Thanks to the fickle finger of Dame Serendipity, I am home alone. The apartment, currently home to six fully functioning life forms, is now eerily silent. It's a wholly satisfying experience that I'm savoring as fully as possible, because it won't happen again until I'm eligible for AARP.
This has been the weekend of the ex-roommate, who came by on Saturday to render unto TwoBert and to see what's become of his old bedroom. (Since it's piled high with books and underpants, not much has changed.) Then, this morning, he and I shrewdly avoided the hordes of ravening faithful and took in EPISODE III, which was easily the least rotten of the prequel trilogy. (For a particularly savage review, click here.) Whenever Yoda was on screen, all I could think was, "I have a son who looks like that."
It was a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far way, when I last lived alone--for six whole months, between when my roommate moved out and my girlfriend moved in. In fact, if the human body completely regenerates itself cell by cell over the course of seven years, then I am literally an entirely different person. And after Grandma skedaddles out of town on Tuesday, I'll be embarking on an entirely different plane of existence: Multiple Parenthood. For the next several months, those who visit our apartment will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.