(Kris Kross, a rap duo famed for wearing their clothes backwards, is in the news this morning. Photo Acey Harper, Getty Images.)

I sat down at the computer, bleary, to discover that half of Kris Kross is dead. Chris Kelly, who is on the right, above, was known either as Mac Daddy or Daddy Mac, I forget. He was found unresponsive in his home in Atlanta. He was 34.

I vaguely remember him. They say it is an OD. For someone who became one of those peculiar creatures known as “celebrities” at the age of 13, I guess it was a pretty good run. But 34? That is 21 years from lightning strike of fame to being room temperature. That is like, insane.

Man, that makes me feel lucky and old simultaneously. I took a steaming sip of Dazbog Russian-roast coffee, thought briefly about eternity and gave up.

It was much easier to think about something finite, like what the last two eggs in the fridge were going to look like, and if they would scramble themselves, appear sunny-side up, or whisk themselves into an omelet with sautéed onions, mushrooms and some delicate frommage from a artisan cheese-maker in northern Michigan.

The eggs did not seem to have that much energy. Sunny-side up it is, I thought and reached for the handle of the side-by-side fridge to let them come to room temperature before cooking.

I glanced at the flier stuck by magnet on the naked white refrigerator. The appliance is bare and unadorned now, as I am in the process of making the unit anonymous to enable someone else to imagine their things in this place and scribble their dreams upon it.

Accordingly, the memo from building management stuck out, not precisely like a sore thumb, but close enough.

I looked at the date. “02 May.” Crap- it is today! I nearly spilled my coffee.

The memo had appeared in the box at the concierge desk a couple days ago, informing us that Leo the Engineer is going to chop the power at 0900 to work on the two main bus boards that supply the East and West wings of the building.

This is as close to being in the West Wing of anything as I am likely to get at this late date in life and career, and the power will stay out until 1700, the memo said curtly.

So, no Internet at the residence, no hot water, no lights, no heat, no nothing. I thought about the day. There is nothing on the schedule after the frantic activity of the last ten days, generating a professional-looking proposal to seek some government work.

The hell with it, I thought. I am going to take the day and load up the Panzer and make a junk run to the farm and throw it in the garage.

There is no point in coming back until the power is back, so the best and most productive use of the day will be to not be here.

The only thing on the calendar is a meeting with a lady the Realtor calls the “stager,” a professional decorator who intends to arrange the unit to show most effectively for “the sale.”

I am removing all weapons, edged and otherwise, except one. I am taking down the cool erotic art and anything else that marks this place as mine.

The changes begin. We will see how it goes, I guess.

Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra