I fear I must begin again, again.
Lifting the house and slipping a basement under it, I mean. No, I don’t mean I have to do it again. I did it ten years ago, and although my work is plenty shoddy, it’s not that bad. I mean ten years ago I started telling the story of jacking up my house and weaseling a foundation under it while it hovered overhead, and I never finished. I got distracted, I imagine, by work and worry and illness and death and taxes and Seinfeld re-runs or something. But as I’ve said many times, it’s unwise to bet on me, but it’s twice as unwise to bet against me. You went to Vegas and put a G on me not finishing, and for a decade you thought the payoff was in the bag, and then I rear my ugly head and start typing and you’re riding home on the bus instead of in a limo. I’m going to finish this story.
If you were born this century, or just have had better things to do for the last ten years, and you are wondering what the hell story I’m referring to, click the tag for fixing the basement. You’ll be whisked to a dedicated page with all the essays in the order they were written, instead of the backward order the internet prefers. Or you can visit the front page, and scroll down to Sagas and Compilations, and click on the picture of the worst basement you’ve ever seen. Don’t get distracted by the picture of Sophia Loren that’s right next to it. Her lower level is solidly built, and her upper stories are certainly fine, so you won’t find out much about lifting something as heavy as a house, unless you find out who makes her brassieres.
So once you’re up to speed, we can begin again. I’ve suffered to lift the house. Now it’s your turn.