If Time was god, Vince would be an agnostic
I have never EVER moved under smooth, non-stressful, non-frustrating circumstances. NEVER. It just doesn't go that way for me. And the sad thing is, I've moved about six times in the past five years.
This was supposed to be the easy move. St. Pete was cuttin me a big check, I could get movers, take a leisurely drive down to Florida and max-out. But nothing ever goes right for me. Sometimes I think that these situations are punishment for my lack of preparation, disregard for punctuality, irresponsibility and general hubris...it's like someone, maybe God, is saying: "Vince, you somehow manage to achieve pretty much everything you set out on, despite a total lack of regard for time, money, people and life; so I'm gonna make big things -- getting a job, moving, meeting women -- extremely tedious and spirit-dampering."
And it's cool. I deserve it. No one will admit faster than I will that I often meet some of my teenage behavior with a shrug of my shoulders and that I should pay for it sometimes. So, I'm getting what I deserve right now -- a money sapping, nerve-getting-on relocation...this of course copming right on top of three months of on-n-off temp assignments with responsibilities that included answering phones, filing, cleaning Excel databases and being an office schlub (which is why I really relate to Six Feet's Claire).
From Buff to the Strict
This all started back in 2000 -- my first move.
(Note: this is not my five-year retrospect, but -- with the way I'm feeling and with how long I'll likely be waiting for these movers -- it could easily spiral into a similar ramble.)
That move sucked moldy limes. Primarily because I had not worked the two prior months and I was moving to DC without a gig -- just a mission. All I had was a couple hundred in the bank and some nearly-maxed credit cards, which is why I now have the credit score of a credit-fraud felon.
But see, that's the thing...I'm such a believer in my motto, "if you wait for perfect circumstances to present themselves, you'll wait forever", that I usually "just do it" (fix your face and just give me that last cliche). And, although this mantra is responsible for most of my success thus far, it's rooted in and facilitated by my conspicuous character flaws: a tendency to blur fantasy and reality, trivializing what could be dire consequences, delusions of granduer. So moving to DC with no money and no job, just a mission and a plan, was me developing my life's gangsta without too much concern for whatever hardship I'd suffer in the process. So the stuff I went through during the move was charged to the game, if you will.
The drive from Buff to the Strict was cool, but once I got there the drama began. My asthma is triggered by three things: allergies, weather change and stress. So of course I was experiencing all three. Pollen is straight bananannanananas in July down in DC! Coconuts even! Plus, I was coming from cold and dry Buff to dumb-hot-n-humid DC. And then, of course, there was the fact that I had no money, no job and no car.
Yesss!
All of this had my chest heaving. It was so bad that I couldn't even move my used furniture into my un-air conditioned apartment. Nope. Mom had to take me to the hospital to get my asthma treated, while Pops and Priscilla moved my used furniture into my un-airconditioned apartment.
That move set off a summer that I'll never forget. It was a struggle. Not a "my poor college days" struggle, but a no-electricty, no bus fare, no food money, allergies and asthma with no health insurance type struggle. But more on that in the five-year retrospect.
From the Burg to the Ville
My next move was to change apartments. By now i was makin dough and it was time to step it up. Time to get me some air conditioning, a dishwasher and room to actually walk around.
No extreme hardship this time, but there were monkey wrenches flying all over, begginning with the fact that I had no help. See, when I moved to DC I wanted to establish some lasting friendships with the dudes in my congregation. It was hard though. Unlike my dudes I grew up with and many of the kats we met in our travels to other places; me and the kats in my congregation didn't have much in common, as far as likes/dislikes and the way we view things. Sure, our faith was a huge commonality, but you're not bossom buddies with every member of your congregation just because you serve the same God and share like morals -- it just doesn't work that way.
So after a year, I thought I'd throw this befriending quest into overdrive. I could'e called Tony, Chuck, G, Trav, Claudy and been good. They'd have come through and I'd have been moved in a jiffy. I'd decided to by new furniture, silverware, decorations, etc. once I moved, so I wasn't moving a ton of stuff. But instead of calling on the fellas, I thought I'd ask some of my spiritual brothers to come hold the dude Vince down -- ya know, some good ol' male bonding.
Nope.
Only my man Luther showed up. The rest of them flaked. Figured.
But looking back, maybe it waswn't them...maybe it was punishment. I mean, these dudes weren't generally flaky...I, however, tend to flake often. I put zero planning into the move -- even stayed out till almost sunrise that previous night. Who stays out till 4am partying when they have to move the next day? Apparently an idiot like myself. Not only that, but I barely packed. For some reason I thought I could just get all this together in a couple hours, which speaks to how oblivious I am of time. I just don't get the whole (Farley air quotes) "Time thing" and puncuality is even further lost on me.
So as a just punishment, only Luther showed up. I called kats on their phones...no answer. Left messages...no callbacks. So it was just me and my man Lu. And we had to make an insane amount of trips up and down the steps since I ran out of boxes and had to resort to plastic grocery bags.
Lu was cool about it though. Never complained once.
So I was cool for about three years at my spot in the Plaza Towers. Sure my neighbors called the cops on me at least once a month because I was blasting my muzak, with my windows open at 3am. And sure, the Fire Marshall paid me a visit when my Pops was bbqing steaks on my balcony...but anal neighbors and bored Fire Marshalls wouldn't push me to move...not w/ my penchant for moving debacles.
But then it happened. I graduated from the mighty HU in 2004 and went to spend a summer in Atlanta, interning with the AJC.
Would I learn from past mistakes? Of course not.
Chocolate City to Hotlanta
Instead of saving money for my relocation, I threw a graduation party at H20, the livest spot in DC on a Saturday. Fam and friends came. I had the VIP tables, we were poppin bottles -- I was Puff for the night. And that's so me -- an entertainment glutton. So after I gorged on fun, I was left with an arduous task: get all your furniture into storage, get an apartment in Atlanta and get Jada in shape so she could get you down to Atlanta. And do all this on a budget...in a week...with family still visiting and staying in your apartment.
Like a true Vince, I managed to wait less than a month before moving before I found a spot in Atl. By that time, I was used to living alone (I'd been doing so for four years), so I didn't want a roomate -- especially not a craiglist roomate. For all I know, "Sean" could be some horny gay dude that cooks in the nude or "Frank" could be some slovent good ol' boy that plays a banjo while he pinches loafs on the porcelain or "Greg" could be some Ja Rule listenin dimwit that says 'shawtay' too much and has dude at the spot playing some dumb EASport game till 5am every morning. I just wasn't ready for that. Thankfully, I had fam in Atlanta and my Aunt Janet hooked me with a duplex in Stone Mountain. A friend of hers owned it and it was right around the corner from her Bed n Breakfast. She was even gonna give me a couch and bed to use for the summer. I was hook'd. Maybe things wouldn't go awry this time. Yeah, my money was little funny after the H20 ballin, but it wasn't hysterical. I could do this.
At first things were going well. Jada required minor work. My brothers from the congregation came through and were ready to help me move into storage. I was cool.
But that stupid abstract thing we call "Time" was bothering me again. Time kept pestering me about being "Conscientious".
So naturally, I sat around twiddling my thumbs and cuffing my bozak for the whole week and decided to just start packing the night before the Brothers arrived to help me move. So of course we were waiting around when it was time to roll. We didn't even get a chance to unload all of my furniture or grab everything from apartment, since the storage spot closed at 9p.
Now, I had to park the UHAUL in my parking lot and retire for the night, and prepare to knock out the rest of the unloading the following morning. For some reason though, I had to get something out of the truck, so I went out to the parking and immediately noticed that it was gone. GONE! The first thing that popped in mind was the towing company. They were notorious. Tenants swapped tall-tales like how they'd seen some of the tow workers jimmy locks and steal parking passes so that they could towe the car away.
To this day I'm convinced that's what they did to me. It was probably that brick-brown toothed, lil midget nigga that used to hop around the parking lot and clap his hands together when he saw a car without a parking sticker or visitor's pass. See, these dudes got percentages of each car they brought in, so they'd go to criminal lengths to get a car off the lot. Pops got towed once while visiting me. He thinks they even have some down-low contracts with the receptionists, so that they'll turn blind eyes to obvious violations.
This one was obvious. The license plate of the UHAUL was in the Vistors book, the lil chicken-head broad knew she had just issued me a pass, too. AND she knew I was moving south to Atlanta. So why would they towe the truck?
$750. That's why. I had to drop $750 to get my ish back and put further behind the eightball. And to make matters WORSE I had totally ignored my internship advisors several requests for me to get a urine test. I guess I thought, because I was Vince, she'd just wave that requirement. She didn't. So while everyone else started Monday, I started Tuesday. Matter fact, Greta called me Monday afternoon, like "OK Vince, your tests came back fine. So we'll see you tomorrow." I think she thought I was already settled in Georgia. I wasn't. I was watching the Sopranos on my boy Mike's couch in DC.
So I had to drive all night and battle rush-hour morning traffic to get towork in time. Plus, I spent the first week crashing on my cousin's couch, waiting to recoup some money to use as a down-payment on the spot I rented for the summer.
When I finally moved in, I was mad at the world. Especially my mother, who chose to call me three times/day, when I told her I'd be in no mood to talk after the move. She even got melodramatic and called the Post to see if anyone kinew of my "whereabouts". She's priceless.
From Atl back to DC
My plan in Atlanta was to either try to get hired there or somehwere else. I wanted to go from my internship to a permanent gig. Didn;t work that way, though.
No problem, I thought. I'd head home and crash on my man Mike's couch for a few weeks or a couple months, at the most, while I scored a gig. No biggie right? I'd done the same for Mike. He styaed with me for about four months when he moved from LI to DC. He'd have no problem returning the favor right? Wrong. My nigga kinda greased me. He had me leaving multiple messages on his phone for more than a week and then chose to call me back the morning I was supposed to arrive. I was in, like, Richmond! It was all good though, he was going through some stuff and probably wanted to be left alone while he simmered and I can definitely understand that. So I just headed for the fellas pad, knowing they had a couch with my name on it.
But let's rewind for a moment. I was coming home the same week that the UNITY conference was going on in DC. UNITY is when the Asian, Black, Hispanic and El Salvadorian journalist associations hold their conferences in unison. It's huge. And the Job Fair is even more hugerer! So I shouldve been there as many days as possible. Instead, I was in Atlanta saying dumb goodbyes and, once again, starting on the road in the evening, driving through the night and getting to DC that morning. Having been up for about 40 hours, I showered, put on a suit and headed the conference with about 30 minutes left for that day's Job Fair.
I didn't land a job that weekend.
DC to St. Pete
Like I said before, this move was supposed to be the smooth one. But come on now! I'm dealing with me, Twist. I just don't do easy.
Details tomorrow...I'm exhausted...
This was supposed to be the easy move. St. Pete was cuttin me a big check, I could get movers, take a leisurely drive down to Florida and max-out. But nothing ever goes right for me. Sometimes I think that these situations are punishment for my lack of preparation, disregard for punctuality, irresponsibility and general hubris...it's like someone, maybe God, is saying: "Vince, you somehow manage to achieve pretty much everything you set out on, despite a total lack of regard for time, money, people and life; so I'm gonna make big things -- getting a job, moving, meeting women -- extremely tedious and spirit-dampering."
And it's cool. I deserve it. No one will admit faster than I will that I often meet some of my teenage behavior with a shrug of my shoulders and that I should pay for it sometimes. So, I'm getting what I deserve right now -- a money sapping, nerve-getting-on relocation...this of course copming right on top of three months of on-n-off temp assignments with responsibilities that included answering phones, filing, cleaning Excel databases and being an office schlub (which is why I really relate to Six Feet's Claire).
From Buff to the Strict
This all started back in 2000 -- my first move.
(Note: this is not my five-year retrospect, but -- with the way I'm feeling and with how long I'll likely be waiting for these movers -- it could easily spiral into a similar ramble.)
That move sucked moldy limes. Primarily because I had not worked the two prior months and I was moving to DC without a gig -- just a mission. All I had was a couple hundred in the bank and some nearly-maxed credit cards, which is why I now have the credit score of a credit-fraud felon.
But see, that's the thing...I'm such a believer in my motto, "if you wait for perfect circumstances to present themselves, you'll wait forever", that I usually "just do it" (fix your face and just give me that last cliche). And, although this mantra is responsible for most of my success thus far, it's rooted in and facilitated by my conspicuous character flaws: a tendency to blur fantasy and reality, trivializing what could be dire consequences, delusions of granduer. So moving to DC with no money and no job, just a mission and a plan, was me developing my life's gangsta without too much concern for whatever hardship I'd suffer in the process. So the stuff I went through during the move was charged to the game, if you will.
The drive from Buff to the Strict was cool, but once I got there the drama began. My asthma is triggered by three things: allergies, weather change and stress. So of course I was experiencing all three. Pollen is straight bananannanananas in July down in DC! Coconuts even! Plus, I was coming from cold and dry Buff to dumb-hot-n-humid DC. And then, of course, there was the fact that I had no money, no job and no car.
Yesss!
All of this had my chest heaving. It was so bad that I couldn't even move my used furniture into my un-air conditioned apartment. Nope. Mom had to take me to the hospital to get my asthma treated, while Pops and Priscilla moved my used furniture into my un-airconditioned apartment.
That move set off a summer that I'll never forget. It was a struggle. Not a "my poor college days" struggle, but a no-electricty, no bus fare, no food money, allergies and asthma with no health insurance type struggle. But more on that in the five-year retrospect.
From the Burg to the Ville
My next move was to change apartments. By now i was makin dough and it was time to step it up. Time to get me some air conditioning, a dishwasher and room to actually walk around.
No extreme hardship this time, but there were monkey wrenches flying all over, begginning with the fact that I had no help. See, when I moved to DC I wanted to establish some lasting friendships with the dudes in my congregation. It was hard though. Unlike my dudes I grew up with and many of the kats we met in our travels to other places; me and the kats in my congregation didn't have much in common, as far as likes/dislikes and the way we view things. Sure, our faith was a huge commonality, but you're not bossom buddies with every member of your congregation just because you serve the same God and share like morals -- it just doesn't work that way.
So after a year, I thought I'd throw this befriending quest into overdrive. I could'e called Tony, Chuck, G, Trav, Claudy and been good. They'd have come through and I'd have been moved in a jiffy. I'd decided to by new furniture, silverware, decorations, etc. once I moved, so I wasn't moving a ton of stuff. But instead of calling on the fellas, I thought I'd ask some of my spiritual brothers to come hold the dude Vince down -- ya know, some good ol' male bonding.
Nope.
Only my man Luther showed up. The rest of them flaked. Figured.
But looking back, maybe it waswn't them...maybe it was punishment. I mean, these dudes weren't generally flaky...I, however, tend to flake often. I put zero planning into the move -- even stayed out till almost sunrise that previous night. Who stays out till 4am partying when they have to move the next day? Apparently an idiot like myself. Not only that, but I barely packed. For some reason I thought I could just get all this together in a couple hours, which speaks to how oblivious I am of time. I just don't get the whole (Farley air quotes) "Time thing" and puncuality is even further lost on me.
So as a just punishment, only Luther showed up. I called kats on their phones...no answer. Left messages...no callbacks. So it was just me and my man Lu. And we had to make an insane amount of trips up and down the steps since I ran out of boxes and had to resort to plastic grocery bags.
Lu was cool about it though. Never complained once.
So I was cool for about three years at my spot in the Plaza Towers. Sure my neighbors called the cops on me at least once a month because I was blasting my muzak, with my windows open at 3am. And sure, the Fire Marshall paid me a visit when my Pops was bbqing steaks on my balcony...but anal neighbors and bored Fire Marshalls wouldn't push me to move...not w/ my penchant for moving debacles.
But then it happened. I graduated from the mighty HU in 2004 and went to spend a summer in Atlanta, interning with the AJC.
Would I learn from past mistakes? Of course not.
Chocolate City to Hotlanta
Instead of saving money for my relocation, I threw a graduation party at H20, the livest spot in DC on a Saturday. Fam and friends came. I had the VIP tables, we were poppin bottles -- I was Puff for the night. And that's so me -- an entertainment glutton. So after I gorged on fun, I was left with an arduous task: get all your furniture into storage, get an apartment in Atlanta and get Jada in shape so she could get you down to Atlanta. And do all this on a budget...in a week...with family still visiting and staying in your apartment.
Like a true Vince, I managed to wait less than a month before moving before I found a spot in Atl. By that time, I was used to living alone (I'd been doing so for four years), so I didn't want a roomate -- especially not a craiglist roomate. For all I know, "Sean" could be some horny gay dude that cooks in the nude or "Frank" could be some slovent good ol' boy that plays a banjo while he pinches loafs on the porcelain or "Greg" could be some Ja Rule listenin dimwit that says 'shawtay' too much and has dude at the spot playing some dumb EASport game till 5am every morning. I just wasn't ready for that. Thankfully, I had fam in Atlanta and my Aunt Janet hooked me with a duplex in Stone Mountain. A friend of hers owned it and it was right around the corner from her Bed n Breakfast. She was even gonna give me a couch and bed to use for the summer. I was hook'd. Maybe things wouldn't go awry this time. Yeah, my money was little funny after the H20 ballin, but it wasn't hysterical. I could do this.
At first things were going well. Jada required minor work. My brothers from the congregation came through and were ready to help me move into storage. I was cool.
But that stupid abstract thing we call "Time" was bothering me again. Time kept pestering me about being "Conscientious".
So naturally, I sat around twiddling my thumbs and cuffing my bozak for the whole week and decided to just start packing the night before the Brothers arrived to help me move. So of course we were waiting around when it was time to roll. We didn't even get a chance to unload all of my furniture or grab everything from apartment, since the storage spot closed at 9p.
Now, I had to park the UHAUL in my parking lot and retire for the night, and prepare to knock out the rest of the unloading the following morning. For some reason though, I had to get something out of the truck, so I went out to the parking and immediately noticed that it was gone. GONE! The first thing that popped in mind was the towing company. They were notorious. Tenants swapped tall-tales like how they'd seen some of the tow workers jimmy locks and steal parking passes so that they could towe the car away.
To this day I'm convinced that's what they did to me. It was probably that brick-brown toothed, lil midget nigga that used to hop around the parking lot and clap his hands together when he saw a car without a parking sticker or visitor's pass. See, these dudes got percentages of each car they brought in, so they'd go to criminal lengths to get a car off the lot. Pops got towed once while visiting me. He thinks they even have some down-low contracts with the receptionists, so that they'll turn blind eyes to obvious violations.
This one was obvious. The license plate of the UHAUL was in the Vistors book, the lil chicken-head broad knew she had just issued me a pass, too. AND she knew I was moving south to Atlanta. So why would they towe the truck?
$750. That's why. I had to drop $750 to get my ish back and put further behind the eightball. And to make matters WORSE I had totally ignored my internship advisors several requests for me to get a urine test. I guess I thought, because I was Vince, she'd just wave that requirement. She didn't. So while everyone else started Monday, I started Tuesday. Matter fact, Greta called me Monday afternoon, like "OK Vince, your tests came back fine. So we'll see you tomorrow." I think she thought I was already settled in Georgia. I wasn't. I was watching the Sopranos on my boy Mike's couch in DC.
So I had to drive all night and battle rush-hour morning traffic to get towork in time. Plus, I spent the first week crashing on my cousin's couch, waiting to recoup some money to use as a down-payment on the spot I rented for the summer.
When I finally moved in, I was mad at the world. Especially my mother, who chose to call me three times/day, when I told her I'd be in no mood to talk after the move. She even got melodramatic and called the Post to see if anyone kinew of my "whereabouts". She's priceless.
From Atl back to DC
My plan in Atlanta was to either try to get hired there or somehwere else. I wanted to go from my internship to a permanent gig. Didn;t work that way, though.
No problem, I thought. I'd head home and crash on my man Mike's couch for a few weeks or a couple months, at the most, while I scored a gig. No biggie right? I'd done the same for Mike. He styaed with me for about four months when he moved from LI to DC. He'd have no problem returning the favor right? Wrong. My nigga kinda greased me. He had me leaving multiple messages on his phone for more than a week and then chose to call me back the morning I was supposed to arrive. I was in, like, Richmond! It was all good though, he was going through some stuff and probably wanted to be left alone while he simmered and I can definitely understand that. So I just headed for the fellas pad, knowing they had a couch with my name on it.
But let's rewind for a moment. I was coming home the same week that the UNITY conference was going on in DC. UNITY is when the Asian, Black, Hispanic and El Salvadorian journalist associations hold their conferences in unison. It's huge. And the Job Fair is even more hugerer! So I shouldve been there as many days as possible. Instead, I was in Atlanta saying dumb goodbyes and, once again, starting on the road in the evening, driving through the night and getting to DC that morning. Having been up for about 40 hours, I showered, put on a suit and headed the conference with about 30 minutes left for that day's Job Fair.
I didn't land a job that weekend.
DC to St. Pete
Like I said before, this move was supposed to be the smooth one. But come on now! I'm dealing with me, Twist. I just don't do easy.
Details tomorrow...I'm exhausted...
posted by Twistinado @ 10:20 AM
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