Hi everybody. I’ll skip — if you don’t mind — the usual excuses and apologies (they are, respectively, never true and never sincere, anyway) and just get back down to work. I hope to update my link list and blogroll pretty extensively over the next few days of rest: some of my favorite writers, including some friends, have switched webspace over the past year, and others have newly joined my rotation.
For those of you who have asked, I honestly have no clue where I “live,” per se. I guess the most accurate characterization would be to say that I’m a very, very conditional D.C. resident right now. I pay rent for a room in a rowhouse in Columbia Heights and keep my beer and groceries there. That’s got to count for something. I imagine this will become clearer pretty soon, though. This week I’m in New York, resting and being a dad; next week I’ll be back in the District, figuring things out. Either way, I’m sure I’ll be happy.
The aforementioned house in Columbia Heights, to backtrack a little, is something else. It smells, chiefly, of its old wood floors and the dry heat that rises from the radiators at night. To those of you who have visited so far: shut up. Yes, it smells like that, too, but I’m looking for jobs and don’t want to talk about it.
Our sink sucks and leaks just about every day. One of my roommates has a chocolate colored labrador who has only crapped on my floor once. (I consider that a victory.) My room is the biggest of the upstairs rooms and looks even more immense than it really is, due to the fact that my possessions include two suitcases, a generic-brand aerobed, some clothes, and thataboutit.
In other words, my living situation, like my life, is a project right now. I’ve got great affection for the place, though. On the outside, it’s painted bright yellow with a periwinkle porch. This cracks me up every time. We’ve also got a little deck in the back, which makes me sort of hope I’ll be there for Labor Day and all those other barbecue holidays. Columbia Heights is cool, too. I’m pretty sure it’s got the only real concentration of Latinos in D.C. I’m also pretty sure that the rowhouse to the immediate west of mine is home to the first El Salvadorian jam band I’ve ever heard. They play the same song every day.
So that’s that. You’re caught up.
Since I’ve no clue what the future holds, I can’t promise that this most recent posting drought will be my last, but I’ll try. Look out for the link updates and some more frequent writing.
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