Ghosts Of Christmas Past
I come to you today from memory lane: Oregon. Colorado. Nights that got cold. Christmas parties in my old kitchen. Winter quiet. Snow in the city. Snuggling in my pop's chair with nephew Pat.
Late-December dusk at 13,000 feet—white knuckled in the passenger seat on that crazy road between Denver and mom and dad's house.
The Slammer—a scummy bar with a heart of gold. This place decks it out for Christmas, but I don't think you can go there anymore on account of it being clogged with Chads and tourists. Fuck it, though.
Dog walks on Christmas Day when everyone was happy and the snow danced with sunlight.
Baby-face Justin, back when the boys lived in the Belmont house and threw the wildest New Year's Eves.
A mistletoe last year, for kissing season. As I recall, I'd been feeling blue, and although December did bring with it a spicy kiss or two, they weren't partaken of in any real proximity to my kitchen or this talisman of Druidic fertility. Nevertheless!
A powder day. A powder day with my dad. How many of these I’ve had in my life, I can’t be sure, but they’re very valuable.
Me hanging twinkly lights at Commonwealth in 2011, the year I decided against all odds to open an indoor skatepark in the middle of a recession.
This picture reminds me of the unkempt Chrismas parties I used to have and how one in particular, maybe even this one, ended with a can of caramel popcorn getting tossed all over the hardwoods and then, like with alchemy, transformed into a kind of tar thanks to the addition of spilt beer and dancing. Ah those were the days!
Nephew Pat in his Kermit slippers, working his way through a dire case of post present-opening blues.
Do y'all remember how for a little while there after Department Of Skateboarding got torn down, we still skated the empty warehouse—just cuz it was winter outside and there was NO WHERE ELSE TO GO?
The coldest Christmas camping in Arches National Park. We were the only ones. It was beautiful and austere. I turned into an icicle.
Peace on earth.
