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Tony Hawk shared his ultimate mistaken identity experience: 'maybe this is where it all ends'

Tony Hawk being mistaken for Tony Hawk is a long-running joke, but a recent elevator encounter was like a "greatest hits" moment.

Tony Hawk's ongoing mistaken identity joke just hit its apex.

Tony Hawk might just be the least-recognized well-known person on the planet. The iconic skateboarder is now in his 50s, but his legendary status in the skating world—and video game world—has made him a household name. His face, on the other hand, is a different story.

For years, Hawk has shared hilarious stories of people telling him he looks like Tony Hawk. These mistaken-but-not-mistaken identity incidents happen so often that Hawk has made a running joke out of it, often playing along with people's "Hey, does anyone ever tell you you look like Tony Hawk?" inquiries. Sometimes he tells people he actually is Tony Hawk and they don't believe him. Sometimes he just says he gets that all the time.

Tony Hawk fans know the joke well, so sometimes they purposefully tell him he looks like himself just for giggles. But an elevator interaction in 2022 combined the ongoing saga's greatest hits, and may just be, as Hawk says, "where it all ends."


Hawk shared the story on Twitter.

"This just happened, and maybe this is where it all ends," he wrote. "Got on an elevator with 3 people. One guy (with his wife), sarcastically: 'anyone ever tell you…' and stops. Me (amused): yes, but you're the first today. His wife: 'I'm sorry, I tried to stop him from doing the joke."

Cute, but then it got extra funny.

The elevator stopped and the couple got off on their floor. Then the third person on the elevator asked what the joke was. When Hawk explained that he gets "mistaken" for Tony Hawk, the guy said, "Haha you do look like him!" and then exited the elevator, leaving Hawk standing there alone and perplexed by what just happened.

It's like the guy unintendedly came up with a perfect punchline to a joke he didn't even know existed. You can't even write this stuff.

People loved the perfect storm that occurred on the elevator, and shared other fun Tony Hawk mistaken identity jokes.

And apparently, Tony Hawk isn't the only famous-but-not-like-Brad-Pitt-famous person to deal with this kind of thing.

Good times. Keep on being your cool, awesome self, Tony Hawk—whether people recognize you for real or not.

BTW, there's a new documentary about Tony Hawk called "Until the Wheels Fall Off" that just premiered on HBO. Check it out:

This article originally appeared on 4.8.22

Anyone who came of age during the late 80's and early 90s is at least somewhat familiar with The Oregon Trail game. As one of the most popular computer-based video games of all time, it's a well-loved classic for late Gen Xers and early Millennials.

The game was designed to be educational, to teach kids about the Lewis & Clark expedition and westward expansion of the United States in the mid-1800s. Players were part of a wagon train traveling out west, encountering various challenges and pitfalls along the way, including the dreaded dysentery that led to countless players' demise.

Kids loved it. But unfortunately, not all of its lessons were accurate. In fact, the representation of Native Americans in the game perpetuated common stereotypes and myths about the Indigenous people of the time. Even one of the co-creators of the original game has said in recent years that it should have included a Native perspective.


Now, a new version of the game has been released through Apple Arcade. Developers at the company Gameloft are targeting the newest installment at the same generation who played it as kids, but in the new version, they took conscious steps to make sure their representations of Native Americans in the game were more authentic.

In this version, for the first time in the game's history, Native American characters are playable. And to make sure the characters are portrayed accurately, developers hired three Indigenous historians to weigh in on the game design and suggest improvements.

First, the historian listened to early test music for the game and said the flutes and drums were overkill. They also nixed the use of broken English.

The game's creative director Jarrad Trudgen took their advice—and the reasoning behind it—to heart. "It's like a trope to make Native American people seem primitive somehow," he told NPR, "when actually there were a lot of bilingual or polylingual Native Americans at that time."

The historians weighed in names and imagery of Native characters as well.

As a University of Nebraska historian with Lac Courte Oreilles ancestry, Margaret Huettl had access to old photos and drawings, which she researched to get a more accurate picture of what different tribes' clothign and style would have been. "Initially, all of the Native people [in the revamped game] had braids," Huettl told NPR. "And I think we suggested, maybe they don't all have to have braids."

She said she is glad the developers listened to her and the other Indigenous scholars as they suggested appropriate names for characters, as well as roles they could play beyond trappers or guides.

One of the most significant changes was the elimination of the bow and arrow—something that Trudgen initially wanted to keep. But when Huettl explained that Native Americans at that time were much more likely to have a rifle, and that bows and arrows were more of a stereotype, he and the game developers understood.

"That wasn't our intention at all, obviously," Trudgen said. "We were just coming to it sort of as a naive 'bow and arrows are cool' angle."

That's exactly the sort of oblivious misstep consulting with the historians was designed to help them avoid, so the bows and arrows went.

According to Game Rant, the new version of The Oregon Trail includes a disclaimer from the developer, explaining its intent to properly represent Native American perspectives in this installment. It also points out the truth—that the Westward expansion the game is based around was not a positive experience for Native Americans. It was brutal colonization that still has repercussions today.

While it's not possible to encapsulate the full scope of history in a video game, adding authentic Indigenous representation to one of the most popular educational games of all time is a vital step in the right direction. Kudos to Gameloft for taking the time and consulting with the people who can make sure it's done right.

A video game simulating a school shooting has been shut down before its launch — largely due to Parkland parents denouncing it.

Following in the footsteps of both Roseanne Barr's TV show and problematic scenes from the movie "Show Dogs," a video game called "Active Shooter" has been nixed due to public outcry. The game simulates a school shooting and allows players to play either the school shooter or a SWAT team member.

Screenshots of gameplay released by the creator paint a horrific scene: If you're playing the shooter, you use your semi-automatic rifle to gun down students, teachers, law enforcement, and anyone else you feel like murdering in a school building. A digital counter keeps track of how many civilians and cops you've killed.


Screenshot via Revived Games/Acid Publishing.

The game was published by the game studio Acid Publishing of Moscow and was slated for release on June 6 through Valve Corp.'s online gaming store Steam.

Parents of victims of the Parkland, Florida, school shooting raised their voices loud and clear to denounce the game.

Fred Guttenberg, whose 14-year-old daughter Jaime was one of 17 people killed by a gunman at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School on February 14, 2018, wrote about the game on Twitter: "I have seen and heard many horrific things over the past few months since my daughter was the victim of a school shooting and is now dead in real life. This game may be one of the worst."

Ryan Petty, whose daughter Alaina was also murdered in the Parkland shooting, wrote in a statement on Facebook, "It's disgusting that Valve Corp. is trying to profit from the glamorization of tragedies affecting our schools across the country. Keeping our kids safe is a real issue affecting our communities and is in no way a 'game.'"

A Change.org petition was created to put pressure on Valve not to release it. More than 208,000 people have signed it, as of this writing.

The people spoke — and it worked. Valve will not be putting the game on their site.

The beauty of the age of social media is that people can speak up and accountability can be set into motion. Thanks to the Parkland parents and others drawing negative attention to the game, Valve decided not to put it on their site. They also released a statement explaining who was behind creating it.

“This developer and publisher is, in fact, a person calling himself Ata Berdiyev, who had previously been removed last fall," Valve's statement said:

"Ata is a troll, with a history of customer abuse, publishing copyrighted material, and user review manipulation. His subsequent return under new business names was a fact that came to light as we investigated the controversy around his upcoming title. We are not going to do business with people who act like this towards our customers or Valve."

Washington Post writer Alex Horton made an interesting observation about the game's trailer, which has since been removed from Steam's site: All of the "civilians" shown are women.

If a video game created by a Russian "troll" where you can play a school shooter and gun down women isn't a symbol for America 2018, I don't know what is.

We the people have power. Let's keep using it.

Having free speech and living in a free market system means that our voices and our actions can help determine the kinds of products that succeed and those that don't. When something that people find vile, cruel, or dangerous rears its head, we can use the collective power of our voices and purchasing power to pressure companies to shut it down.

Let's keep speaking up. It's working.

Most Shared

The surprising thing her friends worried about when she came out as trans.

People thought my nerdy interests would change. They didn’t — but my relationship with them did.

In June 2015, I picked up the phone and dialed my old friend Rick’s number, guided by the muscle memory of having done it so many times before.

This time, the topic wouldn’t be our excitement over the new Dungeon Master’s guide or some neat piece of esoterica we had learned in Mr. Zebracki’s history class. This discussion would be much more abstract.


“I have something to tell you, Rick,” I began. “I realized recently that I’m transgender, and I’m planning on transitioning genders at some point in the next year or so, so that I can live my life a little more honestly.”

After a moment of silence, Rick said exactly what I was hoping to hear: “You’re one of my oldest friends. If that’s what you think you need to do, of course I support it, and I’ll help you however you need me to.” But he also had some questions: Would I still play video games? Would I still like Star Wars?

Rick and I bonded in high school over our mutual love of nerd culture, which we had embraced long before anyone else thought it was cool.

It started with daily after-school pilgrimages to the comic shop to buy Star Wars cards, our beloved pastime that occupied us for hours. The amount of time and money we spent on them was ungodly. As we grew older, Star Wars cards eventually gave way to encyclopedic knowledge on movies, music, anime. Rick even found a way to make sports nerdy with his encyclopedic knowledge of the history and statistics of any given game. It was more than an obsession. It was in our DNA.

Yet Rick, and many others I shared the news of my transition with, still wondered whether changing my gender presentation would affect my bone-deep love of nerd culture.

Friends asked, "Can we still talk about 'Doctor Who'?" and "Does this mean you won’t play Starcraft with me anymore?" My dad even asked me if I’d still want to make beer with him the way we do every Thanksgiving. The nature of these questions made me realize how invested people were in the assumed gender alignment of the activities we all enjoyed together.

"Of course I’m still going to do all of those things!" I replied each time. From my perspective, I was making a change that would lighten my mood and allow me to enjoy life better. Yes, I would look different, and I would be happier, but I wasn’t concerned any of my passions or interests would disappear. To those who expressed these concerns, I may as well have been walking away from everything that made up my personality.

I realized at a basic level, they thought nerd culture was “boy stuff.”

Before my transition, I hadn’t thought much about how that attitude might have affected the girls’ experience. Now that I was moving from being one of the boys to "just like one of the boys," I realized how different those experiences really are.

For people socialized as men, being part of a predominantly male clique is an important part of building a self-concept. It supplies men with a healthy sense of validation and inclusion. It’s that same pack mentality that gave rise to concepts like "guy code," "bros before hoes," and "locker room talk." Without feeling a connection to it, some men feel they are missing out on a crucial part of life.

The essence of male hierarchy touches all cultures, as Katelyn Burns points out. So it should come as no surprise that it also touched communities I was involved with.

I, too, had been socialized to believe certain things were for men and other things were for women. Any crossover should be looked at as foreign and suspicious. I don’t blame men for these aspects of toxic masculinity that seep into the general population. It’s a part of the blueprint men are handed in youth. It's the same blueprint I was given and lived with uncomfortably for 27 years.

Girls, on the other hand, tend to approach being "one of the guys" as something we use to get past gender barriers and just engage with the things we like.

Women tend to see the activities we participate in as less enabled by gender (i.e., "boxing is a sport for men") and more enabled in spite of gender (i.e., "just because I’m a girl doesn’t mean I can’t be a boxer").

Women are conscious that participation in male-dominated activities tends to be at the leisure of the men involved, and that membership in the group could be revoked at any time.

For example, if one of the men begins to pursue a woman in the group romantically and she doesn’t return his interest, her continued participation may be threatened. This becomes even riskier for women in male-dominated professions like cybersecurity — my own field of expertise. In professional settings, the stakes raise dramatically. Rejection of a man’s advances can cost us more than our hobby, sometimes it can cost us our jobs.

Often, women deal with this fundamental outsiderness by creating secret spaces where we can pursue feminine interests on our own terms, where being "one of the guys" is no longer the only key for entry.

When I reintegrated into my old hobbies post-transition, I found there were entire subcultures built by women of the group, for women. These small, isolated, and distinctive societies women created were completely invisible to me before I transitioned.

It was like finding a secret room in a house I lived in for decades.

In these women-centered spaces, topics of feminine interest could be discussed openly and out of view of the men in the group. We were shielding ourselves from having to openly remind anyone that we were women. We feared if they noticed, our passageway into acceptance might close.

I watched this happen many times online, in particularly hostile ways. Once men realized an opponent was a woman, players in online games like "Battlefield," "Counterstrike," or "Halo," emboldened by anonymity, would launch into misogynistic attacks after every victory or loss, or sometimes for no reason at all. Any given round I could expect to hear sage platitudes, such as, “go back to the kitchen,” or “why don’t you make me a sandwich?” not to mention a barrage of slurs.

The nerd culture narrative is that we’re a group of outcasts who built a community to cope with the awkwardness and rejection of being a pariah in a social structure that didn’t value the same things we did. But we brought the seeds of our own inherent caste systems with us.

It perpetuated an unspoken marginalization of girls that bordered on outright contempt. It forced girls to find ways to evolve and to express themselves despite the constraints that exist when men make the rules.

Nerd culture is always going to be a part of me and my history. I wouldn’t be who I am without it, and I’m glad that I still have a place in my communities no matter what I’m wearing, what my name is, or how I look. In many places — at my local gaming store, at my friends’ houses, and in these women-centric spaces I never saw before — I’ve found the accepting and understanding community that nerd culture is supposed to be.

I’ve also realized how far we are from being that all the time, for everyone.

The road to acceptance runs directly through a minefield of toxic masculinity, and women’s participation is often tentative — and requires we leave our woman-ness at the door.

Our identities are complex. The interests of women are broad and deep, as is our capability to adapt to situations in casual and professional settings. Being the versatile creatures we are, women will always find a way into communities that interest us.

We have a chance to set aside any preconceived expectations we have of gender and fight the goblins together. We’re going to need all the help we can get.

This story first appeared on The Establishment and is reprinted here with permission.