Moving Day(s)

I think that the next time I’ll chose the option pictured above. Little did I know when I contracted a moving service that it must have said “Three Stooges Moving Company” somewhere in the fine print.

It was an interesting day(s) to say the least. The movers were supposed to arrive at noon. Noon came and went, then 1:00, then 1:30… I have learned patience of late, but this seemed wrong. I contacted the movers and got voicemail. 2:00, 2:30, I called their Quality Control department and got a real person. Quality was questionable - control had gone missing… as did the driver. 3:00, 4:00, and finally a call… the mover would arrive at 6 PM.

Well, no… but a very nice young lady with a small car arrived. The look on my face must have been priceless when she told me that she came to move me. She moved me all right, practically into hysterics. I told her that if she could fit the contents of a three story house into her car, then have at it. She left a bit confused… then came another phone call… the driver will arrive by 9PM and the young lady is coming back to help him. Great… more waiting, and only three hours to kill with a confused stranger.

By 10PM, he finally arrived… and was going to start moving??? As he did his best to explain in some strange mixture of English and what sounded to be, by turns French, Portuguese, Yiddish, and Pig Latin, he was only going to wrap up the furniture and then return in the morning to load the truck. The man of unknown ancestry and the young lady with a decidedly urban tone to her speech patterns (in Maine?) were having difficulty understanding each other. It sounded like a bad day at the United Nations. That went well… until 1AM!!! That’s when they started arguing in my bedroom about the young lady returning to help in the morning. Eventually he said, “I go now… I get sleep… I be back… Two hours in morning… mooch mahanda, va hammeeshy oosh goosh”

OK, then. I was hoping he didn’t mean “Two hours in mourning,” because I was not going to open the door for some sad stranger speaking in tongues at 3 AM. My concern was unfounded. He did not return until 9AM, and the aforementioned young lady came soon after. He assured me, “two hours.” The two hours were finally over at 3PM… time must pass differently in Esperantoville.

Didn’t I already write a blog where I said “moving sucks?”

So 24 hours later than planned, I am finally on the road and enjoying the pleasures of picking up an unsecured wireless signal. Let the adventures continue…

FAGAT'S 2006

FAGAT’S 2006
Wilting Manners

Food

31

Décor

31

Service

31.5

Cost
If you have to ask, you can't afford it

Hurricane District
(bet. Ree Pair & D’isaster)
Wilton Manors, FL
954-555-1212
www.wiltingmanners.com

Key to Ratings:
Food, Decor, and Service are each berated on a scale of 0 to 30.
26-30 ...over the moon
20-25 ...pretty damn good
16-19 ...OK, I guess
10-15 ...mediocre
0-9 ...merde

Cost reflects our survivor's estimate of the price of stay with one slap and tickle.
If you need more information, please visit our HELP ME! section

Review
Still “magical” with “fireworks nightly”, this “original” and “whimsical” establishment “has” to be the “crème de le crème” of a town that defines “off”beat. A rare mix of the spartan and the exotic, kudos go to host “Manners Dave” and his “dazzling”, “innovative”, haute new age, old soup can, American cuisine.

Mixing the casual with “nudist” flair, one has to experience “nude” breakfast, “nude” internet, “nude” television, and “nude” bathing to fully appreciate the full range of “nude” offerings. For a real “treat”, be sure to request the “nude” coffee and cartoons in “bed”.

Oversize fluffy towels, tongue scrapers, vase o’condoms, fabulous “Iguana” view, and an eclectic selection “of” movies ranging from the absurd “to” the yet more absurd, are but a sampling “of” the tasteful, yet tasty, amenities offered.

A consummate host, “MD” will treat you to service unlike anything you are likely to experience elsewhere in this “under repair” corridor. Book early, only parties of one accepted – and strictly limited to “ME.”

FAGATSURVEY
See for yourself why millions of people count on their FAGAT.
Subscribe now

Things I Didn’t Say

I think I scared a few people today... While flying home from a great, albeit short trip, I learned that there are some things that are probably just not socially acceptable.

I was given a gift of a stuffed animal (a little furry lion) on this trip. It really means a lot to me for many reasons – a couple of them being how it reminds me of who gave it to me, and the fact that I have never been given a stuffed animal before. I didn’t want to squish him with in my luggage, and I also didn’t want him to suffer the indignity of being crammed in an overhead compartment.

So there I was, a grown (?) man, sitting in my window seat, wearing dark sunglasses, obviously experiencing a slow leak from the corners of both eyes, and holding a little stuffed lion in my lap. Needless to say, nobody bothered me on the entire fight.

But that’s not what I intended to write about...

There always seems to be so much that doesn’t get said during special moments in my life. This trip was one of those. Sometimes, they actually occur to me when I can say them, but for whatever reason, they don’t get said. Sometimes, they come to me too late. So, here are some of the things I didn’t say...

Thank you for sharing your home, your friends, and your life with me. Thank you for sharing what lives in your eyes; a window to those places where we really live, really dream, really know where the truth resides. Thank you for your smile, laughter, and moments of childlike abandon interspersed with the intensity of all that was explored, known, and shared.

I take with me tender moments, unspoken, eyes open, eyes closed, in a rare expression of “being.” But best of all, allowing me the opportunity to appreciate what it means for you to be “just you.”

So if you find yourself in a similar position, don’t hold back – just say it. Or, quite possibly, you will also wind up having people pointing and staring at you while you’re doing something equally socially unacceptable.

The Day

Quietly,
around the periphery of events
the day seeps in.
Over rough hewn edges
caressed by time,
light, shadow, color and sound,
beam, heighten, imbue, and weep,
until the stream of events
diminish, can’t compare.
With a whisper,
the day wields its power.

Angels In The Orchestra

I begin to feel that I don’t even know myself anymore. I awakened one day, to find it all had changed. The landscape was unfamiliar and my hopes, fears, dreams, desires . . . had all shifted, had been allowed to shift. The dream that took so many years to build can turn to nightmares, and without noticing, return to a dream again. Where there were Bohemians, now there are angels. Angels in the orchestra, angels in the audience, angels staring me in the eyes, unblinking, not speaking, just staring at nothing I can see. I feel surrounded but so terribly alone.

Then a stranger appears. I know him; it seems as though I have been waiting for him, but we are just meeting. He tells me tales of distant days and a place where there is no future, there is hardly even now. It frightens and excites me, and I am drawn in. All too soon he is gone and the nightmare returns. His words appear as warm tears falling from the skies, and I feel uplifted, but unsettled. Then I can’t wait, I have to hear his voice, but all I hear is the stranger telling me that he cannot tell me.

Angels appear on my computer screen. Their message is warm, but their eyes are cold, unblinking, just speaking in silence of things I don't understand. Where am I? Nothing looks familiar. Piece by piece, it disappears until I clutch at anything I can call mine. And the pain grows blinding. I cannot look. I close my eyes.

All I Wanted

I didn’t lure you; you just knocked quietly and came in. Your smile was something beyond delight; it was sheer heaven to me. Then you lay on my bed and eased into repose. I just sat and watched. I could have acted, maybe I should have, but I didn’t. In my mind, I climbed on, and just smiled into your smile. I wanted to hold you, feel your warmth, and press my face into your neck. I wanted you to put your arm around me and hold me at your side. I wanted more than I will ever have.

But that’s all I really wanted.

In reality, we are standing. I put my arms around you, as I often do, and you responded in kind. You embraced me in a tight response that indicates as much need as giving. I feel your need, and I take what you give. I told you it need not be so tight, and I put your arm around my back. You allowed me, trusting. I gently put my arms around you again, and lay my head on your chest.

I said, “This is all I need.”

I feel your hand on my back in momentary ease, then a stiffening of cautious indifference. I sense a multitude of feelings race through you, though you stand in utter stillness. I don’t want this unease for you, so I let go.

Again and again.

I know you. I have seen you in my dreams so many times. In another time, another place, we could be. Is it your quiet strength, those soulful eyes, or is it the hidden softness that very few have ever seen? These are the very qualities I search for, and there, right before me you stand. But it is not to be. Something so strong, something so close I can touch it, eludes me.

Over and over.

A Bottle of Wine

There’s a bottle of wine in the refrigerator downstairs, the one where all of the extra stuff is kept; the stuff you don’t need everyday, the stuff that doesn’t fit, the stuff that you are saving for a special occasion. You mentioned that you couldn’t find the wine any place where you live; it was a favorite of yours and it had been for a long time . . . I bought that wine for you because we were going to have a special time to enjoy it. I bought your favorite crackers, you favorite cheese, and I even bought a box of your favorite cereal for the morning. It’s been two months now and the special time never came. The cereal didn’t last very long, the crackers went next, and I really don’t like the cheese, but I got hungry one night.

Your picture is no longer in the special frame I bought for it. The frame sits empty because nothing else really belongs there. It is a cherry framed advertisement for the store where I bought it. The drawer I emptied for your visits is slowly filling back with my things. They are like weeds overgrowing an empty patch of land. The empty end of the closet is empty no more. If you were to come now, there would be no place to hang your weekend clothes. But you haven’t come for many weekends and I don’t think you will be here on the next.

There’s a bottle of wine in the refrigerator downstairs. I’m growing very thirsty.