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name: will baker blogrollin' other sites: |
gathering no moss
�My oh my, you know it just don�t stop.� �David Gray Yesterday, I moved into my new apartment. Not really a big move, just moving to a smaller, nicer unit here in the same apartment complex. Still, moving is always somewhere between maudlin and excruciating for me. The excruciation is easy to explain: everything about moving pretty much sucks. It�s hours and hours of lifting and carrying and pushing and sorting and cleaning, just to accomplish the transfer of one�s crap from one pad to the next. Also, I moved into a third-floor apartment, so this move entailed 46,793 trips up and down three flights of stairs. I was hoping that these trips would result in a firm, round, StairMaster-style ass. However, they appear only to have given me a backache and a blister on the insole of my left foot. The maudlin aspect comes in when one is forced to sort through and box up the detritus of one�s life. I always get two contradictory impressions: one the one hand, how did I end up with all this crap? On the other hand, good lord, I�m nearly 30 years old, and this is all I�ve managed to acquire? Ultimately, I�m forced to ask: what does my stuff say about my life? That�s a question I�d just assume avoid wherever possible. I�ve moved too many times already. In any case, it�s all done. My things are all put away in my new apartment, thus hiding my crap from myself in a most satisfying way. I�m a big fan of things being put away. The new pad is cute, comfortable, newly renovated, and just the right size. I am on the top floor at the end of the building, so I only share one wall with a neighbor. Naturally, that one neighbor is extremely loud. I already spent most of the late morning listening to the base line of his hip-hop of choice. Two cute Puerto Rican boys share the apartment across from the stairs on the second floor. That apartment is also an efficiency, so that means they share a bed. On the other hand, I can see various semi-pornish pictures of women taped to the mirror on their dresser. So maybe they�re just too poor for a unit with two beds. Neither of them speaks much English, though one of them asked me for a ride to his job at Wendy�s, a few blocks down Fredricksburg. Since I was eager for a break from box-schlepping, I gave him a lift, but I couldn�t get much information out of him�because he can barely understand the simplest questions. Dino came over last night, and we ordered pizza. A bit later, I ran to the store for ice cream, and his friends Brandie and Mark came over. We all watched �Talk Sex,� a call-in advice program on the �Oxygen� Channel (of Oprah fame). The host is a leather-faces, no-nonsense-looking Canadian sex therapist who looks like a country farm grandma, but who talks frankly about the most bizarre sexual practices, often illustrating her discourse by whipping out dildos, condoms, penis-pumps, cock rings, etc. And if you�re thinking, �Gee, Will, that sounds really disturbing,� well, Dear Reader, you�re absolutely correct. Consumption Junction: 19 cigarettes
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