There was some potential bad noise at the parking ramp. The apartment people pay for one spot in the ramp about a block away. I was under the impression we got two spots. She didn't SAY we got two but she didn't saw we got one. At any rate, I called her and they agreed to pay for a second spot. I was friendly and polite. Everyone was friendly and polite.

I started moving in boxes around 4:45 and stopped around 8:45. Moving the boxes was uneventful, although I did encounter a few of my neighbors. We regarded each other quizzically - sizing each other up a bit. They were a young and healthy looking bunch. I wonder how they'll react when the droning machine noises start coming through the walls and floors of our apartment. We like an "Eraserhead" ambiance to our lodgings and our alcohol abuse is rampant. Okay, that's kind of not true, but the mental image of my new neighbors filling with dread and confusion made me smile a little.

As I was unloading the first carload of boxes I heard drums. Real drums. A shirtless back was bouncing up and down with the bass drum in a window above a hair salon. I brought my boxes upstairs and closed the door and I could still hear the drums. I wondered how often they had band practice. I'm not complaining - I'm all for it even if it's one of those bands where the singer can really sing and really knows it. I thought about knocking on the door and giving them my Double Nickles on the Dime CD and a list of required tracks but it's not my place to take over some local Waukesha band who seems to be doing fine on their own.

I was moving in the box of pictures when I got a cardboard cut on my pinkie. Right where it bends. I immediately wished I were dead - even the memory of the incident upsets me. The cut looked like a tiny jagged red mouth and it started to swell up a little. I washed my hands and it went away. Once I get a cardboard cut, all fucking bets are OFF.