Realizing themselves freed men, allies turned adventurers and survivors in a new Rome before heading home to families they hadn't seen in years. So men have done for centuries. A descendant of their achievement, he walks the streets of New York City, two centuries later seeking to explore and survive civilization, a Sentry unto himself.
"You guys go to shows, right? Music shows, yeah?" he asked, as he bombs forward down the dawn streets of Brooklyn. "Yeah," we mumble. "You guys seen some good shows?"
"Sure," we say. I can't remember a single show I've ever seen. My brain is reduced to nothing; simple math maybe. But there is no honest way I can have a conversation with this man, no way it's going to happen with my benefactor, and no way I can tell him. So, he just goes on.
"Best show I ever saw was Woodstock '94. So get this... you know Rollins? Henry Rollins; the Rollins Band? You know he's intense, right? Well, he's out there in the tattoos and all that, and it's raining, man. And he plays this intense show. And then guess who comes on next? Crosby, Stills and Nash! Can you believe that? Crosby, Stills and Nash following up the Rollins
Band? And you know what - the rain stopped. Serious." He stops briefly. Two intersections fly by and the sound the car makes in the wind is a loud whoosh and whistle.
"Who do you guys think is the biggest asshole in rock'n'roll?" He's back on the offense. Why is this happening right now? We don't even answer. "Lars, right? ...From Metallica." I take one for the team. "Yeah, I've heard that," I say.
"That's what everyone says, man. But not me. I saw him in this little coffee shop at about four in the morning, right? This is a couple of years ago, and he's just sitting there. So I go over to him and I say 'I don't want to bother you, man, but I got to thank you for that set at Woodstock '94.' And you know what? He was cool, man... He was real cool. You know who's a dick, man? Lou Reed. No one says anything good about him, man. Nobody. You ever heard anything good about him?"
"I guess not, but he's like Mr. Brooklyn, isn't he?"
"I don't know, but no one says anything good about him, man," he says again.
"You can let us out right here," instructs my benefactor. "This is close enough..."
Great Gods! Moon and stars collide, a cosmic derby of churning magnetic forces right in the heart of Chinatown! Due to the early exit of the French national side from the 2008 European Cup, international footballer Thierry Henry has joined a collection of crossover hoop stars for an urban friendly in Sara D. Roosevelt Park.
Organized by basketball star Steve Nash, Henry arrived at Nike Field along with Jason Kidd, Baron Davis and others to square off against retired US national captain Claudio Reyna as part of a fund-raiser for the Steve Nash Foundation.
Nash, an avid football enthusiast, has long used football as a conditioning technique to stay fit during off-seasons. The interest seems to run in the family - his brother, a member of the Canadian national side and father, an ex-professional in both England and South Africa.
(a Nike commercial showcasing Nash's alternative regiment)
The relatively-unknown 8 v. 8 still drew enough attention to line the chain fence five rows deep, some ambitious spectators taking to the trees for a better view. Those inside the fence showed no humility, and the Unfortunates strained to view what privilege had so easily offered the few. Bodies crammed to see the athletes lead to competition. Pleads were offered from beyond the gates. "Sit down!" they cried. "We want to see, too!"
Promises were made to sit down once the match began, but when the mob's patience expired, so to the atmosphere of compromise. Curses were thrown; insults; slander.
"Fuckhead, sit down! Let us see!" yelled a man.
"Not likely, is it? Calling me 'fuckhead'..." "He is sitting down, isn't he?" joked another of his short, fat friend.
"Ah, you're just pissed that England lost in qualifying, huh?" spit the man. At this point, all four Scots turn to the fence. Any hope of compliance on their part is dashed.
"We're not fucking England supporters, you right fuck!" the tall one screamed. "And this ticket says we don't have to sit down." The man on the outside spits on the little one - spits right in his face. Phlegm is dripping down the side of his cheek. The cops were called over.
Such childishness. At a charity event.
The match began and ran smoothly, Nash scoring two goals in his sides 8-5 win. The crowd elsewhere seemed quite appreciative of the spectacle, though many seemed far more interested in the National Basketball Association's delegates then either the Internationals or the Foundation's efforts. Yet, the mere minutes that passed between Germany's narrow defeat of Turkey, advancing them to Sunday's final, and a match featuring one of the world's finest strikers on a miniature Chrystie Street pitch, revealed the great potential of coincidence and fortune.
I'm hungry. I decide to brave delivery. My benefactor tells me of a service that delivers a vast array of items - Anytime. "There's one in Manhattan and Brooklyn," he says.
"Uh, I'd like to make an order for delivery," I say, confidently.
"Ok, this first time order?" he asks quickly. "Yeah," I say.
"Number?... Address?... Apartment... Cross Street?... I need the other cross street, sir." There is a void to him; there is no patience. He repeats the last four digits of my phone number. "Uh, huh." He repeats them again. I repeat them to him. "Ok, your order..."
"How about..." I begin. He stops me. "One moment." He clicks over.
He clicks back. "Ok, what can I get you?"
"Two Anytime Burgers," I order. "Sides?"
I panic. "Fries?" "No fries, sir" he says. He's starting to get annoyed, but no fries? "Uh, how about felafel?"
"We don't have felafel, sir!" I am staring at the menu. Felafel balls are $4.50. I go silent. I shut down...
"We have fries, baked, mashed..." He begins listing the side options, and the beginning of the list begins with fries! I manage to tell him, "yeah, fries please..."
"Will there be anything else, sir?" he asks.
At this point, I thought everything between us had been solved. As if it were only a big misunderstanding. Yeah, they had fries. Yeah, they have falafel balls.
"How about an order of the felafel balls?" I ask. A different tone of voice, a few different details - I figure if I ask him nicely, it'll all just work out.
"Sir, WE don't have felafel! Will that be all?"
"Yeah..." I was baffled. What exactly had just taken place? How could calling a late night delivery service prove such a challenge?
Instantly, he lightens up. "Thirty to forty minutes, sir." I hang up. The city is laughing at me.
(Incidentally, the "Anytime Burger" was pretty much incredible when it arrived...)
It had become dawn. The sky continued to brighten and gain color. I couldn't understand how the temperature had remained the same from the night before. We had stayed on the roof until dawn and the temperature hadn't changed a bit.
We grabbed a cab at the end of Orchard out of the city, over the Williamsburg Bridge back to Brooklyn. "Grab the second exit. Take a left and a quick right all the way down to Bushwick..." directed my benefactor. "You can go right here too, right?" questioned the Cabbie.
"Yeah... but there are more stoplights that way." "Good. You know that. A lot of people don't know. You gotta know more than the cabbie. Some of 'em are idiots." the Cabbie laughed.
Organized by basketball star Steve Nash, Henry arrived at Nike Field along with Jason Kidd, Baron Davis and others to square off against retired US national captain Claudio Reyna as part of a fund-raiser for the Steve Nash Foundation.
"Fuckhead, sit down! Let us see!" yelled a man.
The match began and ran smoothly, Nash scoring two goals in his sides 8-5 win. The crowd elsewhere seemed quite appreciative of the spectacle, though many seemed far more interested in the National Basketball Association's delegates then either the Internationals or the Foundation's efforts. Yet, the mere minutes that passed between Germany's narrow defeat of Turkey, advancing them to Sunday's final, and a match featuring one of the world's finest strikers on a miniature Chrystie Street pitch, revealed the great potential of coincidence and fortune.
