All the way live

Sweet, sweet internet lifeblood now flows into our 1960's chic rent house via a brand new cable slung artlessly from the corner of the back room, across the backyard, through the branches of the oak tree, and up to the telephone pole in the back alley. (An expedition down said alley revealed living room furniture abandoned during the Nixon era and glimpses into various backyard empires ruled by startled dogs.)

I'm putting off exploring the outer boundaries of the town like a starving man puts off wolfing down his last ding-dong. Once I reach the edge of town, there will be nothing else to explore, so I have to savor the process slowly. I'm starting with the immediate neighborhood today, and planning a long walk in the wake of a long awaited thunderstorm. On the way to the grocery store this morning I saw at least three houses surrounded by religious shrines, so I'm headed in that general direction.

Sadly, my next door neighbor continues to stomp the mudhole of my expectations even deeper. I'm now keeping track of the sleazy cliches he hasn't exhibited. Last night he fired up the molar-rattling chopper just to ride in ever-widening concentric circles around the town's residential streets. Round and round he went, and I could hear him the whole time, rev-rev-revvving his way to masculinity. I don't know whether this means his bike is too loud or the town is too small, but neither possibility is comforting. What is comforting is that now I'm certain I'm not the only one lying in bed thinking, "Is that thunder? Oh. No. Just that asshole again."

My family's coming to town for the weekend and I'm excited to give them the grand tour of our anachronism of a house. I don't know what it is about my generation but we seem to be drawn to kitsch like crows to tinfoil. I was delighted to find that the house came with a projector screen (for riveting slideshows of family trips-- "Look! Disaffected teens in front of the Grand Canyon/Lake Tahoe/Mount Rushmore!") and creepy mustard yellow curtain doors in two of the closets.

Lucky for me, the kitsch was gutted out of the kitchen and one bathroom, where cute anachronisms quickly turn to infuriating health hazards. But by and large I'm enjoying the house. There's an odd comfort in being in a place that was once so highly personalized for someone else. I thought it would weird me out, but now what really weirds me out is how thoroughly newer apartments can erase all traces of humanity for the next tenant. By contrast, this place drips people.

Off to explore, slowly.