Basement Man

I love the basement in our house. The wife is afraid of the place and the kids are not allowed down there. It is literally my secret underground lair where all kinds of godless and pantless acts take place.

If and when Noah and Tegan (Martha's step-brother and his old lady) move to the Twin Cities I am thinking of setting up a bar down there with darts and maybe even a pinball machine. Those Oregon kids love pinball.

My basement is actually a pretty cool place. I've done some good work down there. It has ambience. It has personality. It's warm on account of the water heater, the gas furnace and the 4ft thick stone walls. It has a sink to piss in. I found a dead bird down there last week. Probably fell down the chimney after dying from carbon monoxide poisoning, poor little bastard. I dance down there, alone. I listen to music. I drink. I draw. I look at old slides that I project onto a door that leans up against a wall.

I think a crude workingman's bar is a logical next step for this basement. It can be accessed from inside the house (via a door off the laundry room) or from outside the house (via a door around the side). The stairs is too narrow to allow a pool table to be brought in but plenty wide for a pinball machine. I reserve the right to refuse admission to anyone I think will not appreciate the virtues of my basement bar. I'm open to suggestions for a name. "The Man Hole" and "The Cockpit" have already been considered and shot down so try harder please Noah.