To whom it may concern: Yes, it has been a rather long minute—or 175,433 to be somewhat more in the ballpark—since the last post went up. The reasons are many, none of them great, but it is what it is. The world is on fire, you know? Anyway, the following essay of a sort had been languishing in a state of incompletion for nearly a year now because I wasn't exactly sure where it was going or what I was even doing. If anything, it was space filler. No real purpose beyond luring eyes onto the site in hopes of a sale or two and maybe a few write offs for 2025. Such are the evils that men do under the crushing wheel of late stage capitalism. But, lo and behold, a legitimate reason finally presented itself, so let's get it on as Marvin Gaye would want us to. However, should you snidely subscribe to the comment, "Yeah, I'm not reading all that," then simply cut to the chase and click HERE for instant—albeit not entirely enlightened—gratification.
***********************
Once upon a rather stressful time in 2015, if you did a Google search for "Sean Cliver Net Worth" it would dredge up some bullshit cockamamie site that claimed I was in the wealthy vicinity of 16 million dollars. HA! Although, honestly, I didn't find it all that funny at the time I discovered this "internet fact" considering I was experiencing weekly anxiety attacks, spiraling out over how I was going to make ends meet on a month-to-month basis while waiting on freelance checks that were taking forever to arrive, and selling off a prized portion of my deck collection just to cover health insurance and other unavoidable high costs of living in the USA. Yeah, I know, boo-hoo me. Anyway, when Michael Sieben interviewed me for a Thrasher online article around that same time and asked if the newly-founded Paisley venture was simply "a vanity project," I kind of took offense [1]. Then again, because of my close association with the jackass franchise throughout the decades, I think many—including the purveyors of the bogus "Net Worth" site—simply assumed I was swimming like Scrooge McDuck in ungodly sums of funny money. Rest assured that wasn't at all the case, but... what if? What would I have done with a hypothetical life of shameless excess had I made fantastic amounts of that which has come to be affectionately known as "fuck you money" in elite yachting circles?
Well, if I did indeed have a million-billion dollars at my disposal to burn, I'd do so by establishing a formal, brick 'n' mortar museum dedicated to housing the physical ephemera and detritus of skateboarding.
What brought this on? Well, earlier in the summer of 2025, I found myself in Las Vegas with an ample amount of idle time to kill. I'm not a betting man—the idea of losing a mere 20 spot is enough to deep-six my lust for life in toto—so the casinos held absolutely nothing of interest for me. Instead, I found myself dropped off by an Uber on a suitably suss industrial side street near the I-15 where the Punk Rock Museum is located. To be clear, I didn't know anything about this place at all. I mean, sure, yeah, I'd seen mention of it on Instagram, maybe even heard a few of the rumors and grumblings surrounding its origins, too, as I'm sure you can well imagine the politics and egos involved with an institution dedicated to that which in theory goes against the very coarse grain of its ideological essence, but so it goes. Like any raw cultural movement, there once was a hallowed time and place of "living in the moment" purity, but those days are water under the bridge now, so best to just leave any and all gutterpunk pretenses at the door. Welcome to The System. Besides, for anyone who was fortunate enough to live, thrive, and survive those early years of punk, this museum does indeed offer a concentrated wormhole back to those rebellious fuck all days of youthful energy and abandon.
My first (real) punk show, circa 1987.
Me, I barely caught the last gasps of punk once I discovered skateboarding in 1986. A friend dubbed off several tapes for me from his collection of records, like DOA, DRI, Angry Samoans, Agent Orange, The Misfits, Samhain, Black Flag, X, Youth Brigade, Channel 3, GBH, The Alley Kats, 7 Seconds, Minor Threat, Bad Brains, and The Descendents—the last of which was the only one I managed to catch live when they came within spitting distance of my hometown in Wisconsin and the guy who drove us wound up interviewing Milo for his zine after the show in the sweaty confines of their beat-up tour van. Other than that it was mostly local hardcore bands and the garage like, although Dr. Know, a "Nardcore" band from Oxnard, CA, did play at the American Legion Hall in Stevens Point the summer of 1987 [2]. Not that any of this means dick all to anyone, but it is a prime example of how these memories remain burned into the cortical mush over decades and may also explain how former punks have no problem coughing up the 39 dollar price of admission… again, something that doesn't exactly jive with the founding ethos, but rents are exorbitant and lights must always find a way to stay on.
Everything you would hope to find in a punk rock museum.
Mild sticker shock aside, I soon found myself lost in the fog of memorabilia, staring into the display cases at all the artifacts and ephemera that defied the transient times and managed to survive. Collectors and hoarders often get a bad rap—not entirely undeserved at times—but without such OCD head cases much of this stuff would've been lost to the glorious ruin of it all. There were the expected items, of course, like flyers galore, zines aplenty, beat-up guitars, and tattered tees, but it was the unexpected—a brick from Glenn Danzig's former front yard on Franklin St., Joe Strummer's last bag of weed—that were a delight for the eyes to land upon while visually sifting through the years and respective scenes/movements. Other particular points of skate interest included a classic lime green Vision Agent Orange complete, some fading Suicidal originals drawn by Lance Mountain, and even a fraction of Steve Caballero from his stint with The Faction. Beyond the primary exhibits, a rotating gallery space, jam room, bar, and tattoo parlor rounded off the museum experience, and guided tours by punk notables are also provided when scheduling allows. All in all, not a bad skank down memory lane, even if it did cost five times more than what I paid to see the Descendents play on July 11, 1987.
When you least expect it.
Danzig's brick and Strummer's weed.
Left: Decline of the Western Civilization (1981) was a life changer to stumble across on USA's "Night Flight" programming back in the eighties; Right: The original art to a flyer of particular interest, because A) the subject is Ed Gein, a noteworthy ghoul who hunted 20 miles from my hometown in central Wisconsin during the '50s; and B) the artist, Mad Marc Rude, also did a couple Alva graphics for Bill Danforth and John Gibson, circa 1987–88.
Lance Mountain's original inks for Suicidal Tendencies, circa 1983.
Steve Caballero ephemera from The Faction years.
So, now that you've had a vicarious if not glib tour of the Punk Rock Museum, let's get back to this fantasy skateboard museum of mine. Yes, I'm obviously well aware of the Skateboard Hall of Fame and Museum run by Todd Huber in Simi Valley, but I guess I'm envisioning something… different. And I'm sure some feathers will be ruffled by my saying that, but I can assure any such irked individuals that this is not meant to be a slight in any manner. I just see a more professionally "curated" museum experience that would lean a tad more toward, say, the Smithsonian and, similar to the punk rock joint in Vegas, rely on the network of private collections strewn across the globe by responsibly taking on the loan of items for display—permanent, rotating, or otherwise—while providing a safe repository for all the ephemera of the industry, e.g. paper, print, photo, video, and products, with an overarching focus on archival preservation and presentation. Believe me, there are far bigger things to be concerned with in life, but there are, gods help me, times when I think (and worry!) about the router Paul Schmitt once showed me in his former Costa Mesa workshop—the very one once used to create those fantastic wheel wells that Schmitt Stix was known for in the '80s—and what will become of it with the passage of time and potentially unknowledgeable or uncaring hands.
This bit is, without a doubt, a national treasure of the highest order.
Look, anyone who has stuck around skateboarding for a decade or more knows that the industry is no stranger to rising and falling in economic cycles. From the manic ramping up of business to the rapid unscheduled disassemblies, these are the dire moments when all the company crap that was amassed suddenly finds itself on the chopping block, thrown out with the bathwater, or entrusted to individuals oblivious to the history contained on pallets of dusty, old boxes. For example, in the midst of exponential growth and building relocations in the late '90s, the World Industries board archive—15 or so boxes of original SMA: Rocco, World, Blind, Liberty, Foundation, and 101 decks, as well as one that contained a selection of Marc McKee's originals (including, my memory would like to say, the 101 Natas Devil inks)—went MIA from its last place of storage on the second floor warehouse risers at 815 N. Nash in El Segundo, circa 1998. I made it my mission in life to unearth that lost archive while researching and documenting material for Disposable: A History of Skateboard Art, circa 2003–2004, but never found anything at all... not even a hint as to where it might have disappeared.
Not long after wrapping up "production" on Celebraty Tropical Fish (1991), Stacy Peralta asked me to draw up a couple comics about the experience. This particular one featured CR Stecyk III spinning incredibly complex yarns to kids who have absolutely no fucking clue what he's talking about while Stacy was filming. Note: I have no idea why I'd drawn Stacy holding something that vaguely resembles an actual film camera when this particular video was truly a lo-fi low in the Bones Brigade video lineage. Also, why am I sharing this here? Because it may just be part of the garbage thrown out in the next paragraph.
Conversely, in another economic time and place where Powell sans Peralta was collapsing like a white dwarf in 1992, an assistant in the art department (Hi, Claudine!) was instructed to purge the files and trash anything that seemed no longer necessary—a lot of which was probably mine? Ha! But, allegedly, a lot of other archival stuff was placed in storage down in the dank underbelly of the former lemon packing plant at 30 S. La Patera Lane in Goleta, CA, where boxes of apparel remained for decades as an untended housing complex for the industrial area's rat population. And yes… lots of shit ensued.
It's a little disconcerting to see something that I know is 100-percent mine but have absolutely zero recollection of drawing it, e.g. this "storyboard" treatment for the little monkey character who first began as a trade show element, then became a misinterpreted generic model graphic, and was jokingly mocked up for an employee summer picnic tee before getting unceremoniously slapped onto Pat Brennan's first pro model for Powell Peralta just as I was being kicked out the back door of the company in late '91 amid employee layoffs. Anyway, this may or may not have been saved from being thrown out in the trash. Only Claudine Gossett knows for sure!
I suspect these aren't isolated incidents in the industry either, what with all the companies that have come and gone or just kept going but with a revolving generational door of employees. Perhaps the only company to be excepted from all this would be NHS, where they managed to (mostly) maintain control of the archives over the years and eventually established an adjoining museum that is open to the public (and a must see for any avid, lifelong skate tourist).
Pessimistic pragmatic that I am, I know I'll never be able to financially realize the dream of founding such an institution for the greater archival good of skateboarding, but at least I managed to preserve what history I could in Disposable: A History of Skateboard Art (2004) and The Disposable Skateboard Bible (2009). I'm also glad that I assembled those books when I did, because the assorted memories and recollections were still relatively fresh and unrefined for many of those interviewed about their hey-days in the skateboard industry—well before the effects of micro-plastics, aluminum deposits, and rose-colored glasses could set in—not to mention that a few such individuals have since exited our plane of existence and rolled off into the Great Beyond [3].
So, on that note, here's the reason for making you wade through all this: This fall we'll be releasing a final "remastered" edition of Disposable: A History of Skateboard Art through The Skateboard Museum. If the name sounds oddly familiar that's because it has long been the alias employed by Nick Halkias since the late '90s when he first adopted the namesake and staked his claim on the domain. Nick always had big dreams for the site, but, you know, life, work and all that, so it wasn't until recently that he decided to jump me into the mix and formally expand into the less than lucrative yet highly passionate business of publishing print matter. If you recall, late last year we put out a "teaser" to this new venture with the Skateboard Americana zine, but now we're going whole hog and self-publishing a real goddamn book.
How did this come about? Well, back around 2024, I was informed by the book's previous publisher, Gingko Press, that they would be retiring the title from print (again!), at which point the rights kicked back to me. I was in no way mentally prepared for this to be the out-of-print case, so I commiserated with Nick on the idea of self-publishing one final "20th-ish Anniversary" edition of the book. This also provided me with the opportunity to go back into the files to swap out and upgrade several deck images, add some new rare others, fix a typo or two, and… well… shit. Once I started I just couldn't stop. Next thing I knew I'd added 16 more pages to cover a few "blind spots" I'd had back in 2003–2004 (namely the addition of all-new artist/company profiles on Don Pendleton, Winston Tseng, Esao Andrews, and Rookie Skateboards), tacked on an "addendum" to round out my own ongoing misadventures in skateboard art, and even included a "bonus" spread of all these embarrassing sketches of mine from Powell that I assumed had all been lost to the wind (turns out I had an unwitting archivist in my longtime friend John Pearson who saved our correspondence from back then, the bulk of mine which had been written out on the backsides of Xeroxes from within the art department). Throw in a new cover photo by Grant Brittain and—voila!—it's just like a remastered Led Zeppelin album!
But—surprise!—publishing isn't cheap nowadays. The cost of freight shipping from Malaysia to Florida is even less cheap. So, to help with expenses, we're now offering a deluxe, limited time "Early Bird" pre-sale package, consisting of a new hardback book (signed by me), a screenprinted "mystery" deck (also signed by me), a just as "mysterious" T-shirt (not signed by me), and a couple equally "mysterious" stickers. Why all the "mystery" shit? I don't know. Well, I do, I have my reasons, but it's also not going to be much of a mystery if I drop any further hints (they are actually out there if you've a keen eye for breadcrumbs), aside from the fact that you're not going to want to miss out on this exclusive ONE-TIME OFFER. Yep, I screamed that for a reason. This deck and accompanying tee will only be produced to fulfill the quantity of pre-sale orders and NEVER see the light of printed day ever, ever again. That said, trust me, you won't want to sleep on this offer. Don't delay and pre-order HERE today (the window for this offer will likely close around the end of June)! —Sean Cliver
***********************
1. Hypocritical me, right? As a former writer and editor of Big Brother skateboard magazine, circa 1992–2000, you'd think my skin would be made of sufficiently thicker stock.
2. Prior to skateboarding and punk I was a hardcore comic book junkie, so discovering that Oxnard-based Jaime Hernandez of Love and Rockets fame had done art for both Dr. Know and Agression was an illuminating intersection of the two worlds for me.
3. It's an unfortunate yet inevitable fact that generations of people are aging and passing on, the boxed up remnants of their legacies and contributions to the history of skateboarding landing who knows where. Gods forbid it's at a Goodwill or eBay yard sale.
4. A bonus footnote that's not a footnote at all. I just didn't know how to work in this photo of photos from the Punk Rock Museum featuring the seminal LA band The Screamers—in particular the drummer K.K. Barrett, who went on to become a Production Designer in Hollywood and work with Spike Jonze on several movies including Being John Malkovich (1999), Adaptation (2002), jackass the movie (2002), Where the Wild Things Are (2009), Her (2013), and jackass: best and last (2026).
I once lived not far down the Gower street from where that bus bench photo was taken.