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Tony Hawk Hopes Enthusiasm for Vert Skating Can Bring it Back to Olympics

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Tony Hawk Hopes Enthusiasm for Vert Skating Can Bring it Back to Olympics

Tony Hawk took skateboarding to new heights in 1999 when, high above a halfpipe at the X Games, he began furiously spinning, completing two and a half turns in the air before gliding gracefully back onto the ramp.

The 900 — named for the number of degrees of rotation the move requires — had seemed impossible, but Mr. Hawk, his sport’s biggest star, had landed it, rewriting the rules of what could be done on a skateboard and exposing the sport to a far more mainstream audience.

Then, shortly after his moment of triumph, Mr. Hawk’s form of gravity-defying skating began fading away, nearly to the point of extinction. It was replaced by a street style that was more easily learned at skate parks, with an entire generation of skaters leaving the giant ramps behind.

That, however, is starting to change.

Social media has been flooded in recent months with videos of prepubescent skateboarders launching themselves off ramps and flying into the air, landing the kinds of tricks that experienced skaters have been reluctant to attempt. They are shifting the paradigm with their gravity-defying moves, and inspiring other kids around the world to try the same.

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Mr. Hawk’s style of vertical skating — “vert” to those who practice it — is making a comeback, and he is desperate to turn that momentum into a return of the event at the 2028 Olympics in Los Angeles.

Vert is skateboarding in its most spectacular form. Its simplicity, combined with the pure excitement in its perilous maneuvers, makes it easy for those who don’t skate to understand.

Mr. Hawk, thanks to his 900 and the wildly popular video game that followed in its wake, “Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater,” had cemented himself as the face of the sport in the early 2000s. But, unbeknown to his new admirers, his dedication to vert was a case of clinging to the past.

“It’s still kind of considered niche,” Mr. Hawk said in an interview, discussing the current state of vert skateboarding. “That’s what’s hard for me to accept.”

The reality is that Mr. Hawk’s accomplishments on vert ramps had simply made the practice seem more popular than it was. Renton Millar, a former professional skater and the head of the Vert Skating Commission for World Skate, the sport’s governing body, said vert skaters like Mr. Hawk have typically been a minority, “who stand out because it is so rad.”

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Enter people like Tom Schaar, a 25-year-old skater who many view as vert’s next big star and a potential bridge between older generations and the next one — the kids who are finding the sport through social media.

Mr. Schaar, who is signed to Mr. Hawk’s Birdhouse skateboard company, was born the year Mr. Hawk landed his first 900. He rode his first real vert ramp at age six, and later managed to land a 900 and a 1080 in the same year. He was 12 years old.

“The 900 took a lot longer,” Mr. Schaar said of learning the two difficult tricks. “Once you get over the fear of kind of doing those extra spins, they kind of all just blur together into one big spinning mess.”

Vert rewards the type of consequence-blind actions that are typical of an adolescent, and adolescents are shaping the style’s future.

“Young skaters have more resources,” Mr. Hawk said. “They have training facilities now, and children are encouraged to start skating. That wasn’t the case when we were young. Children were discouraged from skating. It was a bad influence, with no future.”

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Mr. Hawk said it took him 10 years of attempting it before he landed the 900, finally achieving the feat when he was 31 years old. Now, he watches in awe as young skaters build on his accomplishments and those of his peers. Last year, Arisa Trew became the first female skater to land a 900. She was 13 years old at the time.

“Some of the kids, as soon as they start riding, they are fascinated with aerials and they know what is possible,” Mr. Hawk said. “To them, a 540 is just a starting point. A 540 wasn’t even created until I was in my teens, you know?”

Mr. Hawk, ever the evangelist, knows what he wants to happen next. The Summer Olympics are heading to Los Angeles in 2028. Southern California is the global epicenter of skateboarding, and Mr. Hawk has been, as he puts it, “hustling” to get vert added as an event. It would increase the visibility of the form and, Mr. Hawk believes, lead to more vert ramps being built. To help get things started, he’s willing to put his own equipment on the line.

“I would give them my ramp,” Mr. Hawk said feverishly. “I would say ‘Here’s the terrain. Find a place for it, and it’s all yours.’ I have the best vert ramp in the world, and it’s portable. It can be assembled in a couple of hours. It’s all yours.”

The International Olympic Committee will issue its final decision on vert and other events for the 2028 Olympics at its next executive board meeting on April 9.

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Many skaters believe having a vert competition is an obvious choice for the Olympics, but it was left out of the 2020 and 2024 Games, Mr. Hawk said, because of bureaucratic challenges, and an overall lack of vert skaters at the time.

Mr. Schaar, who also excels at park-style skating, took home a silver medal in that event at the 2024 Olympics. But he competes in that style out of necessity; vert remains his primary passion.

“When my grandma’s watching the Olympics, street and park are very technical for someone who doesn’t understand skating,” Mr. Schaar said.

Mr. Hawk said that at the time of the discussions to add skateboarding to the 2020 Games, he knew there were not enough vert skaters left to constitute a competitive field. As the sport’s popularity has grown, however, so has his public advocacy.

“The gap between genders and the quality of skating around the globe was big back then,” said Luca Basilico, who oversees skateboarding for World Skate. “It was another time. But we’re not there anymore.”

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To get to this point, the sport has had to let go of its past.

By the time he landed the 900, Mr. Hawk and his cohort — holdovers from the 1980s when vert was the dominant style of skateboarding — were aging out of their professional careers. Very few vert skaters were coming up behind them, leaving Mr. Hawk as one of the few loud voices pushing for it to continue.

“People who skate today, especially those who are 25 and older, they will all tell you that they started skating because of Tony Hawk in some way,” said Jimmy Wilkins, a pre-eminent vert skater. “Even if that’s not the case, they probably grew up skating in a park he built for them.”

The young skaters reviving the art of vert on Instagram, however, are not so closely tied to Mr. Hawk. They were born after his big moments. Their innovation and advancement of the form is its own, new thing.

Elliot Sloan, a 36-year-old vert skater who went pro in 2008, described a “huge gap” between generational cohorts of vert skaters, which had made his own pursuit fairly lonely. He considered himself lucky to have been a part of a sport that was still alive, thanks in large part to Mr. Hawk’s successes in the late 1990s.

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Mr. Hawk’s accomplishments are far in the past, however, and Mr. Wilkins and Mr. Sloan are decidedly vert elders. And the skaters coming up behind them are getting incredibly good, incredibly fast.

“I’ve just seen so many of these kids start coming up being like seven years old, and I’m thinking ‘This kid’s pretty good,’” Mr. Sloan said. “And then the next thing you know, I’m competing against him.”

“The greatest thing in the vert resurgence is the bit of groundswell that it has with the kids,” said Mr. Millar. “There’s a number of vert facilities around the world, where, in the past, there was almost none.”

While the rise of young vert skaters has shocked some veterans, it has allowed Mr. Hawk to keep pushing it back into the public eye. But no matter the era, the popularity or the visibility of the sport, it cannot be separated from the man himself, who has stuck to his old habits, despite his official retirement.

“I’ve gotta go skate,” he said at the conclusion of an interview. His friend Bucky Lasek, another legend of the 1990s, was coming over. They were going to spend the day on Mr. Hawk’s personal ramp.

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She Had Seen Her in Photos. Then They Met in Real Life.

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She Had Seen Her in Photos. Then They Met in Real Life.

The kiss finally happened at a Halloween party Chatterjee hosted at her apartment, while the two were watching “American Psycho” on the couch at 3 a.m., when everyone else had gone out for food. “We’re sitting so close our legs are touching and I’m freaking out,” Braggins said.

“I looked at Abby, and I was like, ‘I’d rather kiss you than watch this,’” Chatterjee said. So they did. About a month later, they were official.

On April 10, Braggins suggested they take a trip to Home Goods in Brooklyn. When they ended up at Coney Island Beach instead, Chatterjee was none the wiser. It was an early morning, so the two, along with the dog they adopted together, Willow, enjoyed having the beach to themselves.

Braggins ran ahead with Willow and crouched behind some rocks. When Chatterjee got a glimpse of Willow, there was a bandanna tied around her neck. It said, “Will you marry me?” Braggins pulled out a shell with a ring in it. The answer was yes.

A few days before, Chatterjee had proposed to Braggins amid a gloomy, cloudy sky on top of the Empire State Building.

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The two were married on April 21 at the New York City Marriage Bureau, in front of three guests, by Guohuan Zhang, a city clerk. Afterward, they celebrated at Bungalow, an Indian restaurant in the East Village, with a few more friends.

Though Chatterjee’s parents were not present at the wedding, one of the couple’s most meaningful moments came in 2023, when Braggins traveled to India to meet Chatterjee’s family for the first time. Chatterjee had never brought a partner home before, and she had warned Braggins that same-sex relationships were still not widely accepted there. But by the end of the trip, Chatterjee’s mother had embraced Braggins as family, telling her, “I have two daughters now.”

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L.A. Affairs: We were integrating our worlds and families. Then came the boob texts

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L.A. Affairs: We were integrating our worlds and families. Then came the boob texts

I was comfortable being called “weekend girl” and had even coined the nickname. We met running on Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica. Our first date followed: a run through Pacific Palisades. We talked about food. Our second date: dinner. We talked about running. I was coming out of a sticky romantic relationship and into a new job, so a casual fling seemed appropriate. We had endless common interests; making plans was easy. He was the best kisser I’d ever come across, but I still liked my solo weeknights.

It continued that way for a few months. There were sleepless nights of laughter and love-making. I didn’t care where he was on a Wednesday. I had a dumpy, dark one-bedroom further south on the disregarded part of Bundy Drive, and he had a well-appointed and nicely lit two-bedroom, so weekends were at his place or occasionally the Ace Hotel in Palm Springs. Things were light and fluffy until he made a proposal.

“Do you want to be adventure buddies?” he asked while we dined at the hotel bar.

“Well, yes, I like that title. Does that mean I’m not ‘weekend girl’ anymore?”

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“Adventure buddies” had a nice ring, but it was vague.

“I was thinking we can clear out a closet at my place, and you could spend more time there.” He faced forward.

We organized the closet the following weekend. I was wearing a T-shirt and just my underwear, while he was wearing his sleeping shorts, no shirt. We agreed it was a fantastic Friday night. I woke up in the morning to a warm California sun and hot coffee, sipped on the balcony. Noticing that the outdoor space got just enough light to wring out some tomatoes, we headed to the nursery to top off our nest.

I had been a serial apartment dweller with limited outdoor space, so I never knew the color of my thumbs. We plucked three healthy tomato plants and three pots. We added plant food and tomato cages to the cart. The staff offered their expertise several times, and I wondered if I was wearing something that screamed “gardening noob.” We declined the help, as it seemed easy enough; put the plants in the dirt and water them.

Two blissful months later, we were getting some tomatoes and lots of loving. We were planning adventures, date nights and what we would cook with our forages from the farmers’ market. It was effortless. We spent most of our time just the two of us, but we were slowly integrating our respective worlds and families. I was the happiest I had ever been, and I felt fortunate. Gratitude is due when your biggest problem is the sad-looking tomato plants on your balcony. Something was wrong.

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Back to the garden center we went, bringing a leaf as a specimen. They said we had an unidentified pest and pointed us to the neem oil. We got back to our babies, and as we started to spray, there they were: hornworms. They were bright green with pokey stinger-looking things on their butts, and they were as long as my index finger. There were dozens of them. We loaded them into a giant mason jar, but it was too late. My green dreams were now caterpillar nightmares. Maybe we should have asked more questions in the beginning? How did I not notice this sooner?

“Wanna get froyo?” I was a sucker for mochi and figured that would cheer me up.

“Sure, just gonna take a quick shower.” He set his phone down and hopped in. I went to grab my mascara and saw the white and blue messages light up.

“I wish I were with you tonight, but Em is here.” No name, just a number. I scrolled up — boobs but no face. Who was this girl?

I didn’t move to L.A. to become an actor, but I sure put on a performance that night. I let the phone go black without a word as the shower shut off. We ate the yogurt and called it an early night. I lay mummy-style and wide-eyed next to him through the sleepless night. By daybreak, I had a plan.

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I spent the next morning with his iPad reading through text chains. “You’re so gorgeous,” or “I’d love to take you to dinner,” or “I am not with that girl; you are the one for me.” There were nudes and sexts and I love yous. And so, so many people. I gasped and shook while reading the first few lines, but it became more like entertainment as the minutes passed. It was more than two hours of reading material. I was hungry and had planned to get my nails done, so I grabbed the wallet he had left on the table and helped myself to a champagne lunch and a mani-pedi.

I got home before he did and prepped myself for the fireworks. The bubbles and the “five-more-minutes” foot massage helped boost my confidence.

“Babe!” he exclaimed, excited and clueless.

“Babe!” I parroted. “I just finished reading your iPad! What a productive morning!”

I was calm while he paused.

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“Oh my god. Get out. I can’t believe you violated my privacy,” he yelled.

I responded without defensiveness. “It’s sad. I thought I loved you. But it turns out you love 13 others — and that ain’t gonna work for me.” With calculated confidence, I directed him to pack my things from the closet. I was eager to get back to my dungeon-like, safe apartment.

“I hope you get help. It seems like you need it.” I really did care for him, and it was hard to drive away.

It was a lot to take in over a short time, but I am grateful for the lessons. For me, integrity is paramount and asking questions up-front is a must. Even when the dating gets tough, I won’t settle for less than the truth. This summer, I will be companion planting basil, dill and marigolds with my tomatoes and an occasional spritz of a natural insecticide.

The author is an entrepreneur and working on a book about overcoming betrayal. She splits her time between L.A. and Michigan. She’s on Instagram: @emilybrynwilliams.

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L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.

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Why Everyone Was So Mad About the Met Gala

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Why Everyone Was So Mad About the Met Gala

There are, as I’m writing this, just shy of 500 reader comments on our recap of our 15 favorite looks from the Met Gala on Monday. The top comments are almost all negative.

“I’m sorry. I find this display of ‘fashion’ disgusting and I wish the NYT wouldn’t celebrate it,” reads the most recommended comment. “I’m struck by how out of touch and unrelatable this feels for the average American,” is the one just below that. A few down we get the first of many comparisons to the elitist incongruity captured in “The Hunger Games.”

The uneasy state of the American economy watered the soil for this sentiment to grow. Gas prices have soared since the onset of the war in Iran. The cost of groceries remains stubbornly high. The word “inequality” came up five times in the comments section of our story. It seems that the gala, to some, landed as a financially frivolous, Marie Antoinette-like affair.

For a few years, the Met Gala has ignited these “Hunger Games” comparisons, as the event has mutated into a competition of which attendee can wear the most baroque, procession-halting dress. I lost count of the celebrities who proudly shared how many hours it took to make their ensembles.

This, more than anything, seemed like the point where they were misjudging the simmering animus toward them.

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If the intention was to laud the work and elevate the craftsmanship involved in making garments like these, it was ringing hollow in this forum, where tickets cost upward of hundreds of thousands of dollars for a table. The opulence of the clothes became another example of billionaire class entitlement for a cause most people don’t benefit from.

It’s not an entirely new conversation, even if the critiques were louder this year. Five years ago, when Representative Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez wore a dress splayed with “Tax the Rich,” she sprayed lighter fluid onto a hot conversation about the class politics of this particular charity event. (At this year’s gala, Sarah Paulson arrived with a dollar bill stretched over her eyes, an intended critique on the influence of money that many viewers saw as a hollow gesture.)

The discourse roared with a particular fervor in the lead-up to Monday for the marquee presence of Jeff Bezos and his wife, Lauren Sánchez Bezos, one of the world’s wealthiest couples.

Placing the Bezoses at the apex of the gala ratcheted up the sense that something already well outside the reaches of the average person had been taken to a new tier of exclusivity. There were protests centered around Bezos, and at the event Christian Smalls, a former Amazon union leader, attempted to storm the carpet. He was arrested and charged with two misdemeanors.

“It shouldn’t be that way when you have all of this money and wealth,” Smalls said of Bezos in an interview with The Times on Wednesday. “He should pay his workers a fair share.”

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In responding to cries of elitism, the Met Gala’s organizers have long pointed to the money that the event raises. They did so again this year. At a news conference on Monday introducing the Met’s new fashion exhibition, Anna Wintour, the event’s longtime chair (and the global editorial director of Vogue magazine), shared that this was the most successful Met Gala ever, having raised $42 million.

“That money could feed and clothe many hundreds of less fortunate people,” read the top comment on our Met Gala story.

We’ve come to expect anti-celebrity comments when we cover cultural events. “Who cares!” is a common, if slightly disingenuous, refrain given how many readers clamor to see and vote on their favorite looks from awards shows.

But there’s a meaningful difference between the Met Gala and many other red carpet events. At the Oscars or the Emmys, the arrivals lead to a star-studded performance the public can watch, shows with a purpose — celebrating talent (subjective though that is) — that is self-evident. For the viewing public, the Met Gala ends at the doorstep of the museum. If you’re watching at home, the gala can be seen as nothing more than a bunch of grandiose clothes that lead nowhere.

In reading up on the life of Ted Turner, who died Wednesday at 87, I perked up at this five-word sentence in Malcolm Gladwell’s 2010 profile of the media mogul: “He dressed like a cowboy.” It led me to scroll through photos of the Cincinnati-born businessman — especially in the 1970s, when he was sailing in a piqué polo and an incongruous striped conductor’s cap or taking in his Atlanta Braves with his button-up shirt undone to mid-chest.

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Turner, a college dropout, who was a prolific drinker (and philanderer), looked rugged — swashbuckling even. He was, it should be said, handsome. In some images, Turner, with his modest mustache, looks like Robert Redford’s body double. But it’s remarkable to visit these images now, when all corporate titans — of media, tech and otherwise — dress so alike. They’re Sun Valley clones in their fleece vests, stretch chinos and dad caps that they theatrically pull low in front of cameras.

But Turner was indeed a telecom cowboy, upending how networks ran in his rugby shirts, knit ties and denim. He looked suave. How few media C.E.O.’s can we say that about now?


Everywhere I go I see young men in ribbed tank tops, sometimes with unbuttoned shirts on top, but often not. The tank tops can be black, white or gray, but they’re worn with everything — not just as undershirts, as I was taught was correct. What is going on? — Richard, Philadelphia

The tank top may seem basic — just a sleeveless cotton top with a scooped neck — but as a garment it contains multitudes. It has roots in the working class and the professional class, the military and the farm, men’s wear and women’s wear, sports and Hollywood, gay culture, rap culture, gym culture and indie sleaze. Read more …


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