Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Sunday, August 12, 2007
8B Clarkson from the front. Note the 25 degree angle of the driveway, which makes the walk from your car to the door an actual workout, and as my bedroom is on the very top floor begins the 20 foot vertical rise between my car and my bed. That’s not my car. On the descent, the angle of the driveway makes you fling your feet out in front of you and lean wayyyy back in some comical swaggering sillywalk or else risk cartwheeling down the hill with only concrete to pad your fall. So the driveway is neat, but most of the houses on this street have something similar, so we have to go inside to see what really distinguishes it from the rest.Following the stairs all the way up, we come eventually to the master bedroom. As befitting the master of the house, the master bedroom comes with its own private balcony, upon which you can sip scotch and smoke fine Cuban cigars while perusing the morning’s stock reports.
Right now there’s a mattress and crappy plastic shelving on it, so unfortunately I have yet to use it to its fullest.
Aside from the balcony, the bathroom is what makes this the master bedroom. Each bedroom effectively has its own bathroom, but mine is the only one where you don’t have to peek your bare ass into the hall before getting in the shower, and as far as I know is the only one with a sweet red mood light to get you ready to shit. I’m guessing it’s there because reds and blues aren’t perceived as well at night, and the red light lets you read Harry Potter with reasonable clarity while your hairy pooter (woo!) goes to work, free of any worry of the light waking your sleeping partner.
Down the stairs once more, you’ll see the weird half-door hiding a closet. A moist, vaguely assy smell seeps out from under this one, so I haven’t opened it yet.
Rounding the corner again, you’ll see the bar bearing a mural of all the former residents (from left to right: Greg, Sam, and Brady. I don’t know who the girl is) and proudly displaying the name of the manor. The Beta Sade, I guess.
More ghostly evidence of the former residents is found in the portrait over the fireplace.
The portrait is my second favorite piece of art here. The best is this cardboard cutout of a Hawkeyes coach. I don’t know his name, but he answers to Coach as well as to anything else, so Coach he is called.
You can see him here casting a watchful eye over the living room. The view from the outside is best, because he makes a creepy silhouette that looks like someone is watching you as you walk up to the driveway.
The garage is pretty neat. The residents before included two cyclists, and at least one of them left a few things behind. Add then me and my bikes, and steve and his bikes, and we’ve got a total of 11 fully functional bikes in the house, and 3 more in various stages of disassembly.
Much cooler, though, is what I can only assume is the other half of that door from upstairs, hiding a scary crawl space. With this picture you’re getting the first look in the room at the same time as me. I’ve never gone in with a flashlight for the reason that I would probably be killed by some To Kill A Mockingbird-esque freak man the second I stuck my head past the door frame.
There are other things that make this house cool. There’s never a shortage of chairs, for instance. There are four refrigerators that I'm aware of. And as my roommates are either gone all the time or hide out in their rooms all day, for all intents and purposes, I have this sweet pad to myself. Thanks to Brady, I have a room to sleep in, a driveway to stagger down, and some guy in the living room to keep me safe. Here’s to you, Brady, and your kickass house.