He love the tank farms. The massive blank slabs, rising out of a riot of untended vegetation, the spiral ladder curling gracefully down the flank of the tank. The flank of the tank. He'd be a fool not to. We spent yesterday morning following the Southern Branch of the Elizabeth River into the heart of industrial Hampton Roads in preparation for a Pilot sketchbook episode. Bonus: I found a hot dog vendor in a deserted parking lot run by Mexican women who also sold prepaid phone cards called "Hola Mama!" The hot dogs were good, but Doc wouldn't go near them, preferring a packet of Nabs, which he shared with feral cats and seagulls.At one point, trudging across a wasteland studded with beribboned stakes, we were met by a burly guy in a hard hat, who warned us that we were walking on toxically contaminated land. When we asked him about the stakes, he said that a big condo development was soon to go up there.Now that's what I call poetic justice.
You can see some of Doc's photos here.