gritty, unfiltered contemporary film chronicles the band's chaotic 1978 American tour. It features raw performance footage alongside the infamous, heartbreaking interview with Sid and Nancy that strips away the romanticized myth to reveal the human tragedy beneath.
• The Inside Account: Lonely Boy: Tales from a Sex Pistol by Steve Jones
  Guitarist Steve Jones offers a brutally honest, often hilarious, and deeply moving perspective on the band's rise and fall. As a working-class kid who used music to escape his own childhood trauma and early addictions, his story provides an essential look at the vulnerability hiding behind the band's tough exterior.
• The Original Perspective: I Was a Teenage Sex Pistol by Glen Matlock
  Before Sid Vicious, it was original bassist Glen Matlock who co-wrote the band's most iconic music. His memoir gives a fascinating firsthand look at the band's earliest days, offering a grounded and clear-eyed contrast to the chaos, drugs, and manufactured madness that took over after his departure.

Disclaimer: As an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases made through the links in this post.

Benevolent

Benevolent

Riley Chambers 07-26-2025

There once was a man,

He was a friend of mine,

Til I caught him in my car

Trying to steal my alpine.

Now wait a minute, no 

That’s not the way it goes.

His name was Fred Rogers.  

From one of my favorite shows.

He taught me how to be kind,

That it’s ok to be myself, 

How to unwind,

And how to ask for help.

But it wasn’t just Fred

That helped me feel seen,

It was Officer Clemmons

And Betty Aberlin.

 

Handyman Negri was there,

And X the owl.

Take a journey on Trolley

To see Lady Elaine Fairchilde.

As our neighbors grew older,

And so did we,

The imprint on our hearts

Will forever be seen.

So with a speedy delivery 

From Mr. McFeely,

From one neighbor to another:

Remember

1.4.3 

Enjoyed the trip down memory lane?
If you want to keep the Neighborhood spirit alive, here are a few of my favorite ways to revisit Fred, Trolley, and the crew:

• 🎬 Watch: The emotional documentary Won't You Be My Neighbor?
• 📚 Read: Fred's timeless words on kindness in The World According to Mister Rogers
• ☕ Morning Coffee: Start your day with a smile using the Classic Heat-Changing Sweater Mug
• You should also give Officer Clemmons: A Memoir a read. 

Disclosure: As an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases.

Culpable

This is the way,

As they say,

As to what happens tomorrow

And the following days.

But who am I?

Be that as it may-

Just a nobody,

Who’s tired of their game.

So when the time comes,

And you see,

That truth is not what they say,

Don’t reach out to me.

Because I no longer give a damn.

This is the way. 

—by Riley Chambers

psychological disparagement

—by Riley Chambers

 He only loves you

When you're a fan of his.

Walking barefoot in the kitchen

Spreading mayo on the sandwiches.

Deep down you always know.

That this was always 

Just a plan of his.

I know it hurts to hear,

Because this person is

Who you made your future plans with.

But you spread love from love,

Not from taken advantages

Relationships should be 

Simpatico

Not just in a dream 

or theoretical

 or hypothetical

Even though they're words

eventually they can become medical 

You give it your all

But he always asks more from you

No compassion no empathy 

Just the spinning of a hate filled cocoon

When I wrote the line "Even though they're words, eventually they can become medical," I was thinking about the literal toll that walking on eggshells takes on the human nervous system. Psychological disparagement isn't just an emotional hurdle; it alters your health. If you are trying to unpack the invisible weight of a toxic relationship and understand how emotional stress impacts your physical well-being, I highly recommend reading the definitive work on trauma recovery, The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma. It is an essential roadmap for reclaiming your narrative and your health.

Musically, this piece was heavily driven by the dark, atmospheric production and uncompromising lyrical realism of the Wu-Tang Clan. To capture that exact raw, driving rhythm where every syllable counts, I went back to the absolute roots of their sound. If you want to experience the flawless, gritty production that sparked the cadence of this poem, go spin Wu-Tang's definitive masterpiece, Enter The Wu-Tang (36 Chambers) on your stereo.

*As an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases.