Not Out of Pittsburgh

I just graduated from college, and I'm now beginning the typical year where I will "get adjusted" or whatever I'm supposed to do. The new apartment seems like a great way to feel like a new phase has started in my life. And it's a nice apartment--gorgeous wood floors, big rooms, and cool windows.

The move itself is what I actually dread. Despite my zen-like attempts to reduce my record collection (I sold about 15 CD's), I have probably three times as many possessions as I did last year. I've probably purchased 100 books since I moved here, and probably even more records, since I live two blocks from Jerry's Used Records (the greatest used vinyl store on earth). And I already had a lot of CD's before I started a record label and brought 2000 more into my house.

I've started packing. My living room is a quarter full with boxes of books, and I haven't even begun to deal with records, CD's, clothes, or furniture. And food, too! I've somehow stockpiled a few boxes of food – enough to probably get me through a small nuclear war. The more I think about this, the more I realize that this is going to be the worst thing EVER.

I'm going to try and do it all in one Sunday. I'm borrowing the same van that I used one year ago, only going in an opposite direction. I'm going to spend 10 hours carrying boxes and furniture up two flights of stairs, only to pile everything in the center of the room and collapse, wishing that I was dead. And I'll feel dead, too.

But after the week of getting everything in order, it will be worth it. I will be a resident of Friendship, snug in my cozy little apartment. No more of this big house, which seemed so great in theory but turned out to be more than I could manage. Comfort will come to me again. Life as a twentysomething will blossom as I bicycle home from work every day, to cook dinner in my nice kitchen, and finish with a pleasant walk through the neighborhood.

What happened to me? Why does this appeal to me so much? I thought all of these things last year about this current house. Various factors were responsible for the failure of this house, but what makes me so sure that this new place will be any better?

And then what? One year later I'm going to pack it all up and move again? Hopefully. Maybe to Denmark, maybe to a random town in the South, maybe to some other crazy city. Or maybe I'll stay in Pittsburgh for my 23rd consecutive year.

Something that really changed in the past year (as I became far more introverted) was that I realized that I really could live almost anywhere. I don't need to be in some cultural center anymore; I spend most of my free time reading, and culture can come to me (with the Internet and everything). As long as I'm not too far from a major city, I'm sure I could be happy.

Maybe I'll move to New Haven and hang out with Daron or to Bala Cynwyd with Jim (since it has such a fresh name). Maybe we'll get fakejazz to sponsor some ridiculous contest where I move to the winner's hometown.

Anyway, there's no real point to this column (as usual) so I'm going to finish with a dark anecdote. Today, my mother's best friend died. She was probably in her 40's and otherwise healthy. She had a pretty random brain aneurysm a few days ago, and then suffered a heart attack in the hospital. As far as I can tell it was completely random--she was in good health, with a family and three kids. I've been pretty upset about this, not just because she was a good person but because it makes me realize how suddenly things can happen. I'm not going to make some deep pontification out of this, but it will maybe make you think (and also explain my somber mood in this column).

See ya next time, kids.