Care for a futon frame? You'll have your pick of the litter next week...
On Aug. 13, my life is going to change. My new roommate moves in. He'll bring with him photos of Sekani Banda, his sponsored African child, his Warhammer space marines, his Jean Claude Van Damme DVDs, his Special Edition Candy Land game, Jackie O sunglasses, Cutco knives and his penchant for nudity. Oh yes, the end is nigh.
Only those in the thick of moving week here in Madison understand the horror. Yes, you might have an unofficial countdown to when the upstairs neighbor who blasts Creed at 3 a.m. hits the road for good. Or you might be looking out at the curb, salivating for whatever coveted refuse might grace those green pastures. But unless you've helped a guy twice your size make three trips in a roomy Honda hatchback just to move his "outfits," you really need to shut your pie hole.
People talk about Moving Day like it's the Rapture...
"Where am I going to park my car!?"
"Say toodleloo to peace and quiet -- next week is going to suck."
"I can't wait until the city looks like it has vomited particleboard coffee tables."
"If there is an emergency on the isthmus next week, and we have to leave, we are never going to get out -- we are all going to die!"
These sentiments ride the air like wind through the trees, whispering "Moving Day is hell" like a State Street preacher spewing prophecies.
Yes, the roads are going to fill with oversized vehicles driven by out-of-towners and paranoid parental units. College kids will take to the sidewalks like locusts, carrying boxes of books that hide scandalous outfits and bottles of JD. You might see a massive invasion of that rare highway animal, the Penske trucks, all parked awkwardly on front yards. There are going to be couches -- couches! -- on the sidewalk blocking pedestrians. People might actually break bones lifting heavy object up cumbersome stairways. The stores will sell out of Scrubbing Bubbles and 409. The days leading up to moving day might even turn average Joes and Janes into freegans!
To think, all the crap left on the street that is in decent condition might actually find a home with folks who don't want to give money to the "man." Car doors will get dinged. Obscenities will be shouted. Toes will be stubbed. People will cry.
And I can't wait to sit on my porch with a 40 oz. in hand and watch it all unfold...
