Mr. Hackett, soulfully dialed in manages this
Two-wheeled carve on some unsuspecting
embankment. What song is he listening to? (facing
page): Christian Hosoi during an ambient stroll
came across these two models posing in front
of the World Trade Center Cater, te found him
ollieing over an unsuspecting minimum wage
workman's broom
In my instance New York brew goes for
five bucks a pop in uptown Manhattan. Not
bad when the whole island was once
swindled for a couple of bucks worth of
beads: Drunk Injuns? Maybe. Perhaps it's
once again time for the truth. In a world of
porn mapa does a blurry shot reproduced
in mini scale of a skater's butt sans
clothing have any meaning at all? Is it
shock value or the desperate act of a staff
driver mad by its four color pasturized
competitions it humor? Is art? Is it
meaningless?
hotel security men were trying to prevent
when they issued their last "final, no
skateboarding" warning. It's gotten so bad
fiere that McGill, Hosoi, Mountain and
Caballero are denied access to their
rooms repeatedly. We soon resort to
wearing costumes and deception to enter
the hotel.
David Hackett doesn't care. I am waiting
for him so I don't either. At this time of the
morning the bar trade turns rough. Even a
superbly conditioned athelete such as
myself requires sleep, D.H. is the all night
man and he isn't here as previously
advertised. Passing out in this den of
Barbies all looking for a Ken would be
hazardous to my health. For no better
reason than I can't handle the velvet
symphony of transvestites dressed to
the nines any longer I end this dispatch
to wander up to the squalor of my 150
corporate buck a night room.
11:45 a.m.
An unidentified member of the Powell-
Peralta video crew is observed hitting
golfballs (or are they rocks) off the hotel
roof with a stolen golf club. Down on the
Seventh Avenue driving range it is raining
large chunks of flying death. I realize that
this is the kind of dangerous activity the
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