Thursday, May 05, 2005
Sorry Blog I've neglected you, but I just found out where I packed your honky ass. (It was right next to my collected works of Robert Fulghum and Yanni cassettes).
Moving, though fun as a late career Richard Pryor vehicle is about as enjoyable as a cactus enema administered in a Turkish prison after mandatory excercise time during summer.
I don't advise ever to undergo this practice unless you feel the need to purge yourself of six year-old pay stubs and that aged issue of Bikini magazine with the Gary Coleman drinking game, well, even then I would seriously think about it.
The upside of moving after seven years of Soviet style apartment living is watching how quickly Los Angeles's transient population picks up the scent of freshly discarded Ab-Rockers and Magic Hour t-shirts. They descend upon the Not-Good-Enough-For-Goodwill heap with the clip of a cranked-up Pat O'Brien on speed-dial. In other words, Homeless Depot is open for business kids! No money down! EVER!
In closing, the best time to move lies on the list of THINGS TO DO ONLY IF YOU HAVE TO (or because your current building owner is a complete soul-less prick whose next of kin should be disembowled with a tube of Pilsbury Parker House Rolls while he watches from a burning cage made of Rottweiler feces) right below visiting Bagdad wearing nothing but American flag parachute pants and a Viva Bush jumper.
