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.