move-in blues



C and I have gone entirely legit- a land line and everything.



The problem with moving in is that the law of diminishing returns kicks in too quickly- so unpacking the last 20 percent becomes unbearable. It's those awkward knickknacks hastily packed that never had a true home in the last home that also has no place in the new home. Unpacked bags and boxes from the last 3 moves(some pre 2000) wait still.



C encountered one guy so serious about simplicity that he had a single washed out soupcan and spoon as his only tableware. His diet consisted of Grapenuts and coffee.



Weeks of manual labor and clutter, I simply have house fatigue. The constant state of undoneness everywhere. I cannot seem to banish the piles. My mind's landscape is probably far worse, but C cheerfully advances.



We have no tub, so we must trudge to the Y to get clean. There is always a story at the Berkeley Y, but the men's locker room always has more action than the lady's side it appears. It's pretty much lumpy bodies getting clean. When C was dressing after his shower, he overheard some nervous giggling in the stalls. The gist of the conversation was that the first man knew the other man's penis but not the face, the second man knew the first man's face. C thinks some SF club scenario where man #2 must have been masked. Anyhow man #2 wanted to strike up a connection and make small talk. They talked about vacation hours in Germany, but man #1 was ever eager to get away. Man #1 returned to his locker which was right next to C. C always wanting in on the action asked man #1, "Something good happening over there?". Man #1 said exasperatedly, "It's my terrible life as a wanted man. And I mean, I am wanted in the worst way. The worst possible way."