Attempting Normal

by Marc Maron

The garage is a single-car garage that hangs precariously over the edge of a hill in my backyard. When I got the place it had a crumbling cement floor and an old, tool-scarred workbench built into the side. There were holes, cracks, random nails, hammered-in rubber pads, the ghosts of anvils and clamps. A hard man had sweated over engines and machines here, I thought. I put a floor in over the cement and kept the bench as an homage to real work. I put my printer on it.