Read his story: Pardon me while I go off now on the beauty in blank asphalt, and office buildings, and sky. A reverie about what's not there, a newspoem, a secret: I am having an affair with a parking lot.
It begins with a soft, short series of kabooms on a chilly Saturday morning two Decembers ago.
What was that?
Mmmph? Wha? Oh, the convention center. I forgot they're blowing it up today. Go back to sleep.
But we opened the door to the balcony anyhow, shivered, and watched an anemic powder rise a couple blocks over. Even in implosive death the old Washington Convention Center possessed a special talent to underwhelm. All that 1982 dust, in Phoenix-airport shades of brown. All those auto shows held the week after Christmas. All those convening heart surgeons riding escalators to seminars deep within the partitioned, aortic valves of its blandness. We turned on the TV to make sure the demolition, in slo-mo replay, was as boring as it looked out the window.
It was.
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