Walton Ford

by Bobby Fisher


It was pissing cats and dogs…appropriate weather for the animal infatuated Walton Ford. The first 30 minutes of our conversation revealed that we had both lived in Williamsburg Brooklyn back in the early 80’s when Puerto Rican boys shouldered nine irons…and flaming cars glowed and crackled in bombed out lots. Twenty five years later Walton has relocated to an abandoned train station nestled in the Berkshires. A 5 minute stroll to main street… a dead deer hitches a lift on the roof of a Ford F150. Burly men in plaid (not the Uniqlo-Faux lumberjacks of that bearded borough) can be seen hauling kegs of Pabst (because it’s cheap not ironic) and wheels of homemade cheese…because CHEESE IS FUCKING GOOD! Me?…I’m stuck in ‘Oh-No!…lita’ ground zero for everything I wish not to be near. Shopping zombies stuffed in Uggs and black tights wishing to be snow bunnies but looking more like road kill choking on over-priced cupcakes. I digress…all the time. Moving on…Kong escaped the station weeks earlier. Manhattan bound. Go see him… 4 he is mighty!