Erik Seckar published an essay of mine in his publication BOURBON PENN. While I'd rather talk about his lovely wife Jenny, I promised that I would grow the pirate Erik sent me with the magazine copies. He also sent me some pirate tattoos, which I put on my tongue. Turns out they were not edible in the least. Anyhow, here's the sequence of events. The pirate did grow, and I don't know what to feed him.
Twenty years ago, I had a friend who lived two doors away from this death place. I'm sure when I visited, I had seen the door open, maybe filled with dust or the glint of power tools. The layout of most streets in Chicago is that an alley runs between separate blocks. So we would often play in the alley, soccer, Frisbee, whatever. I miss alleys because there are none in Burbank, but maybe it's a good thing, since alleys are more insidious now. A place for a lawnmower, an AM/FM radio tuned to the White Sox game, a sprinkler with a daisy in the center, smiling away.
A few weeks back, I went to my local comic shop downtown, then walked around a bit as it was a balmy 40 degrees. I had forgotten the free ice skating rink and I hung around taking photos and watching people show off or stumble and still stay on their feet.