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Fuck you Harvey Keitel While living on Vestry Street afforded me direct blading access to the strip of smooth pavement running along the West Side Highway to Battery Park, going anywhere else was a bitch. Intermittent patches of cobblestones, Tribeca Old World charm, always struck a tenor of fear within. Bladers can deal with cobblestones in two ways. The more elegant and safe (yes, safe) solution is to sail over them at top speed. There's something about a speed that minimizes the roughness, though I have no scientific proof. Confident, more experienced bladers usually practice this method, though it's possible for the novice to inadvertently "stumble" across it. The far less elegant and more dangerous solution is to hunt and peck your way across, step by step, arms flailing while attempting to maintain your balance. This method is most practiced by the novice who hasn't mastered the mind over matter, just let it rip, mindset at the heart of blading. Enough with the physics lesson. Early one Saturday morning I unwisely decided to drop off my dry cleaning, around the corner, down Hudson near Franklin, before heading out for a blade. Everything was going just fine, despite the armload of clothing, until the very last block. I wasn't able to gather any speed due to a large curb and had to make my way across the street, step by step. Halfway across Franklin I look up and there's this guy looking at me, looking at the spectacle of my watussi dance. Two seconds later I realize that it's Harvey Keitel. He's got that wicked Harvey Keitel smile going on. Now, it shouldn't matter that it's Harvey Keitel or just some other guy, but I am mortified. While I painted a somewhat pained smile on my face, inside I was thinking, "fuck you Harvey Keitel". March 20, 2000
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© 2000 - 2001 
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