Final dispatch from the 219

This will be the last post from my apartment, which is now an empty shell of its former self. Sitting on the floor, back uncomfortably rested against the baseboard heater, I'm reminded of my first day in this place, when it was empty expect for me and my computer ... and, like today, it was hot as fuck.

A 16-foot truck turned out to be the exact size Sarah and I needed. Pretty much filled to the brim, but with enough free space for everything to breathe comfortably ... or shift during transit and shatter.

I still have a few errands to run, namely chatting with Comcast, the power company and the post office, but then I'll be on the road, stopping in Wilsonville for an afternoon/early evening of sleep, then hitting road in the wee hours of the night. I'm actually getting excited for the trip, though I know that feeling will undoubtedly wear off before I cross the Oregon border (I'm looking at you, Baker City).

Anyway, there's no way we'd have gotten to this point without a lot of help, especially from Mr. Hammett and both sets of parents (Dan and Justine, Tom and Betsy, Ryan — take a bow), and I can't wait for reward them with free room, board and meals when they come visit.

And yes, I said "when."

So yeah, that's it from 97128. Nice town, nice people — a nice step.

I'll miss it, sure, but as of now, the road is my only home.

Man, I have a lot of shit

Loading your possessions into french-fry boxes bound for the back of a UHaul has a funny way of making you question this whole capitalism thing. I love my things, of course, but I'll be a lot happier with they're all neatly stacked in my new Florida apartment. Or condo. Or house.

Speaking of Florida, that's where Sarah and Adam are going on their honeymoon. It was a lovely wedding with two lovely folks set in an Independence barn with stringy lights. A beautiful bride, a dancing toddler, a sort-of drunk Cutty and unadvertised open bar made for a great evening.

My take-home moment: It's just after the ceremony, when guests were filing into the adjacent barn for drinks, and the fire alarm goes off. Chef comes out with a dumb look on his face, staff are scrambling and Sunday-best-clad children have their fingers firmly pressed against their eardrums. A minute or two into the madness, I look over to the crowd and notice the groom, Mr. Adam (it's not hard, he's tall) calmly sipping a beer, having a chat and looking like the piercing wailing of the siren was music to his ears.

Great guy. And he's got a great lady. They're going to have average-sized children.

Take-home moments, honorable mention: Sarah dancing to "Footloose," meeting a truly savage Christian rock star and watching James Brown WORK HIS MAGIC.

OK. Enough blogging. Back to heavy lifting.

F L O R I D A

The buzz on the Internets is true: I'm moving to Florida.

And, figuring a life-altering surroundings shift will spur some worthwhile reflection, I've decided to document my move, arrival and experiences in and around The Sunshine State here, on my once sort-of-thriving, but now completely-defunct blog.

This should last for all of about four posts.