Seven strangers, picked to live in a house...
No, I'm not talking about The Real World. I'm talking about the big yellow house. A big yellow house I called home for years.
There was Monica, Michael, Karen, Pat, Kevin and myself. There was a time my cousin Curtis lived there and also a beautiful, terrible man whose name I can no longer remember (but a man who was so certain of his own beauty that he liked to practice yoga - shirtless, no less - in front of you while continuing to stare back to see if you were watching). Oh, and then there was Marlise who vanished into the night one evening, but left us with the seventh member of our household, Scorch the cat.
For a few years, I used to watch The Real World before realizing I didn't need to. I lived it, people. We had the same drama and the same love, minus the cameras, in an old, beautiful school house that was rumored to once house the Seattle chapter of the Black Panther Party.
In that house, many bottles of beer were drank. Many laughs were shared and Sex and the City was a Sunday night ritual. Hot tub parties were had and, sometimes, offered up as the after party option during last call on Pine Street. (Okay, that may have just been me, but nobody will ever let me forget it.) There was the fire on the second floor and the one-eyed cat who stole our hearts. Fights were fought, flirtations were born and, somehow, we all remained close. We were with each other through terrible choices in romantic partners, crushing heartbreaks and hideous mustaches. We came together to say goodbye to Scorch, our house mascot, welcome Duey the dog and grieve a man we all loved, my dad. What we were - and are - more than anything else was a family.
No, I'm not talking about The Real World. I'm talking about the big yellow house. A big yellow house I called home for years.
There was Monica, Michael, Karen, Pat, Kevin and myself. There was a time my cousin Curtis lived there and also a beautiful, terrible man whose name I can no longer remember (but a man who was so certain of his own beauty that he liked to practice yoga - shirtless, no less - in front of you while continuing to stare back to see if you were watching). Oh, and then there was Marlise who vanished into the night one evening, but left us with the seventh member of our household, Scorch the cat.
For a few years, I used to watch The Real World before realizing I didn't need to. I lived it, people. We had the same drama and the same love, minus the cameras, in an old, beautiful school house that was rumored to once house the Seattle chapter of the Black Panther Party.
In that house, many bottles of beer were drank. Many laughs were shared and Sex and the City was a Sunday night ritual. Hot tub parties were had and, sometimes, offered up as the after party option during last call on Pine Street. (Okay, that may have just been me, but nobody will ever let me forget it.) There was the fire on the second floor and the one-eyed cat who stole our hearts. Fights were fought, flirtations were born and, somehow, we all remained close. We were with each other through terrible choices in romantic partners, crushing heartbreaks and hideous mustaches. We came together to say goodbye to Scorch, our house mascot, welcome Duey the dog and grieve a man we all loved, my dad. What we were - and are - more than anything else was a family.
The biggest thing any of us ever did in that house was grow up. And in the big yellow house's final chapter, we welcomed a little man named Max. Talk about growing... and growing up.
I still can't drive by the big (no longer yellow) house without feeling nostalgic. Those were some good years and that was a great home.
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I believe his name was David and the fact he worked at the Capitol Club and hooked us up with drinks was good, the fact he played the bongos and the didgeridoo at 9 am was bad.
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