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    Welcome to Marty's Basement! Some people call it a portfolio, but I call it a basement (mm-hmm!), because it's where I keep all my stuff. Yes, I somehow managed to mash Karl from Slingblade and George Carlin in my first sentence. Let's move on, shall we?
     
    Hailing from Michigan meant growing up in the land of basements. Most just stored junk, old clothes and holiday decorations, while some were glorified underground laundromats. All were just plain creepy. We had those sections, too. But we also had one huge room that was a clear ancestor to the mancave, complete with an air hockey table, pinball machine, slot tracks, Bongo & Dart boards, profanity-laced albums hidden behind black leather couches measuring the height of last Spring's flood, the "latest" video game & TV consoles, posters of babes & nurds (note the spelling), cool bearded or syrup-filled Action figures, and every game or ball known to Mattel, Hasbro and Nerf. 
     
    Every now and then my friends and I would surface like Whack-A-Moles for a swig of Mountain Dew or RC, a slab of Velveeta, some Pringles and a Pixy Stix chaser, before returning to the dungeon below, ever wary upon re-entry to never ever so-help-you-God touch my brother's equalizer, glowing green like an alien stacked on hundreds of eqaully off-limit stereo components, lit only by a fiberoptic rainbow array of light, a lava lamp volcanic to the touch, and a single blacklight bulb revealing a man bearing no resemblance to a spider clinging upside down on the wall next to a smiling angel not named but probably doused in Charlie.
     
    (deep breath)
     
    That was Marty's Basement then. I left out the Neil Peart drum solos, Spin The Bottle parties, and whatever my brother and his friends were doing with that strange glass lamp-like thing, but you get the idea. Alas, the annual floods kept coming (like, almost every year!) and nothing, I mean de nada remains, much to my 7-year old son's chagrin. He really wants to know what happened to all my childhood toys. And by toys, he means cap guns. But a kid raised in drought-stricken California knows little of rain, much less basements for that matter. No one ever loses all their stuff in a drought. An earthquake, on the other hand...flashback to Northridge...did you feel something???
     
    Where was I? Oh yes - the basement. While Marty's Basement today has little in common with the original, I am assured it's flood and earthquake proof because it lives in some kind of impenetrable cloud, storing all my past, current and even future Marty projects.  There's also the obligatory resume, contact info and LinkedIn, uh, link...just in case I'm looking and you're hiring.
     
    So...mi basement es su portfolio!
     
    Thanks for visiting, Happy Trails, Mind The Gap and Hasta La Bye-Bye for now!
     
    Brian Michael Martin
     
    P.S. Old friends call me Marty. You can call me Brian. But please don't call me Brian Michael Martin. Sounds too much like a horrendous serial killer or best-selling author, of which I am neither...yet.
     
    [Update: I have just been informed the cloud is actually quite porous.]
     
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