Well, it’s official: Matt (my roommate, who from now on I’m going to refer to by name with no other qualifiers) and I have a secret dungeon beneath our house that is lit up like a Bangkok karaoke bar. Tonight we made this enormous wall of cardboard boxes to block out the creepy crawlspace-thing that is beneath the living room, so now it’s one weird solid beautiful concrete square-shaped hang out place ceilinged with ancient pipes wrapped in Christmas lights.

I have applied for a Very Tasty job that my buddy in Oakland is helping to push through, and if it works out I’ll finally be free from absolute poverty . . . and then I am going to use my first paycheck to get a weight bench and a bunch of weights from some schlub on Craigslist who wanted to get in shape as his New Year’s resolution and then gave up soon after. And see, this weight bench and all those delicious weights are going to live in a corner of this basement. Matt volunteers at a print shop and we have decided we’re going to make our own Macho Man Randy Savage (RIP) posters, complete with quotes of poetic nonsense from the man himself, and tack them to the walls surrounding our Get Huge Station.

Y’all ain’t even ready for the insane Halloween party we’re going to throw down there next year. I mean, hell, there will be many strange gatherings between now and then, but Halloween is going to blow your god dang coconuts clean off your body. That’s what I’ve decided!

I should have you know that I am, at this very moment, searching for cheap wifi-enabled cameras to install in the front and back of the house. Maybe you thought I was being cute when I referred to my house as a “fortified compound.” Well, I wasn’t! Matt and I have plans to buy solar-powered Christmas lights with which to wrap up the entire house. We’re looking for a couch to put on the roof. And as payment for the Pipefest 2 video we filmed last week, my friend Hannah has told me she will hand-paint me a sign for a fictitious detective agency that I can hang from some little hooks on the front of my house. I’m going to get a landline and everything, and have her put the number on the sign. Call my house and hire an unlicensed private investigator, why don’t you! Go ahead and do it you cockroach.

This place is real camouflaged and tucked away, but also front and center . . . it is a strange and mysterious location that I greatly enjoy. It is my headquarters and my castle of doom.

Hey: Dudes Done Wrong is on Thursday. (It is every Thursday.) Come hang out with me in my stupid basement. I’m serious as a heart attack. Let’s dance around down there in all that hazy psychedelic darkness. Maybe it’ll be real cool. Maybe we’ll lose our minds! Either way, I’m going to cry.