Papal Fortress

We didn't get much snow in North Carolina when I was a kid, so instead of snowballs, we threw other stuff at each other. Painful, messy stuff like unripe persimmons and sap-covered green pine cones that would stick in your hair. These missiles called for serious protection, so we became serious fort builders. We had a big wood pile in our backyard that always served as one wall, and then my friends and I improvised the other three. The best was the time we found huge pallets and made a bunker with a roof. It was almost safe. I still have a small scar on my scalp from when it collapsed under the combined weight of John Lusk and Scotty Miller... man, were they fat.

These days, the weapons have changed. It's mostly lightsabers in the hallway, or the occassional towel snapping battle in the kitchen, but the need for a sound fortress into which one can retreat remains. I don't know, maybe it's the male version of that nesting urge that women get. At any rate, I gave in to my need for a fort this past weekend, and constructed my very own ghetto fabulous Fortress of Solitude (and it's really quite cool, despite the fact that I stole the name from Superman, who is totally lame).

The bed is 64" high, which leaves ample room underneath for my "lair"...

As Captain Corley put it, "My fortress brings all the kids to the yard..."

(Note: Fuck-proof brackets by Strong Soviet Mother Inc.)