This here was made back in the days when sculptors were sculptors, and not some skinny hippie kid who would put a crimp in a sheet of kor-ten steel and call it a day (got a ticket to the Serra exhibit at MOMA!) My trek today was through Prospect Park to Park Slope. Park Slope, it dawns on me now, gets its name because the freakin Park is full of freakin Slopes. If you got ahold of some National Geographic or maybe Nova footage of one a them spiky fish that puff up when they sense danger, and then made a loop of that footage and sped it up real fast, that's what my feet are like right now. But did my New York pals tell me about the mountaineering aspect of this walk in the park? No, they did not. There probably sitting up their in they're little cottages in the woods laughing there heads off at my throbbing feet. Well, if their's any justice in the world, they're laughter will wake up the baby. And I will sleep just a little bit easier tonight.