Today I’m attaching a binder clip to the tender flesh between my thumb and forefinger until I can’t stands no more. Tomorrow I’ll be picking up a U-haul van, filling it with the junk from our old place that we can’t trick the Salvation Army into taking, and then driving around town looking for good places to dispose of it. I did this during another move a few years back and found that it injected a nice sense of intrigue and ninja-action into what is otherwise a life of even-keel non-fiction.

As with pretty much anything, I’ve found you can stay out of trouble if you act totally A-1 insane. “I AM THE CHAIR FAIRY! YOU CAN CALL ME CHAIRY! I LEAVE CHAIRS AROUND TOWN!!! THEY ARE GOOD LUCK!!! THIS CHAIR IS TOTALLY FOR YOU!!!” Or maybe I’ll pretend to have a hurt hand and struggle with pulling stuff out of the van and look beseechingly at passersby, who will run away because they all saw Silence of the Lambs, a movie that did even more harm to the reputation of injured furniture movers than Ow My Hand Hurts From Moving This Bureau And Molesting Your Children. RATED TRIPLE-R!

Lots of bald guys around here. White guys who were balding and decided to shave it all off, I mean. I’ve got no complaint with that, I mean I’d totally do the same thing if I didn’t have such thick, luxurious, almost decadent chestnut tresses, but it seems like there are tons in the office. And since they all wear blue shirts and khaki pants it’s hard to tell them apart. They need to work up some sort of distinguishing characteristic, so we can be like: “Hey ZZ Top Beard! Hi Silver Bodypaint! What is up, Mr. Maori Tattoo Face!” And gesture with our fingers somehow.

Glancing down, I see I am wearing a blue shirt and khaki pants. But the shirt is dark blue, and short-sleeved, and of course smells strongly of White Diamonds by Elizabeth Taylor and hot dogs with cheese embedded inside, so that’s sort of my “thing.”