I'm vaguely looking for a house. That is, I have spent the last year doing everything I could to be in a position to become one of those "homeowners" that you may have read about alongside columns about Sasquatch and large fish/missing links in Scottish ponds. It seems that with our current "choice" of warmongering tit of a president destroying the stock market, the only sound investment is real estate. Plus, New Orleans is one of the last decent cities in this fat bloated country where a lowly bartender could hope to afford a house.
While I search listings, I feel my childhood romantic come screaming out. I grew up salavating over old Charles Addams comics, envying Doris Day not only for her blonde fall, but her sprawling, crumbling mansion from that " Daisies" movie/TV show. And when I saw Amityville Horror in 1980 or whenever it was, I was putting myself in the protagonists' position and telling the little ghosties to fuck the fuck off! There is no amount of supernatural shenanigans I won't put up with for expansive hardwood floors and fireplaces everywhere.
My silly childhood dream was to eventually live in a house with so many rooms I would actually forget what's in some of them.
I want to be able to rollerskate through the house and not worry about ever hitting a wall.
I want a circus in the second parlour. This will be called the "Circus Room."
Now I think I've found it. Big spooky house with spires and awnings in a not-entirely-cracked-out neighborhood, and the floorplan boasts 3900 sq. feet and the stats read like this:
"Other Room." Oh good Christ-on-a-stick, je me touche plus fort! By the realtor's own choice of words, these rooms defy description! The seasoned homebuyer would cringe at such vagueries, but my inner idiot child conjures up a hundred uses for the "Other Room." Buried treasure! Medical experiments on neighborhood children and dogs! The severed heads of all my loves!
Although the house is cheaper than a Korean hooker, I shall have to have a few roommates to make ends meet. I picture this romantic conclusion of the run-through of the house with prospective roomies as we pass the last door on the upstairs hallway, that door in cracked black paint:
" and this is the room no one must enter " [pregnant pause] " mark my words well; you will not have the opportunity of hearing this warning again "
Oh, and about my little afternoon at WWOZ mentioned below it didn't happen. I went to meet Louise where we agreed. She didn't show up. I had friends in town and errands to run, so I wasn't too put out. Saw her later Wednesday evening. Turns out she spent Tuesday alternating between being tripped up by dogs, breaking falls on the corners of coffee tables with her eye and popping 'round the E.R. for reasons easily arrived at. I didn't ask for a doctor's note to corroborate her alibi since my poor friend's enflamed face was all the proof I needed.
Ever want to hug someone, and then realize at the last moment that a squeeze is probably not the thing to be giving?