Of Bullets and Budget Trucks

This was the move from hell. I say this with a high degree of confidence, having moved five times in as many years. But before we begin, gentle reader, I feel compelled to say that this story has a happy ending. We reached Chicago in good health, with all our battered and bruised limbs attached.

Our story begins Monday night at Tallahassee bar called Poor Paul's. The place is a dump, admittedly, but I had free beer money. Our party consisted of a small contingent of merry men (plus a few long-hairs), and a grand old time was enjoyed by all. I didn't expect to be giving out hugs at the end of the night, but they were well deserved. Even now it's hard to imagine that there will be no more Sunday Morning Brunch at Cabos (a tradition we've been keeping for for at least two years straight), although I'm sure I can keep the college football banter going for as long as it takes for these jerk-offs to see the light.

In any case, Brianna and I didn't end up packing until Tuesday, and even then it was a late start. I forgot that I had to turn in my keys and clean out my desk, which were both oddly emotional moments for me. Like most days in the office I was alone, but the aluminum drawers carried a hollow ring. Taking down the picture of Pete and me from the wall was particularly disturbing, since, I believe, it was the first piece of flare to make it onto my wall. The picture of John Crawford fingering a fetus was the second. Funny how almost no one ever said anything about that....

Brianna and I worked through the night, but it wasn't good enough. We had planned on leaving Tallahassee at 8AM Wednesday for our 16 hour trip to Chicago. We didn't hit the road until 4:14; right in time for The Daily North Florida Fuckall Thunderstorm. It stayed with us all the way across southern Alabama. I followed Brianna and the dogs in a 10ft Budget truck with my Toyota in-tow. Lugging something that size down the interstate is what I imagine a pilot might feel like, except I wasn't drunk and actually cared about what happened to the stuff I was moving.

Some thoughts about the drive:

1. Tennessee has some of the most striking scenery I've ever seen. I've literally circumnavigated the globe and I've never seen anything like it.
   
2. I heard "Sweet Home Alabama" whilst driving through Alabama. I've always wondered if Alabamans feel cliche for enjoying this song, but apparently they do not. On the contrary, they fucking love it.
3. Not a fan.

After driving all day Thursday, we finally arrived in Chicago. At 10:30PM. Not a lot of traffic on the Interstate at 10:30, but still, driving that truck into the city was spooky. Because Chicago is one of them there fancy city type places, all the streets are on a grid, which makes it very easy to locate the things you want. The streets are also narrow, congested with parked cars, and pretty much inhospitable to giant moving trucks in every way imaginable. We parked in an alley behind our new apartment in Albany Park, and nearly collapsed in exhaustion. B. and I had been either packing or driving for over 48 hours straight. Imagine what it would be like to read this entire this blog entry, then multiply that by at least .8 -- that's how tired we were. But we couldn't just go to sleep. Oh no. Oh no. We had no bed, and no place to park the truck. Eventually we found a residential neighborhood folded into the heart of the city. That is literary understatement utilized for dramatic effect. Actually locating a spot in the city to park our truck reminded me of that girl at church who gave head at Jesus camp -- you don't know how it got there, but you're glad it... well, gave me head. Nice, wide, street head. Then we fell asleep. The time was past midnight.

The next day we unpacked our truck. This was truly a horrific experience. I could deal with the awkward moving vehicle, the traffic, and the sweat, but those stairs behind our apartment are the dogs of hell. Although the stairs to your left aren't our own, they give you a feel of what it's like to live on the third floor of an old building in the middle of a major industrial city. It was impossible -- believe me, we tried -- to fit either our bed, or our couch up those stairs. The long lines prevented us from making turns around the sharp corners, and no amount of angling would fix our problems. Tempers flared. Some tears were shed. And we ultimately decided to give up. In fact, our couch is still sitting at Jason Leto's place, waiting to be sold. The rest of the stuff fit, thankfully, but just barely. My giant -- but incredibly spacious -- work table almost didn't make it, but we forced that bitch through the door. (On a side note, does anyone know how to repair gashes in hardwood floors??) We demolished two of our three bookcases on the ride over -- we had two built-in bookcases at our old place -- meaning that, between the two of us, we have five bookcases worth of books and only one bookcase to store them in. That will be a lingering problem until we get paid/stop hoarding books. Here are a few photos of what our place looks like in media res:

Does it sound anti-climactic now that I've aired it out? It seems that way to me, too. Even looking back on things with a few days distance I'm struck by the contrast between the immensity of my frustrations and my current state of peace. I assure you, it wasn't an experience I'd like to go through again. Our neighborhood is pretty quiet and about as ethnically diverse as it gets. I'd always thought Hawai'i was always a "diverse" place in terms of its cultural diaspora, but I can see now how limited in some senses it is. Hawai'i -- a remarkable, unique place -- is a melting pot. These once-independent cultures come together to create something greater than the sum of its parts. Albany Park, Chicago is a tossed salad. Hispanic, Korean, Middle-Eastern, and hip white people all co-exist, but I don't (as of yet -- I've only been here five days) see much blending.

As for the PhD program -- I'm very excited. Walter Benn Michaels has taken over as our Director of Graduate Studies and, as you might guess, the guy can talk. I believe he said that when he took over as chair, someone accused him of trying to turn UIC's English department -- then considered by some to be a "laid back" program -- into the University of X (a very distinguished school in the Midwest). He assured this student that he'd never want UIC to be anything like University of X, or any other second-rate English department. This definitely raised my eyebrows, but that's this guy's attitude. He gave us the standard new student speech: "This is challenging, but rewarding. If you're in it for the money, get out now." To your right you'll see the building that houses the English department. It was designed in a architectural style called "Urban Brutalist". As you can see, few things in this world live up to their names quite like this concrete monstrosity. I imagine it's like a giant mace sticking up from the ground, ready to brain me if I start fucking up.

Well, I've certainly taken more time with this than I should. For our first class I need to brush up on my Kant and Hegel -- two authors I haven't read in depth since my years as an undergraduate. "Only Hegel is fit for America" Whitman wrote.

And so it is.