The search for a hutch can best be described as extensive. Case 1: family friends inherit a hutch with their recent farmhouse purchase. Result: hutch disappears into the real estate ether. Case 2: Craig and his list. Result: mysterious seller invites us to her home wherein advertised hutch resides. Pull up to house front and see on the stoop 6 shirtless thugs sipping 40s and looking menacing. We drive on. "Seller" continues to beg us - via text message - to come over and view hutch. Nope. Case 3: we respond to Craig's ad and end up buying the above from a lovely farm wife. The house of purchase, however, is large - like a 70's porn mansion - and indicative of nefarious wealth. Multiple white brick fireplaces and shaggy goodness everywhere. Atop a nearby hill, or as we later learn, a remote mountain. Said farm wife was soon to move her family to the city of angels, and was quite elusive on details. Curiosity got the best of us, however, and Google coughed up some of the situation's etiology.
Result: turns out that the farm wife is married to this guy, Rowdy Roddy Piper of WWF (sorry World Wildlife folks) fame. So, in our dining room, we have a well built Amish hutch derived from an 80s wrasslin' legend. Did he ever leap from atop the container of our China and deliver The People's Elbow? Yes, that's Dwayne's move, but now you know my affinity for all things Rock. Stoked to pull pint glasses from the same shelf that supplied the kilted one with dishware...
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