I feel compelled to post something today, since the date is 05/05/05--a sort of numerical confluence that only happens 12 times every millennium. However, despite a few phantom contractions this morning (and the prospect of a very cool birth date), Two-Bert seems content to remain tightly wound and upside-down. So I'll leave you with this: Our next-door neighbor is having an episode.
For as long as I've known him, he's had life on a string. It's bad enough that his sales job afforded him flexible hours and plenty of disposable income. He's also lusted over by most of the women and gay men in the building, thanks to his washboard abs, 2% body fat, and that mysterious scar on his right temple. In addition, he happens to be a helluva nice guy and a terrific neighbor, who's been willing to take care of our cat or lend me a power drill. So it's hard to hate him, even when we hear the Knicks City Dancers (that's right, plural) leaving his apartment in the morning.
Then, in January, he was laid off, and despite a month-long trip to Australia to "kick back and think things through," he not sure what to do with himself next. So while he re-evaluates his existence, he's decided to radically remodel his apartment and assume a more ascetic lifestyle. He's sold all his furniture and replaced it with wooden platforms covered with cushions. (Remember Kramer's obsession with "levels"? Something like that.) Much of the other bachelor trappings--the well-stocked bar, the audio/video equipment, the piano keyboard--are also history.
He's kept his plasma TV, however, and yesterday he began mounting it on the wall we share. Just as the percussive drilling noise was making me wonder if I should move the breakables off the shelf, Robert said, "Hey! Somebody get the number of that bus!"
Can you have that kind of witty repartee with a Knicks City Dancer? I choose to think not.