You'd've loved Frank C. Everybody at the University of Alaska in the late 1950s loved guileless, lover-of-mankind, scatter-brained Frank.
He had a single room in the rear of the temporary dorm when a more desirable room became vacant across the hall. He started moving across the hall as haphazardly as he tackled everything else � move a few things, then go over to the Student Union for a shake, a couple of games of pool, and of course a while chinning with whomever else happened to be there.
After a few days of such interruptive intervals, he forgot which way he was moving � and moved back into his old room.
He sent his laundry out in an unsorted heap and when it came back, he "drawered" it � still unsorted � randomly in several bureau drawers � a randomly scooped armload in this drawer, an armload in that drawer, etc.
The day that he was moving OUT for good � leaving � he had several big cardboard boxes here and there all around the room, and was packing them the same way � an armload in this box, an armload in that box, etc.
In the middle of this "procedure," he stopped suddenly, looked around at all the chaos, and muttered,
"A man's a slave to his goddam possessions."
That's a hilarious story, and the last line is painfully true. It's good advice to remember. Thanks.
