Note: This website is no longer being updated with new posts.
Still, it documents an important time in our lives, so we're leaving it on the internet for posterity.

The Subterraneans

Peter pulled me by the hand and down the stairs into the chill and forbidding basement. The April afternoon was bright and full of promise, so I clung to his arm, past the rusting conveyer belt, the cigarette butts, the canvas tarps that cover other restaurant mysteries, more than half-expecting CHUD and rodents. Steve has warned us of the pitch dark, and intrigued us with stories of tunnels that lead from the half-demolished coliseum to the center of the old city. We sneak, in our sandals down a ramp – 6.4″ Peter has to duck – and peer around corners with our flashlights. Room after room, ew search for something more significant than coffee cups and wood pallets. Jackpot! In a small, dank room, only accessible through a window my width through the drywall, is a wonderland of working class pleasure. The floor is littered with bottles of Night Train and back issues of Field and Stream, and papering the walls are scores of photographs of voluptuous golden vixens. We scan for dates and other evidence. Ungainly hand has scrawled messages across a few of the pin-ups, so cryptic and crude that I cannot reprint them here. Peter and I gasp, as any libidinous archeologists might, and then back away, as from the blinding glare of the seven cities. Retracing our steps, past the shelves of dusty wine, and rooms as yet unexplored, we run up the stairs and into the relative warmth of Kudeta, giggling and vowing to return to our site tomorrow.

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