PANTS JACKETS SWEATS T-SHIRTS SHORTS
QUIKSILVER
CHRISTIAN HOS PHOTO: BELMANN
F
Olympic team fencer. He drives the stars
and once took Miss Laura B. down in the
leather seats outside of Radio City Music
Hall. We direct the KGB agent turned limo
driver to a multitude of skate spots and
have him block traffic as we session.
Mr. Peralta generously sucks up the tab,
assuring us that the mysterious Mr. Powell
is concerned about our comfort.
1:10 p.m.-Liberty Island.
The statue of Liberty is covered with
scaffolding. Lance thinks it looks better.
Fausto doesn't think at all. Remo Williams
shoots publicity stills for Lee laccoca.
3:49 Battery Park.
Another P/P video setup. The sun
is leaving and the video technicians are
adamant about the necessity of shooting
instantly Peralta reverts to skate type and
abandons the crew in favor of turning
360's with Hackett. Bulldozers in the
foreground fun the art of Battery Park into
another redevelopment scam. Big bucks
roll hard in the city, La Guardia died for
your sins. Someone comments that the
bronze bust of Al Smith in the park looks
a lot like Sally Anne Miller. Another
dubious long distance call is paid for by
our magnificent benefactor Goodrich as
the skate/activators thrash another phone
booth.
10:13 a.m. Uptown
Breakfast.
Christ is eating eight dollar bagels and
telling the entire restaurant about his
movie career. During one particularly
moving passage an eager waitress
overreacts and spills a tray of food as she
struggles to get out of the way of Hosoi's
verbage. While four busboys clean up the
mess Christian relates the tale of how he
now dwells in Mayor Bradley's guest
house. A local art consultant casts doubt
on Christ's tale. It seems the artconsultant
occasionally lays on Mayor Tom's daughter
to keep warm. Naturally the consultant
is an art pal of Ivan. Now everybody
understands. The busboy informs me that
Mayor Koch has no daughter because he
is gay Logically we deduce that art
consultants in New Amsterdam must get
cold in the winter. Burnett Miller's room
number at the Royal Hawaiian is written
on the check and we all eat for free.
We begin practicing Richard Armstrong's
signature in anticipation of the night's
complimentary repast
1:05 p.m. The Norma
Kamali showroom.
Downtown.
Designer schmaltz to the gills. Silk
handkerchiefs cost 75 bucks. Ultravixen
fashion hogs await our every command.
Since a couple of our party haven't
bathed, shaved or slept in five days, the
fashion harlettes are up in arms. Video
fashion shows proceed on the walls
Fausto buys a coat and pays cash. The
lab is five bills. Some wench offers
Christian a job as a model. In response
Hosoi remodels his t-shirt right on Norma's
floor. Ms. Kamali is astounded as Christ
leaves her an autograph.
9:29 p.m. Dreamwheels.
Behind the iron security door a party
rages full bore. We are invited via the
legendary SMA Skipperboy to check out
Mr. Wesley and the boys. For forty-five
minutes we pound the door with rocks
gaining no advantage. As the music
volume increases we realize that it's
hopeless. We leave to session the far East
Village. Later heard that the Dreamskate
nightly session was held in old Spanish
Harlem.
4:10 a.m. Exterior 5th
Avenue.
The largest hurricane in recorded
history has come ashore and is moving
through the town. Residents have in many
cases evacuated. Plywood covers the
store windows. TV news crews and police
cautiously peek out from behind bar-
ricades. Fire Island is facing its biggest
challenge since the debut of AIDS. Tears
and tough cookies are the menu. Mayor
Koch is already begging for disaster relief.
(This is how you know he's not Jimmy
Walker) Roving bands of skaters are the
only signs of intelligent life. It is a good
sign. Perhaps this is the future. Chaos
is entertaining, with no crowds or cops full
concrete contact is inevitable. The biggest
busts in town are sessioned with ferocity.
5:19 Brooklyn Bridge,
Underbelly, lan Frahm, attacks the brick
banks. Possessing a street repetoire that
would take many pro contests, this local
shredder simply doesn't care. Thriving
in conditions which would scare the shit
out of many professional poseurs, he
doesn't need to work out in a gymnasium.
3:00 a.m. Times Square
Night, exterior.
At the end of a typical day in which he
has: 1) walked his way into a top modeling
agency and talked his way into a job,
2) slid down the World Trade Center's
escalators at 30 m.p.h. on his feet,
3) sessioned hard at the Big Barn ramp.
4) been to the Museum of Modern Art
to offer critical commentary and 5) executed
a major guerilla art piece, Hackett is
celebrating his birthday. Significantly past
a fifth of Especial and having worked their
way through the major clubs, Eddie and
Dave scan the landscape in search of real
thrills. (It should be publically recorded
that Everready Eddie rides motorcycles off
cliffs in the movies to pick up spare
dollars.) Spotting a speeding cab. Eddie
sprints in front of it causing the driver to hit
the brakes momentarily. Hackett now rolls
behind and hooks up. The driver quickly
accelerates as Eddie also grabs on. The
driver declines to accomodate and, well
past forty, brushes Eddie off on a parked
car. Hackett is enjoying the ride immensely
until he notices that his finger is caught in
some torn metal underneath the car. Now
travelling at a speed too absurd to even
contemplate, D.H. manages to release
himself, tearing his fingor off in the
process. Standing in the middle of the
street spurting blood, Dave surveys the
damage. The finger hangs by a couple
of skin threads. Wrapping the torn digit
in a t-shirt they proceed to the emergency
ward. In the middle of their journey D.H.
stops at the apartment of a comely blonde
model, he takes a shower, eats and opts
for a sympathy session. Hours later he
gets the finger sown back on. Later in the
new day David will crash a rent-a-car into.
a cop car just to keep things interesting.
10:29 a.m. Wall Street.
Time is running out and the limo is
double parked. Our subway session has
exceeded the bounds of civilized decorum.
As the transit police stormtroop en masse
our KGB agent driver bails out. He picks
us up blocks later at a pre-arranged point.
We leave to harrass Queens, stopping
only briefly to decorate the arch at
Washington Square.
9:36 a.m. South Bronx.
Blocks of abandoned buildings. An
apparant warzone of urban economics.
Lance disappears daily. No one knows
to where. He is building a house. Mountain
is an urban forrester. The rost is obvious.
How do you take a bathtub with you on
an airplane?
9:12 a.m. Sheraton Plaza.
Our welcome has worn out Room
service has made us off limits. In partial
payment of our debts we have created
new artworks on the hotel walls Some
of us have been up another night redec
orating MOMA. The maids now approach
our rooms with guards. The manager has
ordered to "not skate within a block of the
hotel. To comply we now skate within the
hotel. The credit bureau is investigating
our rather dubious line of credit. Our lord
and master, Mr. Goodrich, holder of the
much promised Gold American Express
card, has failed to materialize with the
money we were promised. Not oven the
golden signature of Christ can clear our
extensive phone tab. Peralta has cleared
out with D. David. My bags and tickets are
being held in ransom downstairs. Lance
and I have been ordered to the airport,
or else. Caballero is laying low, Mr. Zoot
is handing them our W.TS. mag staff card
and telling them to call the office. Not being
able to find a proper bathroom, a deposit
is left in the bridal suite. On the bed. Good
luck and have a happy life together.
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