When I was a little kid, my dad would go to the junk yard. He would often come back with various things in various states of disrepair, which would drive my mom into various states of annoyance.
Every once in awhile, he would fill the back of his truck with random broken things, and let me join him on a trip to the junk yard. For me, the junk yard was an amazing place filled not with broken discarded items, but items that blinded their previous owners to their potential magic.
To this day, when I drive by Zanker Road in Alviso, CA, I think back to the time my dad and I went hunting for Discardia, the Land of Discarded Toys, only to find a brown box with a couple of switches and dials, and the word Pong written across the front of it.
Last Saturday, I was sitting with my friend Drew...