I employ Google Maps to navigate new streets. It’s also good for time travel, kind of.
I open my Mac and in seconds I’m at the curb of my dad’s house. Thirteen again.
I attend to subatomic emotions.
Then off to a blurry field of grass.
The photo stream on the left lets me browse medium-quality postcard shots.
There are the falls. There is the clock tower.
I’m really mad all of a sudden. Mad at photos taken inside a hardware store.
Hand tools. Light bulbs. Heavy coats associated with seasonal unemployment.
Not what I came here to see. The time I carved out for nostalgia is ruined.
A swift and superficial investigation reveals that the responsible entity bears a name:
I ignore my wife and son for forty minutes to repeatedly paste a complaint into the report a problem feature.
I inform on Parker many times.
Because evil will reign in the world if good people do nothing.
A week goes by.
I feel like revisiting my childhood again.
Parker will be banished by now for sure.
I open my Mac and prepare to settle in.
But come on. You’re kidding.
Now I have to really reconnoiter Parker’s profile.
Full immersion in his extensive cache evokes mingled dismay and awe.
It appears Parker uploads redundant documentation of every place he visits.
The abundance of photos complicates efforts to verify his personhood.
The most detailed evidence to date:
Human or not, the consequent assumptions following exposure to Parker’s catalogue are many.
Some are true. Most are uninformed.
My own perspective yields to the figures:
Parker’s 12,000 photos of roadside motels and Sizzlers have garnered over 15 million views.
I decide to interpret Parker’s work as the product of a compassionate optimist.
A gallery follows.
Of places one might have enjoyed congress with Donny Parker.