About a month ago, I left my old digs in Prospect Heights, Brooklyn for Ditmas Park. I’ve been busy packing, unpacking and being poor from all the expenses associated with moving (asshole old landlord, movers, furniture, etc.) It’s all been a bit of a stressor.

But, the upside is that I now have a doorman, an elevator, more space and laundry within my building (a rare score in NYC for some people). The neighborhood is quiet, beautiful and has tons of cops (I see at least two every time I go outside, if not more). Bang for buck, the real winner for me is the laundry. I despise shlepping to laundromats. The fact that I can hit pause on the TiVo, hop an elevator with a bag of clothes and be back in five minutes nearly moves my grumpy, NY ass to tears of joy and salvation.

Every day, when I come home, passing the the doorman, Herman a.k.a. “Cheese” (Herman = Herman Munster = Muenster = Cheese. It’s how I remember people’s names), the lyrics to The Jeffersons runs through my mind:

Well we’re movin on up,
To the east side.
To a deluxe apartment in the sky.
Movin on up,
To the east side.
We finally got a piece of the pie.

Fish don’t fry in the kitchen;
Beans don’t burn on the grill.
Took a whole lotta tryin’,
Just to get up that hill.
Now we’re up in the big leagues,
Gettin’ our turn at bat.
As long as we live, it’s you and me baby,
There ain’t nothin wrong with that.

Well we’re movin on up,
To the east side.
To a deluxe apartment in the sky.
Movin on up,
To the east side.
We finally got a piece of the pie.

Granted, I’m white, have never fried fish, nor cooked beans on a grill and I’m in Brooklyn, not the Upper East Side. But, I am loud, grumpy and I walk funny.

I’m packing my shit up to move. Well, actually, I’m procrastinating most of the time, chained to my computer, lost in Tron 2.0, but sooner or later I’m going to have to crack down and deal with my Apartment of Doom because I have to be out of here by August 1st or earlier. My landlord’s been pretty decent about letting me out of my lease and even let me use my deposit to cover my last month, which is unusual because he’s quite a slumlord. I guess it pays to play the victim card.

Since I’ve moved every year that I’ve been in New York City, shuffling around the boroughs, I’ve slowly winnowed away the rat’s nest of crap I’ve accumulated over the past 30 years or so. I came here with a huge truckload of shit. Chairs, tables, dressers, fish, a cat, antique shit I don’t even like and boxes upon boxes of crap I never use, will never use and don’t really want, yet cannot bring myself to throw away. The pack rat syndrome has long been a curse under which I have suffered and with each year and each move to yet another ghetto, I have endeavored to shave away the layers of junk I don’t need and mold myself into a kinder, gentler, simpler man who is able organize and move his possessions in a couple of hours with a cab ride rather than needing a month and a half and the rental of a truck. It’s hard, my people, but I try.

It’s fair to say that since my arrival in the city about four years ago I’ve removed well over half of the stuff I brought with me from my life in Vermont. The fish, the cat, the gym, the dresser, almost all the furniture - all gone and each year I’ve subtracted more and more. Now I’ve decided that this move will be the big one, where I purge myself of all unnecessary crap and assume the life of a true austere, compact and self-sufficient man-of-the-city. It may be just a relocation to around the corner from where I am now, but to this human magpie, it shall be a triumph to end all triumphs! I will not be one of those weird old people who leave behind a maze-like rat’s nest of an apartment, full of old newspapers and bits of string. I will die penniless and without home or possessions like I’m supposed to, god-dammit!

I figure that all I really need is my clothes, a TV for those rare moments I watch it (Law & Fucking Order!!!), some books I just can’t part with and all my computers and assorted gadgets. Actually, all I need are the computers and gadgets but public nudity is not my thing so I’ll make some allowances for pants and other hippie shit like that. Everything else goes to the trash or in a few rare cases, into storage. It’s a good thing. It needs to be done.

Unfortunately having all this crap and trying to sort it all and get rid of it is looking to be more daunting than I thought. But, it must be done as there simply is not enough room where I’m going to and I’ll be damned if all this shit ends up in storage. I must purge this home! Quick, the gasoline! We must cleanse!