Sunday, May 02, 2010

Peter Cha

Who knew?

The bouncer outside the Gargoyle saw me, maybe recognized me, but he's too dumb and too tied up in meth sales to mark me. First base.

I bought a pack of Parliaments from a bodega, but the clerk was more invested in the Dodgers game to pay me mind. Second.

Third: cops never go to the beach. It's in their training or something. I guess they're scared of drowning. So am I.

I lay down amidst screaming children and orange ladies to hide out. The sand burnt my back through my black Nike T-shirt. The sun screamed at me from above. I didn't care. The bounty was secure. So was I.

Next up to bat, stepping up to the plate: me, Peter Cha, known by some as Pizza Pete. You would have had to have been there.

I started thinking about the ocean, how polluted it must be. The atmosphere is a burgeoning wasteland, but the ocean is -- literally -- going to shit, too. Whale barf and shark piss. It's a nightmare if you think about it.

I prefer not to. When I fly to Dallas, I feel like a man revived, up in the air, above the clouds. Is anything more magnificent than the blue sky? Is anything more incredible than white puffy clouds?

Probably not.

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