You're only as old as you feel.

That's what they say, right? A platitiude largely meant to indicate being young at heart. That's the context it's usually trotted out in. Of course, there's always the flip side. What about when you feel old.

It's my birthday today. I'm 31, and in many ways it's harder thatn 30 was. 30 was supposedly one of those landmark birthdays you hear about, but it came and went relatively uneventfully for me, garnering a big, "What's the big deal?" when I thought about it.

31 seems harder though. For one, I can no longer pretend I'm still at least on the threshold of my 20's. That door has closed behind me. I can look through the window and see those 20's, but where 30 felt like I was still technically there, 31 does not. 31 is pretty definitively being "in your 30's."

And let's look back at some items of note from my year of being 30. Namely health issues. In that one year I contracted mild asthma (OK, technically it was there when I was 29, but it wasn't diagnosed until I was 30)...I was prescribed glasses for reading, using a computer, and for work (which I've yet to wear to work)...and I came down with a bout of prostatitis, which if you've been keeping up is NOT vaginal cancer; it is however something my doctor described as happening "as we get older." So, much like senility, hair loss, liver spots, and death, it's an old person disease.

So, there's that.

There's also another factor that isn't as immediately apparent. The sale of my childhood home this very week. In fact, the papers are being passed tomorrow morning. I wrote a while back that it wasn't that weird for me. Well, that was then. This is now. Let me see if I can explain this one. With the exception of about 6 months at the beginning of my life when I was in Quincy---a house later burned down by the subsequent owners when they went out one day and left the toaster on---88 Merryknoll Road has always been my home. I moved out for a few years in my 20's. Moved back when I needed to save money for a new car. Stayed too long, bearing the stigma of being a guy almost 30 living with his parents. And finally moved out again back in July. But the thing is now, no matter what, whether I wanted to (unlikely) or just needed to (hopefully not), there is no going back. Let me reiterate: There Is No Going Back. No matter what, I have to be a grown up now, in the sense that mooching off the folks isn't going to happen. Well, not unless I move to Okatie. Which is fine, of course. I'm pretty self sufficent as it is, but looking down I'm watching the stagehands rolling away that safety net, packing it up, moving on to the next time. "Uh, hello? Guys? I'm still up here."

So, childhood home...gone. 20's...gone. Health...nowhere to go but down (generally speaking.) Is it any wonder I'm feeling old.

Fear not though, gentle readers. I'm still way too mentally immature for prolonged despair or depression. Give me a few days, and a few beers, and I'll be right as rain again. It's just been a weird few days.

Weekend Update

I may not be as sexy as Tina Fey, but here goes....

The Bond-a-thon, mentioned in previous post, has inspired me to watch more Bond. In order, start to finish. Netflix here I come. Sure, I could try and watch them off the Bond-a-thon, but it seems that whenever I have free time, they're always showing either The World Is Not Enough, Goldeneye, or Tomorrow Never Dies. Pierce Brosnan overload. Nope, gotta start with Dr. No.
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So Thanksgiving long weekend. Worked Thursday and Friday. Ouch. Great check coming in two weeks though. Which will help pay for whatever's wrong with my car, as the Check Engine light came on Thursday as I was driving to work.

Dinner was at my uncle's house for the first time, since my parent's house is pretty close to empty now. Hard to sit at the dining room table for Thanksgiving dinner when there's no dining room table left to sit at. They pass papers on the house on Thursday, but that's a blog all its own.
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Saturday found me in RI seeing Rune again with Bill and Demo. Things were a lot less hazy this time. They're a pretty good band. Sort of a Dave Matthews/Blues Traveler type vibe, I guess. Place was hoppin', too. Lots of fine young women in that Bristol, there are. Must be something in the water.
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Yesterday, I saw Walk The Line. It was OK, but somewhat lacking. The obvious comparison for this film would be to Ray. High profile biopics of influential singers, right? I thought Ray was a great film. For a nion-fiction account, it was presented in an appropriately dramatic fashion to make an interesting film. Walk The Line could have taken a lead from that. Although the film was generally about Johnny Cash and a certain period of his life, it was most specifically about his love for June Carter. And in that aspect, it was strongest. However, I felt aside from that aspect of the film, a lot of the development wasn't as strong, causing a lot of the film to feel more like disconnected scenes from a life as opposed to a naturally flowing film of the primarily 15-20 years of Cash's life that it covers (excepting the prerequisite childhood scenes.) Although it based on two autobiographies written by Cash, a movie treatment of the material (in my opinion) can be manipluated to feel more cohesive. That is not to say that they should lie, but this could be helped by editing and additional (or alternate) character development. Like I mentioned before this film is largely about Cash and future wife June Carter, but as an example: Early in the film, Cash goes to a recording studio in Memphis where he's living. It's appearing to be his last ditch effort to get something going before he and then wife Vivian have to move away to take a job her father is offering, in essence abandoning his dreams of playing music. He meets with the owner of the studio (who also owns a record company), auditions, and ends up cutting a record. Essentially the next scene has him on tour...already popular, with a song on the radio, and at #14 on the Billboard charts. My question is: What happened in between? The main problem with the film is that there seemed like too many jumps like that. However, there was plenty to offset that. Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Withersppon both do admirable performances as Johnny Cash and June Carter, although Phoenix's accent seemed to slip and slide around a bit. Of most admirable note is the fact that they both did their own singing, and both pretty well at that. Overall it was a decent film, but one that, upon seeing, I probably could have wiated for DVD for.
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And now it's Monday morning. One of those days when you wake up to the alarm going off and wonder to yourself why you set your alarm for a Sunday morning....before realizing it's not Sunday. Worst. Feeling. Ever.

Getting awesome....

What's the true sign of the coming holidays? No, not Christmas decorations and commercials appearing the day after Halloween. Not the cold and snow flurries we have this morning. Not the appearance of Sam Adams Winter Larger and Harpoon Winter Warmer.

No, the true sign of the impending holidays, the true marker that the holiday season has started? The James Bond marathons. Every year at this time. 3 days of Bond. 5 days of Bond. A Bond movie every night for 3 weeks. Happens like clockwork. Tis the season for Connery, Moore, Lazenby, Dalton, and Brosnan.
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What a difference a day and not getting locked out of your apartment makes. I got awesome with the recording last night. Three guitar tracks down in a few hours, including a one taker on a short slide solo. For those that don't know, nailing something in one take (at least for me) is the equivalent of hitting a hole in one, or...or having a girl not throw up when she sees me. So, good times. Probably three more tracks to go. Which does make six guitar tracks for what's supposed to be a "simple", "rough" demo. But I'm sure not all of the tracks will make it on. I just want to have a full range of options when it gets mixed down. Sort of like how filmakers will shoot far more film than they need, and cut it down in the editing room.
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I'm also in one of those periods that I have every now and then where I'm having those weird and memorable dreams.

Last night it was me escaping with a few people from a huge battle in a space shuttle. One that I really had no idea how to fly, but managed to anyway. I was flying around picking up my friends and trying to get us the hell out of there.

Two nights ago there were two. One was me and my family in Disneyworld. Except it was really ghetto and half in the woods. Like if you crossed Disneyworld with King Richard's Faire, with a sprinkling of the Topsfield Fair. Except that there was this really exceptional two story ice cream shop, complete with slides from the second floor to the first. I got ice cream, but unfortunately my pants were too sticky and couldn't really get the full benefit of the slide.

The other was I was part of the ruling elite of some vampires. Kick ass, huh? Well, except the fact that we were being hunted to extinction by humans. Whoops.

Yep, nights like these, where the subconcious is apparently cleaning house, I just can't wait to get back to sleep and see what happens next.

WWMD?

I left work early yesterday. 2pm. First I had to go pick up my new glasses. They're weird. When you first put them on, things are a bit blurrier, but then they sharpen up. Going take some getting used to. Leaving the Carnage Hospital at 2:35, I get a call from the cable guy.

"You're getting cable service today?" he asks. "Delivery of an HD box?"

"Yes," I say.

"Well, I'm out front now, and no one's answering the door," he says.

"That's because my appointment was for between 3 and 5," I say.

"Oh. I must have messed up my work orders."

"Well, I'll be there in about half an hour," I say.

So, I battle traffic. Get home. Go upstairs, unload my stuff...bag, jacket, wallet, keys. And I decide to leave a note for the cable guy, because our doorbell doesn't work. So I kindly write up: Cable Guy, Doorbell doesn't work. Door is unlocked. #2 is door at right at top of stairs. I run down stairs, tape it to the front door, run back up stairs, and....

BAM! Locked out!

Oof. "Am I really that stupid?" I ask myself. "Are my keys really sitting on my desk on the other side of the door?"

"Yes," I tell myself. "You're really that stupid. Your keys are really sitting on your desk on the other side of the door."

You see, I could leave the door open, but if I do that Pantera, the cat, will feel like getting awesome and leaving the apartment. So, even if I'm leaving for just a minute to bring out trash, check for mail, put a note out for the cable guy, I close the door behind me. But usually I remember to unlock it. Usually.

It's shortly after 3pm. I have no keys (obviously) so I can't get in or drive anywhere. No wallet, so I can't maybe run out and get a bite to eat while I wait for either my roomate or landlord to call me back. Nothing to read to pass the time.

So for the next 3 and half hours....the cable guy comes, leaves me my HD box...the neighbor upstairs walks his dog and doesn't have a spare key...I talk to my dad and mom, separately...send some text messages...lie down and briefly fall asleep in the front hall...think a lot about how awesome it would be to be in my apartment...briefly consider trying to find a ladder and climb up to our porch window that doesn't close all the way, and reject that idea for fear of arrest or broken bones...and wonder WWMD--What Would MacGuyver Do? Well, obviously, he'd find some way to turn his phone into a magnet andunlock his door that way. Byut I don't have MacGuyver's skills, or Richard Dean Anderson's writers, so I'm shit out of luck.

Finally, at 6:30, my landlord comes home and gives me a spare, mere minutes before I actually die of boredom.

Unfortunately, something like this just wrecks the rest of one's night as well. After getting in, I do my usuals---shower, eat dinner, check email---before I sit down to do some recording. There's a couple of tunes that need to have the guitar parts thrown down so Matt can sing over them, and I'd like to get them done over the next couple of weeks. Well, a few hours and roughly 100 takes later I still don't even have a version of even just the first track that I like. It took me about 50 takes to get one that was OK, but there's some small issues with it. Enough that I wasn't happy with it. So, I run through about another 50 takes and still don't get the performance I want, before finally deciding to call it a night and reading some comics and going to bed. I was hoping to have this tune done by Saturday, and now with the first day a no-go, I'm thinking that might not happen, unless I can get particularly awesome tonight when I get home and rip out that track and the second one.

All in all, pretty much a wash of a day. But at least I have my official HD box now, instead of borrowing the one from my parent's house.

Bad writing

The question I get a lot at work is: "How many books do you read in a month?"

Occasionally substitute "year" or "week" for "month", but you get the gist.

I hate that question. How do you answer it?

"4.3. I read 4.3 books a month."

I don't fucking know. Depends on the book, the writing style, the length, the type of story, not to mention how much other stuff I have going on in life.

Anyway, people here know I read a lot. So every now and then someone will give me a book to read. Last week Dolly gives me this book by Jonathan Kellerman. Kellerman is one of the NY Times bestselling authors. Popular. He has a series about a child psychologist that works with the police in solving crimes. This was one of those books.

So, I'm reading through it. And at first it feels like an episode of Law and Order. A little too cutesy and trying too hard with the dialogue, but OK. And I'm reading...reading....reading. I get about 3/4ths of the way through the book and I can't deal anymore. Usually if I make it that far, I'll finish; usually if I'm going to quit on a book, I'll do it within the first hundred pages. But Kellerman managed to mask his bad writing until it got to the point that it was impossible to ignore. Forget the plot, because it's stupid. But whatever, it's a police procedural/mystery. I'm not expecting much. However, it appeared that this case was going to be solved almost entirely by the two main characters conjecturing and talking about the case. And who knows, maybe in the real world that's how cases get solved. Maybe police work isn't very exciting a lot of the time. However, this is fiction, and Kellerman's breaking the cardinal rule: Don't tell what you can show. You're watching a movie, or one of the half a million police procedural shows on TV every week, what do you want to see: Police following clues, leading them to suspects, and eventually a resolution? Or police sitting around the station, their houses, coffee shops throwing out theories about the case and essentially solving it that way? Personally, I'd like the action option please.

And keep in mind this is a BESTSELLING AUTHOR! Which means many people buy this crap.

Another example. A few years ago, I read the Horse Whisperer, by...um, Nicholas Sparks maybe? I had seen the previews for the film, and it looked interesting....with the tag line, "From the bestselling novel..." So I figure it's usually true that the book is almost always better than the movie, so I should read the book first. What utter crap. It's been so long that I can't remember particulars, but I have shadowy memories of it being just about the most horrible thing I've ever read. And that was the writing, forget about the story.

As a counterpoint, the first horror novel I ever read was called The Devil's Touch. It was part of a series by a guy named William Johnstone who alternated between horror, westerns, and post apocalyptic fiction, all starring manly (usually ex-special forces) men kicking ass for goodness, mom, and apple pie. Not exactly Shakespeare. And his horror stuff was pure schlock. The Devil series was pretty much about the devil and his earthly minions trying to take over random small towns to establish a foothold on earth, and how they're repeatedly thwarted by Sam Balon Sr. (in the first book) and Jr. (in the others). Lot's of B-grade violence and gratuitous sex (which is probably why I loved reading them as I was just hitting my teen years).

But for all that...it was better written than the fucking Horse Whisperer. I kid you not.

I guess I shouldn't bitch. I'm actually people are reading anything at all. And hell, not everything that's popluar is bad. Just take a look at Harry Potter. Biggest thing since the bible, and wonderfully written. I will unabashedly state I own them all and can't wait for the last one.

But sometimes I wonder how things get popular. But you know, just look at the music industry, which is an extreme example of the same principal, and worthy of a Pillars of the Earth novel-sized blog all its own

Lordy, lordy, I can see!

The past month or so has been all about doctor visits for me. Nothing more fun than spending your days in those antiseptic offices, with their uncomfortable chairs, and vaguely menacing vibe. Aside from the impromptu vist to my PCP for vag cancer (detailed below), I had also gone to him a couple of weeks before for the annual physical. (All's running well, if you were wondering. Five by five.) But when I was there, I asked him for reccomendations of an Opthamologist, as it had been years since I had an eye exam.

So, that was the reason for yesterday's visit to the Seton Medical Building in lovely Dorchester, MA.

When I was younger, I had worn glasses to correct the fact that I was cross-eyed. Awesome little glasses with a Superman logo on the frames. And they worked, but apparently not permanently.

Rewind. A couple of months back, I noticed that I was squinting to read things on the television screen. Specifically, messages and conversations from the Star Wars video game I was playing. I was sitting probably not even ten feet away, giving myself a headache as I squinted at the screen trying to read what some green-ish fellow that looked vaguely like a squid with Downs syndrome was saying to me. This happened a couple of times, so I made a note to myself that at my next physical, I'd get my doc to reccomend an eye doc to me so I could see if perhaps glasses were in my future.

Aso, within this span of time, I noticed in the mirror that the old lazy-eye had made a bit of a return.

So, I head into the office yesterday with my short laundry list and we're off .

Full eye exam time.

Hadn't done one of these is probably about five years, but they're still pretty much the same. Follow the light. Read this line. Wear that robotic mask thing that makes you look like a cyborg while they take a look at the eye. Eye drops. All the usuals from 5 years ago...hell, what I remember from 20 years ago...are pretty much the same.

The doc, she was cute. A little older, but pretty. Hella sexy accent, too. Couldn't place it, though. Kind of like how a British person would sound if they lived in India. But not exactly.

So, we go through the whole exam, including the lap dance (just seeing if you're paying attention), and she reccomend glasses for reading, driving, and at work. OK, no problem, I kind of expected this eventually. More on that in a minute.

She also said that I was an "alternater". Years and years of eye exams when I was younger and no one told me. What this means is that I don't see/look out of both eyes at the same time. I use one at a time and switch back and forth between the two. That made sense, as I knew that about myself already. I use my left eye a lot for everyday situations, although oddly enough my right eye is stronger for far sight. I didn't know there was an actual term for it however. Anyway, she didn't specifically say that this was the cause of my cross-eyed-ness, but again it would seem likely that one follows the other. At any rate, there's not much that can be done about it without things like surgery and eye-patches. Yar.

Another thing about being an alternater, and also something I noticed, is that 3D doesn't work for you. For 3-D to work, you need to be utilizing both eyes at the same time. So, it makes sense that years and years ago, I felt I was missing out when watching Jaws 3 or Friday the 13th 3. "I don't get it, "I remember thinking. "Looks like a regular movie to me. Maybe these cheap little Cracker Jack prize glasses they handed out at the door are broken?" I'll never get the full magic of a 3-D movie. Thanks god that phase never really took off then, eh?

So, back to glasses. After the exam, I go over to the little room where they keep all the glasses and pick out a pair. With anti-reflective coating reccomended by doc Zan, for reducing the glare fromt he computer screen while wearing them at work. No Superman frames this time, although I'm sure that would be really stylish if I wore a white belt, trucker hat, and a girl's size t-shirt, with my angular haircut, gulping down PBRs while listening to the Arcade Fire and ironically loving the 80s. But I decide to go with a different look. So, we (myself with the help of Jerry), pick out a cool looking pair. Looks kind of like the kind a college professor that would have sex with his students might wear. We then sit down and start talking anti reflective coating. Regular AR versus Teflon AR. Teflon is reccomended, because it's cuts down more glare, let's in more light, makes the lenses more resistant to scratches and breaking. Only $40 more dollars.

OK, not bad. $40 more? Sure, why not. So Jerry tallies it up. Lenses, frames, Teflon....$330! Oof! For that kind of money, I want to have a sweet heads up display in the lenses that targets for the laser I'm having installed in my penis. I'd heard glasses were expesinve, but damn! Take care of those things, I must. I was so proud that my credit card debt was virtually nil, down to $0 probably by then end of the year. But not anymore.

All because I want to see.

The good news is...

No cancer of the vag, probably.

Last week I started feeling a discomfort in my lower abdomen. Pain is too strong a word to describe it, it was nowhere near that. There would be twinges of "pain", along with a tightness, and occasionally what felt like gas, but wasn't. Just general discomfort, not localized to any one area, but the lower abdomen (or super-pubus, as my doctor called it) area. Very mild, but consistent. So I figure I'll give it a few days, get through the weekend and see what's what. Monday rolls around, and it's still there. So, I call the doctor and make an appointment.

Now, the problem with such vague symptoms, at least to me, is the fact that they're vague. A sudden sharp pain would have had me less concerned than a sudden, persistent discomfort. Because I have no idea how to diagnose something like that. It's a testament to this day and age that my mind pretty immeadiately jumped to: Cancer. It's cancer. All that masturbating caused prostate cancner. Just fucking wonderful. Well, at least that weed I smoke can now be classified as "medicinal".

Now, for the record, I didn't really think it was cancer. Not seriously, but there was that persistent little nagging voice in the back of my head that kept saying it. It's that same nagging voice that shows up to fuck with your life in any number of ways. When a girl (or guy, if that's your thing) gives you her number, it's that voice that says, "She doesn't really want you to call." When your boss calls you into his office, it's that voice that says, "You're being fired." You know the one I'm talking about. It's the one that had my blood pressure raised when I walked into the doctor's office this morning.

Anyway, so Monday morning I call and make an appointment to have it checked out today. I go in, decribe everything to my docotor, and he thinks about it....."I'm pretty sure it prostratis," he says. Prostratis (not sure of the spelling) is merely just an infection of the prostrate that can happen as we men get older. Remember, I'm only immature in mind, not so much in body anymore.

First thought: Phew! Not cancer.

Second thought: Oh, no. Not the prostate. You're not going whip out "the glove", are you, Doc? "Are you using the whole fist?" is a funny line in Fletch, but I don't want to be thinking it myself this morning.

Luckily, probing wasn't on the menu this morning.

And here's where it gets good, because this is a side of medical science I've not seen, not even imagined. Doc's prescribing some antibiotics, at the same time, he's describing some other things I can do that should speed recovery along. Of course, take these pills twice a day. Also, soak in a hot bath at least once a day. OK, I guess I can make that sacrifice. Oh yeah, and you know what else is good for speeding along recovery? Wait for it....wait....this is good, you'll like this..... MASTURBATING!!! I kid you not. Not only did it not cause cancer of vag for me, apparently, it cleans out the prostate. So, if I have to, to get better, I guess I have to. Sorry God and Christians, but my health comes before your sins. And to all you young men, when your parents walk in on you and yell, "TOMMY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!?" You can tell them that you're preventing prostatits.

So, yeah, no cancer of the vag for me. Which is a relief. Because, really, if I had a vagina all this time, I'd be pretty disappointed that I wasn't using it.
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Every year my mom asks me for some ideas for what I might want for Christmas or my birthday. She wants a list. So, I usually come up with a few DVDs, CDs, books, maybe a new scotch. But this year, I've got nothing. There's not really much I can think of that I want right now. Finally I come up with, and tell her, if you want a joint gift for me for Christmas and my birthday, there's a cheap airfare to Austin in January.

So, I'm going to Texas in two months. I've heard good things about Austin, a little oasis of blue in a red state. Funky, ecclectic, great music scene. This is what I hear. So, I've wanted to check it out for a while. And now I will. Sweet.

Also, and more importantly, about a year or so ago, I thought to myself, "If I moved out of Boston, where might I be possibly be interested in going?" Obviously someplace warm or more temparate. The list I came up with was short. First tier (most likely): L.A., Atlanta, Austin. (Austin is the only one on that list I haven't seen yet. Not that it means much, visting isn't deciding about anything bigger in life, but at least I can get an idea if it's the type of place I'd like.

Because like G.I. Joe said: Knowing is half the battle.

More things about moving.

So, I haven't written anything in a while. Which, as you've probably gotten a good idea of my posts by now, means you're thinking: "Hmmm, Chris hasn't seen any new movies recently." Which is pretty true. I missed the Aristocrats over at Davis, so I guess I'll be waiting for DVD on that one. Although I have been watching the Rocky movies on DVD at home, which are montage-tastic. In all fairness the first one is quite good, and not really about boxing at all. Not when you really get down to it. They do tend to get silly after that. But I wanted to check them out since I recently heard that Rocky Balboa (Rocky 6) is in production. Can't wait. In the first Rocky, which takes place in 1978-79, I think, he says he's 30. So almost 30 years later an almost 60 year old Rocky comes out of retirement for one last fight? His opponent? Must be Methuselah.
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So, as previously mentioned, my parents have sold their house in Weymouth. They pass papers around December 1st. So, it's time to clean house. Which basically means that everything inside the house needs to be elsewhere within the next month. Now I haven't seen the in-law apartment they're moving into, but by all accounts it's quite small. In fact, when I was looking to move over the summer, my mother kept pushing me to move into this very same apartment attached to my uncle's house in Norwell. I wasn't particularly interested because it was both farther from work and farther from Boston, neither of which I wanted to be. Now in Medford, I'm farther from work, but closer to Boston, so it works out, especially since I don't drive home from work after a few beers. At any rate, my uncle even told me I probably wouldn't be interested in the apartment because it was small. And now, instead of just one of me living there, there are two of my parents?

So, at any rate, a lot of the stuff in the house that belongs to them will not be going with them. Furniture, much of the stuff from the attic, even food.

The attic has already been cleaned out. It's empty. Everything's either been thrown away, given away, or taken by whomever in the family it belonged to. I had boxes upon boxes of comics and old cassettes that are now sitting either in my apartment or in my car. The comics will all be read once more and then discarded. If I can sell them on Ebay, great. But the used comics market doesn't look too hot right now, especially considering most of the stuff I have is mid 90s X-Men titles, which are easily available as trade paperbacks. The cassettes will all be listened to one more time and either discarded (about 95%) or kept. I've been working on this one for a while and have only made a small dent. Those of you that have seen my tape collection from eyars ago understand why. It'll take me a while to go through all this B and C grade 80s metal and cock rock, and the truly cringe worthy crap I tried to like in college. Ugh...college rock. I shudder to think.

The furniture they're getting rid of they were just going to give away. Until I stepped in. "Let me try and sell it on Craigslist for you," I said.

"OK," they replied.

So, I'm working on that. And an extra added bonus. Whatever I sell it for, they're letting me keep. So, wow, that was unexpected. So far the dining room table is gone and I'm up $50.

The only bummer of the furniture wholesale is that I have to sell my couch. I don't want to sell my couch. It's the second most comfortable couch ever. But it won't fit in my apartment, and with everything else going, I'm not going to put just that one thing in storage

The food. Here's another unexpected bounty. Last weekend, when I was down helping my father finish cleaning out the attic, he mentioned that soon I shoudl go through the pantry and frig and meat freezer downstairs and take some stuff. I couldn't figure out why at first. They're only moving to Norwell, and they're still going to need to eat. But then it dawned on me. Oh yeah, come December 1st, they're heading down to South Carolina for probably 6 months. They're not going to be in Norwell until May or June. That's a long time to keep food you're not going to eat. So already I've made off with half a bag of potatoes and about 40 or so hotdogs. I've been eating ghetto dogs (microwaved hot dog on a piece of bread) all week.

I still have some of my own stuff at the house that needs to be moved to Medford. My big amp is still downstairs, as well as a few boxes. I've been holding off, just because I don't know where I'm going to put them yet. But, for all intents and purposes, all my stuff is cleaned out from the house. Finally, after 30 years, there truly will be no going home.
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Next time, on blog: Chris is going to Texas? What about that raise thing you've been working on? And does Chris have cancer of the vag?