Comments on: they retired our jerseys rookie year http://dougblack.wordpress.com/2008/12/27/they-retired-our-jerseys-rookie-year/ Thu, 22 Oct 2009 13:59:01 +0000 http://wordpress.com/ hourly 1 By: bradley http://dougblack.wordpress.com/2008/12/27/they-retired-our-jerseys-rookie-year/#comment-59 bradley Mon, 29 Dec 2008 20:45:51 +0000 http://dougblack.wordpress.com/?p=71#comment-59 "i knew he was an artist. a bullshit artist. we can smell our own breed." “i knew he was an artist. a bullshit artist. we can smell our own breed.”

]]> By: laurenfrohne http://dougblack.wordpress.com/2008/12/27/they-retired-our-jerseys-rookie-year/#comment-58 laurenfrohne Sun, 28 Dec 2008 03:56:27 +0000 http://dougblack.wordpress.com/?p=71#comment-58 Yesterday, I walked around the neighborhood I grew up in for the first time in about 8 years - checking out who had changed their landscaping, who had painted their houses, who had moved. It really wasn't any different than I had left it. I could still see my childhood-best-friend's house through the fall leaves of the house a quarter mile from my parents', I could point out where my 1st-grade teacher lives, where one of my friends from 2nd grade lived. Except, I didn't have any evidence of my ever living there. You are lucky. The only evidence that I ever spent my childhood in the place I actually spent my childhood is a gate through the woods my my parents' backyard that leads to the backyard of another childhood best friend's yard, now occupied by some other young family. Your legacy is branded in the sidewalk, immortalized, immature or not; mine, in a removable piece of wood. That is significant. Bullshit artist is better than no artist at all. (I'm drunk and I subscribe to your blog). Yesterday, I walked around the neighborhood I grew up in for the first time in about 8 years – checking out who had changed their landscaping, who had painted their houses, who had moved. It really wasn’t any different than I had left it. I could still see my childhood-best-friend’s house through the fall leaves of the house a quarter mile from my parents’, I could point out where my 1st-grade teacher lives, where one of my friends from 2nd grade lived.

Except, I didn’t have any evidence of my ever living there.
You are lucky. The only evidence that I ever spent my childhood in the place I actually spent my childhood is a gate through the woods my my parents’ backyard that leads to the backyard of another childhood best friend’s yard, now occupied by some other young family.

Your legacy is branded in the sidewalk, immortalized, immature or not; mine, in a removable piece of wood.
That is significant.

Bullshit artist is better than no artist at all.

(I’m drunk and I subscribe to your blog).

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