That's Not Just Any Porch, That's A Magic Porch

Thanks to my new house, I consider my life now complete.

From my slacker point of view, the porch is the feature that can make or break a house. Luxurious townhouses suddenly seem worthless when there's little more than a single concrete step and then a doorway. On the other hand, the projects of Cabrini Green almost look inviting when there's a comfortable stoop where you can pass the days. Well, I stress the "almost," but you get my point: a fine porch turns a house into a home.

In my case, my home IS the porch. Since moving into my crib in late August, I've been near inseparable with that fine example of architecture Americana. Be it night or day, rain or shine (cliche or cliche), I seem to find myself spending far too muc

Chris Kula Unsung Ann Arbor

h time on the porch just straight-up lounging.

For the most part, when on the porch I don't read, I don't write and I certainly don't study.

To get philosophic, I just...exist. And, like Sartre before me, I often exist with a tasty beverage in hand.

But that's beside the point. In a very short time, I've become firmly entrenched in the timeless porch culture of the city.

And I know that there are plenty more sloth-like porch dwellers out there. I'm sure that you folks know who I'm talking about. You walk past us every day. And every day we stare down at you as you walk past us.

Little do you know, however, there is a certain criteria for fully living the indulgent life of a porch monkey. Let's go over the few basic rules.

Above all else, the porch must - MUST - be outfitted with a couch.

I don't know how couch-less porches can even consider themselves a true porch - they're just po'.

I realized this fact as soon as I moved into my house, so one of my first tasks was to find myself a finely upholstered partner in chillin'.

I found my true love - a three cushion-length sofa the color of a Teke brother's khakis - at a discount store on Plymouth Road following an afternoon of frenzied searching. The plush cushions got the highest seal of approval from my tired ass, but my heart caught in my throat when I looked underneath them: a queen-sized fold out bed.

Awww yeah.

Right there and then, in the presence of a conveniently located ordained minister, I vowed to honor and cherish my glorious couch, and never, ever burn it in the streets like a farm-school savage.

You must stare down anything that moves past your domain.

I used to find it slightly rude when I'd drive past a house in the mean streets of Grand Rapids and feel a bunch of eyes watching me all the way down the street.

But as soon as I found a porch of my own, I developed a staring handicap of my own, a disorder that seems to be compelled by the lovely young ladies strolling past my house.

Oh, I don't simply glance up at whatever jogger happens to be crossing my driveway. And I don't just follow them with my eyes either. I'm talking a full turn of my head and, depending on the fine creature's physical stature, sometimes a shift of my whole upper body, too.

Ladies, I feel terrible for being so objectifying, but 'tis merely a side effect of my descent into life as a porch monger. By the way, don't let the meteorologists fool you: November is indeed jogging weather.

A party porch is an open porch.

When I was a freshman, wandering the streets in hordes of 30 or more, aimlessly searching for that elusive house party, I became so disenchanted with closed parties that were dictated by an exclusive guest list that I decided that any party I ever threw would be open to any and all who chose to join in the festivities.

And the same goes for my porch (just call me the Gandhi of porches).

Walking by and hear the greasy funk of James Brown? Get on up.

See some hipster kids enjoying a late-night cigarette? You can bum one from me.

Delivering pizza at 3 in the morning? Hey, Kumar, why don't you stay and chill for a while?

One nation, indivisible, with liberty and porches for all. In fact, I'll put my open-porch doctrine to the test tomorrow night.

My house is having its first party of the year on Friday, so feel free to stop by and enjoy the promised land that has been my personal haven for the first few weeks of school.

Because I don't want to give my concerned housemates cardiac arrest, I can't give the exact address, but I can tell you it's somewhere in the 1100 block of a street that rhymes with "mouth morest." If you can't figure that out, you've got greater problems than the location of said party.

See you there. You'll know where to find me.

--Chris Kula can be reached at ckula@umich.edu, but it might take a while for a response, as he's still waiting to get Ethernet installed on his porch.

09-23-99