I hate moving. I hate it. Forcing my friends to help me struggle with big heavy furniture that I’m embarrassed to own in the first place. Boxes full of stupid things I don’t need but can’t seem to throw away. A trillion books. My 400 lb. record collection. Martini shakers, shot glasses from truckstops in Texas, a pet palm tree that I stole from a grocery store, old pictures, plastic silverware, skateboard wheels (Slimeballs – tell you how old I am?), a glow in the dark yo-yo. Gandhi only had 5 earthly possessions, and something tells me that one of them wasn’t a glow in the dark yo-yo.

The worst move I ever made was from Venice to Santa Monica. I got kicked out of my Venice tenement and had to put all my stuff in a friend’s garage in Costa Mesa, which is about 30 miles south on the 405. The round trip takes about an hour and a half when traffic’s light, and forever when it isn’t. I had to make 7 trips to move my stuff. My last run had me stuck in morning rush hour. A few days later, I found a place to move to in Santa Monica, on Main Street near the Circle Bar. After work, I began my descent into hell. Not only did I have to make all those trips back to Costa Mesa, but the closest parking spot I could find each time was usually five blocks away. I had to carry all my shit past lines of drunk UCLA/Pepperdine losers who thought that maybe I didn’t know how shitty all my stuff was. “You taking that crap to the dump?” “Nice coffee maker dude!” “Wow, look at that poor guy’s stereo.” It took me, no exaggeration, about 20 hours to move myself in.

I always feel like I’m moving. I’ve had 9 different homes in the past 2 years (including the 4 weeks I slept under my desk at the office – ever have to wash your naughty parts in a sink?), and I probably still have shit at each place. Lord knows who’s getting my mail. I never get settled, or even unpack my stuff because I know I’ll probably be somewhere else sometime soon. It fucks with me. I always feel like I’m visiting, even in my own apartment. Nothing’s permanent. I don’t paint the walls, I don’t even put up posters. I don’t buy anything big, just because I know I’ll have to move it soon.

Last week, I moved again. So did the offices of the Crash Site. As far as the Crash Site went, our old landlord had just about enough of us and refused to renew our lease (his other tenants usually didn’t get weekly visits from the cops), so we were forced to push on. As far as my place goes, I put on my Sunday clothes and talked my landlord into giving me a bigger apartment for just a little more money. Lucky for me, both of the moving days happened to fall on the same day. Marching orders: Outta both places by midnight, make them both empty and clean to get back the deposit. Patch holes, clean stains, scrub the bathrooms. Hell, hell, pure sweet hell.

But now, we’re back up and running in a cute little warehouse a few miles from the old place, and just 4 blocks from my new apartment. There’s no traffic. There’s no bums. There’s a taco stand down the street. There’s a bar with free food happy hour across the street. I’ve seen rain, darkness, earth, wind, and fire. Now I see the light. I think it’s all gonna be OK, at least this week anyways. Something bad will happen soon, but until then, and I’m not 100% sure, but I think I might be in a good mood. And why not? The world is still full of hatred, murder, war, famine, and disease, but I got a new bottle of generic tequila and a new apartment to drink it in, and I probably won’t have to move for a while. What doesn’t kill us only makes us stronger, except for the things like a broken back from trying to carry a couch by yourself.