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About Chicago

Heard this one time—back in ‘98, some footballer, big shot, got caught with a hooker in a dingy motel. Cops didn’t care, but his coach? Lost his shit—made ‘im run laps till he puked! Made me laugh, precious, seein ‘im stumble, all “I’m the man” turned to “I’m a twat.” We swears! Them types, they don’t get it—sweat an glory don’t buy ya class.

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There’s this park, Whispers Park, tucked behind Elm Street. Not many peeps go there, but I love it. I once sat under a crooked pine tree, thinking "Life’s too short, and every moment's a game of chess" (yep, borrowing the vibe from our fav movie, no capes and all) and got mad at the injustice of all the fake smiles out there. It’s a gem! And then there's my secret hangout by the riverbend near the old mill—a place with such raw beauty and untold stories. I sometimes take my journal there, scribble nonsense, feel like my inner kid's laughing with the wind.

Obituary information for Gordon Brent Huskey