Yesterday, with Tara’s help, I moved into my new apartment, still in NE Minneapolis but much closer to the Action.* I have officially relocated from the Ramshackle House with No Insulation or Screens that Fit the Windows (Home of the World’s Worst Shower) to the Beautiful Sunlit Hardwood 1-Bedroom Sanctuary with Back Porch and Kitschy Wallpaper. I hate moving, and I imagine I am not alone in this regard: it’s always a headache, and I always put off packing till the last two a.m., beer-sodden minute, and it always seems to take place on the hottest day of the year, and my relatively organized lifestyle doesn’t entirely preclude ending up with at least a couple cardboard boxes marked “utterly miscellaneous.” But the worst is over. I successfully cleared out of the RHwNIoStFtW(HotWWS) yesterday and spent today unpacking and arranging things at the BSH1-BSwBP&KW. As moves go, it’s been relatively smooth; after the Summer 2005 Entropic Relocation From Chicago to Minneapolis Explosion (Grad School Remix), this was cake.

Earlier today I let my cat Vespa wander out onto the back porch. She walked down the steps and immediately pounced on a wounded bird. I was equal parts impressed and horrified. Then she met Karen’s cat, Jean-Jean (did I spell that right, Karen?). They hissed at each other a lot. My theory is that their hostility towards each other stems from racial tensions; you see, Vespa is completely white, and Jean-Jean is black. But then I sat them down and made them watch Crash, and I think they’re getting along better. Vespa really identified with Ryan Phillipe’s character, while Don Cheadle’s performance resonated especially strongly with Jean-Jean. This is interesting, since both cats are female. And cats.

It’s amazing how much relocating to a new place—especially when the new place is a radical improvement over the old one—can make me feel like a new person. I almost expect other elements of my life to start falling into place. Like, the New Yorker will call and ask me to freelance for them, while at the same time Tortoise decides they need four drummers instead of just three. I pointed out to Tara that I’m one exit closer to her on I-35W than I was before, which means that at this rate, I’ll be living in her neighborhood in about five years’ time. For some reason I found this observation much wittier than she did.

I’m living by myself, something I haven’t done in many years. I have a recliner and a back porch and miniature appliances and vintage wooden bathroom fixtures, which are also completely new experiences. I’ve already taken an inaugural nap, eaten my inaugural meal (Taco Bell), made my inaugural Target run for various appurtenances, and had inaugural, urm, toilet usage. Everything’s coming up Jake!

And tomorrow morning I’m driving down to Iowa City/Cedar Rapids for Chad’s wedding, which promises to be a raucous reunion of the old crew involving some champion-grade drinking and, who knows, maybe a surprise appearance by Bob Pollard.

* (i.e., a liquor store)