Nomads of the 21st Century.

Moving. The great American adventure. Instead of following game across the land with bows and arrows hoping to find our next meal, we follow Mapquest directions and real estate agents across big cities and small towns hoping to find a better life at a new address.

We gleefully say things like, “You should see the bay window” and “This one has a dishwasher” or the classic “I can finally paint my living room orange.” Decisions are made based on pocket doors, vaulted ceilings, full basements and whirlpool tubs. Thousand-dollar deposits are handed off to wealthy landlords to cover damage to places already in serious need of repair. If you buy, you sign your name so many times you forget how to spell it, while a guy in a cheap suit sits across from you smiling—contemplating his commission after digging through every major financial transaction you’ve made in the last twenty years.

And once it all comes together, it’s time to pack. Your most cherished items raise questions. Do I really need this anymore? You collect, you wrap, you play a little game of Tetris with every box, making sure to label anything that isn’t bulletproof “delicate” in big letters. A strange little note to yourself just in case you forget how much you like your own stuff.

Then, assuming you get the truck you’ve had reserved for six months, you carefully plan your departure. Friends and family feel the pressure. You may not blatantly ask for their help, but you make sure they know exactly when “the move” is taking place. You strategically whimper in social situations just after you’ve bought a round of beers for everyone, “Man, I sure am dreading that move next month.”

People arrive in t-shirts and cut-offs. “Delicate” boxes are tossed around and jammed into tight corners. Odd shaped furniture is evaluated. Small doorways are cursed. Stairs are cursed. Life is cursed, as the helpful people who were suckered into spending their Saturday moving your crap bump, knock and bang their way to the ramp out front.

Once the truck is loaded, there’s a pause. The sweaty crew takes a moment of silence to gaze up at the aluminum cube full of junk and the dual wheels below. Everything you own fits into a box. Bottled water is passed around and everyone realizes their office jobs have made them soft. Someone volunteers to drive. In town, you go 20 MPH, on the highway, you go 50.

The arrival is followed by a series of mixed emotions. The place that was destine to make all your dreams come true, is really just another place when you get there. With weird marks on the wall, strange smells and new neighbors that cast a suspicious eye while they welcome you, it’s clear the idea of your move was probably more enticing than the actual results. But changing your surroundings is instinctual. Realizing you can’t control what comes naturally, you press forward. A “delicate” box here, an Oak desk there. Before you notice the cut on your hand or the ache in your back, the truck is empty. You walk back up the ramp into the box and take one last look around. Happiness floods your soul as your footsteps echo in the empty corners. Your mission is complete—

Until the next move.

I said red.

“Burgundy. Please, God, tell me I have not inspired something burgundy. Red. Red. Red. Red, Charlie boy. Red! Is the color of sex! Burgundy is the color of hot water bottles! Red is the color of sex and fear and danger and signs that say, Do. Not. Enter. All my favorite things in life.”

- Lola, from the 2006 movie Kinky Boots

Survival of the fittest.

Ever wondered what would’ve become of you had you been born 130,000 years ago?

I assume I probably would’ve been cut up and used for fertilizer almost immediately due to my scrawny stature. But let’s just say for the sake of conversation and blog material, I was spared.

My allergies would’ve been the first problem. Just imagine trying to sneak up on a big delicious critter and being rudely interrupted by one of my signature sneezing fits?

How about my self-diagnosed case of OCD? I’d drive the tribe crazy, running through the village trying to organize the stray bones and hanging up all the loincloths.

And just try formulating a plan to attack the tribe next door. I’d probably wind up having a beer with one of their leaders and giving the whole thing away without even realizing it.

Yes, when I think about it, I do believe I’m cut out for this medicated, easily manipulated world. This is my time. Beta males unite. And don’t forget to bring your PowerBooks.

*** The book ‘A Dirty Job’ by Christopher Moore heavily influenced this entry.

Inflation takes its toll.

I ran into my neighbor on the stairway last Sunday afternoon. He was carrying a folding table, a pack of markers and a tray full of ice cubes.

“What’s going on, Fred?” I asked.

“Lemonade stand,” he said, as his daughter and wife emerged from their apartment with the rest of the supplies.

That’s cute, I thought. I walked through the door of our apartment and started gathering up some change so Cristi and I could do the neighborly thing and buy a couple of glasses.

3 quarters, 6 dimes and 8 nickels later, I stepped up to Sophie’s stand.

“I’ll take two, please.”

“That’ll be six dollars,” she said quietly as she poured the first glass.

“Hold on, SIX DOLLARS? For two glasses?” I exclaimed.

Apparently, like most of the idiot customers I used to despise when I worked retail, I didn’t read the sign stuck right on the front of the table that clearly stated that Sophie’s lemonade was freakin’ three dollars a glass.

I stopped her before she poured the second glass. I thought about running, but she knew where I lived. I thought about asking for a special discount rate since I’m the neighbor, but I didn’t think that would fly either. I stuffed the change back in my pocket and went for my wallet. I had exactly three dollars.

I handed over the money. I wanted to ask if the lemonade was organic. Or homemade from fresh squeezed lemons. Or whether there was a shot of Vodka in there. But I kept my mouth shut and my three-dollar glass of lemonade clasped tightly in my hand.

Cristi asked for a drink. I gauged the economics of the situation.

“Give me a dollar and I’ll give you the rest.”

She gave me a dirty look and I handed her the glass.

“At three dollars a glass, maybe we should start our OWN lemonade stand,” she said with a straight face.

I think she might be on to something.