Shit’s on fire.
Kid’s screaming.
Big puddle even though it didn’t rain.

Selling sandwich bags full of cut grass. 35 cents each. I bought two. Immediately regretted it.

None of the stuffed animals are priced. Lady in the first house got her curlers set up on a table. “THESE AREN’T FOR SALE!”

Everybody’s in sweatpants.

The second garage’s interior covered in Air Force posters. F-16s flying in formation, Apache gunship cockpit shot with double pilot thumbs up.

66 year-old man sits without blinking behind folding table made from old door. Stacked in front of him are multiple six packs of Orange Pop. “Best offer,” he mumbles. I stab him in the arm.

Through the picture window are 8 kids, glass-eyed, white-skinned, piled on the couch watching Latino Family Feud.

“Do you have any paintings of tug boats?” I ask.

In the backyard a dog is burned.

Chris Weagel

Chris Weagel writes about the intersection of technology and parenting for Wired Magazine. No he doesn't. He can't stand that shit.

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