The minute I found skateboarding, I was immersed in a world of creative people—even as far back as middle school. Having a skateboard was the ticket into a new world. There were these two punk guys I had always steered clear of. I thought these guys wanted to kick my ass. But once I had a skateboard under my arm they were like, “Hey, come hang out with us.” They gave me a cassette tape with Dead Kennedys and other bands. My mind was blown. The Beautiful Losers cluster—I think we are all loathe to call it a “movement”— was the same

Templeton’s book is unsparing but nonjudgmental. The damage accumulates slowly, as what seems at first like youthful fun grows more uneasy. Young female fans lift up their shirts to get their torsos autographed; a skater chops lines of cocaine; just about everyone bleeds, especially Templeton, who says he has suffered six serious concussions over the years, not all of which he remembers. (In this world, helmets are not merely optional—they are effectively banned.)