There’s an old water tower in Huntington Beach that was long ago converted into a 3-story house. The 3-story house is, of course, on top of a 3-story platform of some kind, making the top story at least six stories high. On one hand, it’s probably the safest house in the event of a tsunami, and on the other hand, it’s probably a pain in the neck to move furniture and grocery bags in and out of the place.

There’s more living space at the bottom, a garage, and from the look of things, a pretty cool patio. I look at the place and imagine that it’s a young boy’s wildest dreams come true—it’s like one giant treehouse without the tree, and the view must be spectacular.

Makes me think of all the houses that I’ve seen on various television documentaries, some carved out of caves and others out of old mines. I imagine they’re perfect for tickling fancies and for adventurous living, but once the novelty wears off I start thinking of the most mundane and practical things.

What happens when you’re old and decrepit, your hip breaks, and on top of that your toilet gets clogged and won’t stop filling with water?

What then?

I guess for people outside this house, that means it’s raining.

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