Toenail Clippings and Fritos

June 20, 2014

I used to call this blog home. Then I left on a weekend trip and said I’d return shortly. But then my car died on the way back and I had to catch a plane instead. But the plane had to get rerouted due to some dude pooping his pants on the flight (the air marshal thought he meant something different what he said he’d “dropped a deuce”). When we landed I was stuck in customs forever and they said I couldn’t enter the country. Apparently I had boarded the wrong plane and ended up on another continent. I eventually broke myself out of that prison of a terminal (a la’ Shawshank style). Then I was captured by pirates and held for ransom for over 14 weeks. They demanded that Paula Deen be put back on the air, and until her recent internet channel/program announcement, that’s where I’ve been.

And you would think those pirates knew how to cook anything with all the devoted watching of her butter soaked recipes.

But here I am. I’m back. But what’s happened to the place? Mike said he’d watch it while I was gone.

I had to kick away some buzzards who had taken up residence at the entrance. Apparently they were eating the mice in the overgrown yard and must have been trying to make some abstract art using their fecal matter. (In all honesty, it’s not too bad). The front door had police tape strewn across and had a moldy patina on the edges.

When I finally got my key to fit in the lock I opened the door the smell of old toenail clippings and Fritos. The blinds were askew but small slits of light ignited the dust particles that floated in the air. The wallpaper was peeling in one dark corner and all of the furniture was missing except the mini bus sized couch. May book collection was partially toppled from their shelves and the legs on the bookcase cracked.

I turn on a light switch only to hear a loud pop and the smell of burnt plastic. One of the bulbs glows dimly, flickering as its coils feel electricity for the first time in years. I drop my bag of hotel soaps and bathrobes from my last stop at a Motel 8.

I flop down in the center of the couch and let the slightly damp cushions hug me. I close my eyes and try to remember the good things that happened in this place.

I remember this was a place of comfort, a place of dreams and goals. This was a place for me to be open and up front. This was a place built by myself and for myself.  I remember the poorly written jokes and the even more poorly written stories that were crafted here. These walls soaked in all those ideas and kept them from escape. They kept them safe from storms outside and the nosey neighbors around.

I take in a deep breath and open my eyes.

There is a fate for this place. Most would have it condemned and demolished; some would just torch it and take the insurance money. Some would pull out a hotplate and sell ramen noodle soup from here claiming it was a new and hipster “gastropub” experience.

I, on the other hand, feel too much nostalgia. I can’t possibly let this place continue to decay. This place can return to its once red moonlit glory. It can once again be a place full of life and goals. I can post banners of failures and banners victories all about. Everybody can once again enjoy the life, writings, and failures of D.A. Bancroft.

So, there it is folks. I think I’ve come back to the old digs.

Yeah, maybe a gut job is required. I might even need to do some work on the foundation. I know the plumbing is full of earthworms and the wiring might have shorted out completely. I’m pretty sure I even left stuff in the fridge… there might be an entire microcosm in there by now. I’ll fiddle with that later.

But at least this means I get to reimagine what the space can be used for.

A good cleaning, some new furniture, and a splash of paint can go a long way.

Yup…home sweet home…

So…

Here I am…

If anybody is still out there…come on by. Maybe bring me a bottle of bleach and some home baked cookies. I could use both.

D.A.

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