COMPANY
The World Trade Center
noon.
The eighth wonder of the world I reckon.
These towers of technology were once the
tallest buildings on the planet. Lance has
calculated the velocity of a spit wad from
the top. Lethal he figures. Our skatecrew
has sessioned the megabuck sculptures
and is currently slaloming through the
mid-day throngs of workers. The ample
security forces are descending upon the
hapless video crew as it becomes a case
of every man for himself. Peralta, with the
knowledge of a man who has dealt with
such busts before, calmly lays down on
the sidewalk and remains motionless. The
cops are unable to comprehend this rather
eccentric behavior and leave. Stacy
remains immobile as the crew eats lunch.
Sometime later he rises, saying nothing.
Even McGill is mystified. The matter is
never metioned again.
5:30 p.m.Uptown
Hosoi hails a cab. Probably because
Christ has green hair the driver is recount-
ing his entire bloody career as a prize
fighter on the Eastern Seaboard. We're
talking real he-man talk lads. Eventually
the macho man is given our destination,
a ramp in deepest darkest Brooklyn. Alas
lads, "No one, not even a professional
fighter such as myself, goes there at this
hour. The driver declines passage. The
skaters make other arrangements.
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d
Cabman returns to the grind of supreme
manhood.
11:14 a.m.- Midtown
Manhattan.
They used to say Hackett was under-
rated. But that wasn't the problem.
Actually he's just completely off the scale,
in another program, wired for heavier than
usual duty. At the moment he's acid
dropping off moving cars, trucks and cabs.
Pedestrians are occasionally flattened.
About thirty seconds ago a large blood ran
by Eddie followed by a woman screaming
for the police. Everready Eddie saw the
roll of cash in the guy's one hand and the
glint of cold blue steel in the other. Since
it's just another daylight armed robbery
the skate show rolls on. Christian hops
a peasant's broom. Caballero scuffs some
lawyerman's 200 buck wing tips. Mountain
ollies into shopping bags and vegetable
carts. McGill, meanwhile orders an
assortment of weird culinary concotions
from sidewalk vendors. McGill now
apparently speaks letter perfect Yiddish.
4:46 p.m. Manhattan
South
Rush hour.
In the midst of thousands of financial
district commuters Caballero has found
a fine art ramp. Nice transition, good color
and radius, undoubtedly worth hundreds
of thousands of dollars U.S. Could be
a Picasso for all we know, it's certainly not
a masterpiece such as a Schmitt ramp,
but it will do. The local law man is not
thrilled with Steve's decimation of culture.
The badge orders him off immediately. For
good measure Caballero grinds a one-
wheeler as a parting shot.
12:40 a.m. Club Area
Limousines are stretched for blocks
around the ultra trend-set club. Throngs
of hopeful hipsters stand outside waiting
to be chosen by the ever so gay young
blade at the door. If he points, you are
priveliged to be able to pay through the
nose to come in. If he doesn't point to you
then you don't matter. D.H. is on fire. The
doorman is astounded as Hackett pushes
his way in. Bouncers materialize to
neutralize our hero. The verdict is too
much energy. Their solution is to wait.
Hackett comments, "Hey, I want to
rage...now... Elsewhere". We depart.
A couple of months ago D.H. and Olson
were the floor show in this very same club.
This week the ramp is gone and the circus
is in town. We land at the Kat Club on the
lower East Side.
9:30 a.m.- Hell's
Kitchen.
Deciding to walk no longer, we have
hired a chauffeur driven Lincoln stretch
limo. Our driver is an ex-patriot Russian
Cod on page
Caballero eyed the structure for half a moment, instructed the photographer to "stand over there", then assailed the sculpture for the first time with the same
precision as if were his hundredth run.
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