And for a moment, the search is over. I’m not in Birmingham anymore. I’m on the Cursed Caldera. I’m home.
Now, six years later, I am sitting in a coffee shop in Birmingham, Alabama (that’s the "Al..." I was looking for), trying to explain to my girlfriend why this show matters. She’s never seen it. She wants to start from the beginning.
The "Al..." isn't a typo. It’s a prayer. Al-chemy. Turn these old episodes back into gold. Al-low. Give me permission to be a kid again.
No. That’s not it.