ANYC: 04.05






my hands are calloused & red from all this lifting. I didn't think I could do it myself - but damn, I did it all by myself. I totally needed help. But everyone was busy on Wednesday, so I did it alone. seems kind of appropriate i guess.

the cool part about loading up the car & driving across the country, is door to door service.

people. word of advice. if you move? DRIVE THERE.

half of my stuff has been packed in boxes and is on its way to mysterious LARKIN street in San Francisco. Yipee. My bike was the most expensive at 108 - artwork a close 2nd @ 103. My lying about things being books in boxes was the least expensive at an average cost of 12 dollars a box.

getting to use a dolly all day from the mechanic shop by my apt? PRICELESS.

yesterday on the train someone left their black plastic bag behind. my friend yelled out: "That is an unmarked package!" and then someone else yelled "throw it out of the train!" and then someone else yelled "it could be a bomb!"

all very thrilling. but another example of enough is enough. for me at least. one of the perks of SF is that nothing is underground EXCEPT the bart on market street ONLY. I don't plan on stepping one Birkenstock in the bart. at least not for now.

Many people have expressed jealousy and tell me that they are going to move too. Everyone except one couple. The couple said "we are still going to keep plugging away at this. We like New York." That was great. I was growing tired of everyone saying " I am so jealous and want to get out of here too." type thing. its like "okay then. leave."

right?





My pope jope:
instead of saying "is the pope catholic?" (in response to someone asking me an obvious question.) I am going to say: "is the pope dead?"

don't you think his death was such a wish-wash, that maybe he will take on the assumption like elvis?
like: oh I saw the pope the other day at better burger getting air baked fries.


I love this picture of Leyla. Hmm. I don't think I took this one. buts its on my camera.

wow. sometimes I walk around new york and I am like kind of floating because I don't really believe that I am leaving.

am I?

the only time I know I am leaving is after taking the subway ANYWHERE. I get out of the stinky, sweaty car - run up the stairs holding my breath all the way and gulp in the fresh air to exclaim "OHHHH GOD!!!"

The subway air was suffocating my poor spirit. I could feel it in my pores & taste it on my buds.

So I am taking cabs this week. last night I went to a birthday party. 79 to 18. 14 dollars. no joke. I'm goin out in style.

I will be living in California next week at this time. doesn't that seem so fake? "California Max". Sometimes its more like a joke, right?

Sometimes I worry that they might not be as "serious" and "gloomy" as we are in NYC. We are a serious people. We are dark. I fear that all of the patchouli & "lets look towards the sun" stuff might wear thin. Well not "wear thin" but I fear I am not going to take it seriously. like at first I will laugh about it and be like "wow thatís nuts!" but then I will want them to laugh about it too -and once they don't start laughing, and keep doing the patchouli thing - I will be like "oh shit."

and thatís why I was placed in apartment number 22. According to my Reformed Deadhead Landlord on Larkin, he placed me in 22, because a girl from Brooklyn is in 23.

I already think she wears black and has dark hair. its going to be funny to meet a blonde bombshell.

I hope she has a jewish mother that visits often. Thatís the most I can hope for. But if she moved west, chances are she is from a broken home.

Its funny when people start reciting Beastie Boy lyrics together. We all know them. People in Atlanta say "party people going places on the D train." and they don't even have a D train. Or is it G train, because we don't really have a D train either. or maybe its Mike D talking about you know, his "d-train" like "if I ate spinach I'd be called Spinach D." type thing. Anyway after a Beastie Boys rant - I am always shocked by who knows what song, and then I sit there the next day wondering when people learned the lyrics to 3-minute rule. I like to know when people learn lyrics and why. Why 3-minute rule? How old were you? 15?

the age range at my going away party was 8 months to 77 years. Is that a sign of success? or is a successful party the fact that I was able to pretend like I was in college again = dancing to the pixies at this place that everyone called "the G-spot". I'd say that was the kicker.

Tonight at Swatters Birthday, I would like to demand a little Interpol dancing, and I would like to suggest we move from Pauls Boutique to Ill Communications.

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