Stadium Couch Seating

My brother, whom I love and adore, is definitely an odd duck.

During college, however, he had a rather serious substance-abuse problem. As in, if there was a substance, he abused it. Even at his frustrating worst, though, he mostly maintained a kind of laid-back stoner vibe, rather than any "Requiem for a Dream"-like horror show.

During this time, I was home visiting my parents for the weekend, and my mother asked me to go pick him up for a family dinner at the rather dubious squat in which he was living with a group of fellow stoners.

I arrived at the prearranged time and knocked on the door. As the minutes stretched out, I eventually heard some fumbling at the latch, and my brother opened the peeling wooden door, blinking sleepily and clad only in reindeer boxer shorts I had given him, as a joke, the Christmas before, and eating an industrial-size jar of peanut butter with a spoon. Apropos of nothing, he said to me, "Come in. I accidentally bought gay porn."

I walked into the narrow entryway of the row house, and stepped into the living room. Like most Philadelphia row homes, his house was constructed railroad-style, the living room, dining room and kitchen all flowing into each other in a row. However, unlike in most conventionally decorated homes, he and his roommates decided to keep the clutter to a minimum.

Instead, they turned the living room and dining room into one giant paean to mass media. They cleared the rooms of all traditional furniture, and constructed, instead, stadium couch seating. Where ordinary families might have a suite of furniture, they had constructed plywood risers in their tiny living room, and placed a sofa on each one, so that each roommate might have a place to stretch out and watch their massive big-screen television in comfort.

The massive, big-screen television was, of course, the only other piece of furniture they owned, and occupied the room that would, in any conventional home, have been the dining room. A series of Maxim centerfolds and discarded bongs were the only decor. It was, in short, a frat boy's dream house.

I followed my brother back into the living room, half-convinced that he'd finally lost his mind, and half-convinced I would leave the house with either a contact high or a social disease. Paying me little attention, Andrew flopped back down on "his" couch, putting down the peanut butter only long enough to pick up a giant remote control.

Without a glance to see if I was watching, he hit the "pause" bottom, and the room was filled with the familiar, cliched "bow-chick-a-bow-wow" music. My eyes were dragged to the enormous screen, almost against my will, and I started to protest the fact that my baby brother was showing me dirty movies, but instead of the standard-issue, bleached-blonde pseudo-lesbian tripe, there on the screen were two buffed, vacuous male actors are going at it with vim and vigor.

"Wait. You bought gay male porn. By accident?"

"Yeah," said my straight brother, fumbling in the cushions of his couch for a discarded bong, "I was kind of stoned."

He lit the bong expertly, grinning at me around the glass bowl, and patted the seat next to him invitingly.

"Come watch."

"I can see from here. Your neighbors can see from across the street on that tv. So let me get this right. You accidentally bought gay porn, and now you're sitting here, alone, watching it?"

He nodded, and offered me a spoonful of his peanut butter after I waved away a bong hit.

"Yeah. Actually, it's clearing up some technical questions for me."

Then, as though he were watching the last minutes of a nail-biter NBA game, he turned back towards the screen and said, "Oh, this is the really good part now. Watch this! Did you even know your ass could do that?"

I looked again from my brother, eyes wide and wholly absorbed, to the screen, where the buff actors had turned to a position that I had not, in fact, known was possible, and gave up the ghost. I sat gingerly on the couch and allowed him to narrate the action for the next hour.

Never let it be said that he's not an open-minded fellow. And I have never, before or since, had a better excuse for being late for a family dinner.