On the Road... Again.

I've been cleaning the bathroom for two days.

There is almost nothing I hate more than moving. Hate it. It’s funny, because you’d think I love moving. It seems like I’ve been moving my whole life. I moved from daycare to daycare as a toddler. There were three of them that I have vivid memories of. Then I went to kindergarten at one school, first, second, and third in a new town, fourth through sixth in another, seventh at a new school, eighth in a new town, ninth at a different school… well, you get the picture. Each of these new moves didn’t just involve making new friends; they were complete culture changes. I always managed to adapt, and I usually found a way to make my way to some level of popularity with each new crowd, but I never got used to it.

I carried this consistent transient pattern into my young adult life. I left high school after about a year and a half, started at a community college, lived in about four places, including a bus that I parked in the lot by the baseball field, and then I got thrown out of there even though I’d paid for a parking sticker, so I went into the Navy, which moved me to San Diego, then I got stationed in Portland, and then I moved to Bellingham to finish my bachelor’s degree… lived in about ten places during that time, starting in the dorm, then moved to three different apartments in Fairhaven, then to about seven “friends’ houses,” and then to Garden Street.

Then I moved to Orcas Island, then to Bloomington, Indiana, to get my master’s degree, then to Newman Lake, then to Coeur ’d’Alene, then to Pendleton, and then, and then…

I know you are getting tired of reading this because I’m tired of writing it.

So finally, after uprooting and relocating every year or two for my entire life, I moved to New York City. I’ve lived here longer than I’ve ever lived anywhere. I felt it when I got here, and I feel it even more after twenty-something years… this is home. I love everything about the city, even the subway rats who drag dollar slices of pie down the stairs and into the dark train tunnels where they can safely feast with their friends. I love that some of the buildings, like the Fraunces Tavern and St. Paul’s, are older than America. I love that almost every world-class expert in almost every type of work at some point makes their way to the city and leaves a trace of their genius behind. More than anything else, though, I love the people who live here. This is the last of the melting pot that this country hoped to be. Ok… enough about it. I’m out of here for a while, and this time, it’s hitting hard.

Before these scribbled words turn full pity pot, I want you to know that my intention isn’t to manufacture any artificial fleeting sympathy. I own that my constant moving has been a direct result of my own personal life choices. In retrospect, they were mostly bad. But what’s interesting to me is that this time the move doesn’t seem like an exciting new adventure, or a new start, or anything. It feels exhausting. Let’s face it… I’m getting up there, and I’ve run out of energy for fooling myself into thinking that new experiences are new opportunities. Outside, the world feels like it is falling apart, and I just want to sit at home and drink coffee, read, and be left alone. At the worst possible most unstable political time, I’m driving away from all my friends, my work network, and my little shit apartment on the Upper West Side. I didn’t sublet this time; I’m letting it go. In about eighteen hours, I won’t live anywhere.

But here’s some good news. As much as I hate to move, I still love to travel. Buster, Charlie, and I are going on a road trip to LA. Driving across the country is built into my Irish traveler DNA, so the moment I hit the turnpike, I’m going to be filled with that existential wonder I usually feel when I’m rolling down the highway into the unknown. Also, I’m headed there to do a show and make some money, so when I finally do get back home, I’ll have a new first and last , and deposit. Whatever. I’ll be right back. I’m leaving all my shit here in a storage room just across the river in Jersey.

Alright, it’s time to wrap it up. I have to windex the mirror and sweep up about five years of dust. Hang in there New York. I’ll miss you more than you’ll miss me, but I’ll be back as soon as possible no matter what.

I’m too old for this shit.