Stage 1 of this horror show of a move is complete. Packing and sorting, what to keep, what to donate, what to give away, and what to dump. Nearly 10 months of weekends of this horrible process, getting rid of 2/3rds of everything. Carefully packing, especially the antique lamps and rare books to withstand a bomb blast, engaging a highly recommended moving company that’s fucked up one thing after another, and letting go of the results.
Had a marvelous send off dinner with close friends, a terrific farewell lunch from the production, dozens of phone calls as I frantically packed the final boxes for the movers.
I packed the van like an Okie fleeing the dust bowl, pots falling on me every time I needed to apply the brakes, dodging brain donor drivers who think lanes are a theoretical concept, tailgating testosterone cases driving trucks they can’t control, and made it here with everything I took intact, and unpacked the contents.
I’m thoroughly fried.
Stage 2 begins when the movers show up.
I will never do this again. If I have to move I’ll stack everything, douse it with gasoline and set it on fire.
Do yourself a favor and go through your “treasures” and cull mercilessly.
In the middle of this final week I was contacted about giving an interview for a documentary commemorating the 40th anniversary of Something Wicked This Way Comes, which was a nice break from the shitshow. It’s supposed to be screened in October.