[Publisher's note: The author has peppered this post with metaphors of a specifically suggestive nature. Caveat lector.]
I think I can safely place August 2011 in the God Laughed folder, since just about every plan I made was plan-apulted right back in my face. It began with the Ten That Should Have Been Seven and was soon followed by the Four That Became Six, when my site visit to Austin was extended two days by Hurricane Irene. (At least I got to rent my Texas Taxi and hang out with top-shelf hosts and hostesses.)
And now, there is Moving Day, when I learned that the truck I had rented was too small. I knew it was too small. I sat there and looked at it and thought, this thing can't take all that I've got.
But I listened to the nice, young fellow who Didn't Know Dick and skeptically drove off.
Normally, it wouldn't be a big cock-up. I could just drive back and switch it. The trouble was that I live far away from everything, at the tip of where Manhattan is long and slender. In fact, my soon-to-be-ex-apartment is on Seaman Avenue, not far from Dongan Place and even closer to the under-famous corner of Cumming:
Soon after the movers arrived, one of them mentioned he was going through a "panoply of emotions." And I thought 1) wow, tell me about it; and 2) wow, this recession is a bitch. Truthfully, though, I think I've made my peace with all this. And I miss being a dad. I haven't seen my kids, or made Chockfula Burgers, or washed Spider-Man underpants, or made a LEGO ninjacopter in more than two weeks. It's unfamiliar. And it's boring.
My home was here, but really, my home is with them.
It's time to go. I'm going. Off to ejaculate myself over the bridge and around the bend.