I can’t imagine how, but I guess some commenters will be able to find “JOOOOOOOZ!!!” even in this…
When it came to settling down in real life, I wasn’t put off by the “tiny” so much as the “house.” I grew up in apartments during the 1960s and ’70s; at one point there were five of us (including two teenagers) in a two-bedroom, one-bathroom. While apartments were increasingly being depicted in pop culture as compact arenas of craziness and crime, my still-small brain came to equate houses with horror. I mean: The Manson Family or Dick and Perry could just walk through the front door! I’ve lived in only one actual house, for six months. We were broken into twice, once while one of my housemates and I trembled in an upstairs bedroom. Never again.
On a more prosaic note, today I can survey the neighborhood from my balcony and snugly, smugly watch my home-owning neighbors shoveling driveways or piling flood-wrecked basement furnishings up on the sidewalks.
What I don’t watch, however, are the “reality” shows that inevitably popped up as the online “cabin porn” craze crested…
