Continuity

Jay Ward and Bill Scott, the creators of Bullwinkle and Rocky, one of the first made-for-TV cartoons, had a problem. They had to crank out one episode a week, every week, like clockwork. Back then when you had to draw every frame of every movement, that was not an easy task.

So Ward and Scott did something new for the time: they outsourced the drawing to a firm named Gamma Productions. They would send Gamma a storyboard and describe the action, and hopefully get back a finished cartoon.

The quality from Gamma left a little something to be desired. Bill Scott described it: "They would never check ... Mustaches popped on and off Boris, Bullwinkle's antlers would change, colors would change, costumes would disappear."

Bullwinkle had a continuity problem. Human beings, in this case watchers of the Bullwinkle Show, do not respond well to abrupt, unexplained changes in the scenery.

Which brings me to my current sitch. Amy and I are in the middle of moving from Ithaca, NY to Pittsburgh, PA. And I'm telling you, it is an abrupt change in the scenery.

Hokey Smokes. I have a continuity problem.

All You Can't Leave Behind

You start packing with the best intentions. You label boxes carefully with their exact final location labelled on top. You even pack a box itself neatly - shirts on the bottom, pants on top, socks and underwear forming neat, retangular piles along the side.

But then you realize you've only got minutes left until the movers arrive, and there's still about half the house left. You just start throwing crap in boxes. Ladles get mixed in with your wedding DVD and that plastic piece to something you probably gave away years ago (but maybe not, so you better keep it or that thing won't work!).

Stuff is flying through the air. You are constantly worried about missing something. And you begin to wonder ... is all this packing even worth it?

Well, yes it is. Packing up is about saving money, that's true. Moving a $5 spatula is cheaper than tossing out the existing one and re-buying a whole new $5 spatula when you arrive. More eco-friendly too.

But packing and moving is also about continuity. That $5 spatula has a burn mark where you left it lying on the edge of a sizzling pan of sausages ... I forgot when, maybe it was 30 years ago. But when you reach for that $5 spatula, it feels familiar. You know where the burn mark is, and where to hold your finger.

In a world where the stove, the floor, the view outside your window as you cook, the morning air, and the brand of sausages in your pan is all new and unfamiliar to you, that little bit of familiarity feels really good. When the scenery abruptly changes, you hang on to some things for dear life.

So what do you pack, and what do you let go of?

I thought about this question off and on as I packed boxes, and this is what I concluded: I might leave my notebook, or the DVD player, the $5 spatula, or the box of Tapioca Starch behind, but there was only one inviolable rule.

Do not leave Amy behind.

Continuity Squared

Of course, Amy is no $5 spatula, and I'm certainly not going to pack her up in a cardboard box. If I did that, who's going to drive us to Pittsburgh? The car is packed so full of crap that I can't slide the driver's seat back ... and so I am relegated to passenger, next to all the stuffies.

Amy is approximately 65% responsible for us moving, to my 35%. Despite the comfortable surroundings, our nice in Ithaca and our friends, Amy had lived in the Finger Lakes region of New York all of her life. She needed to change her surroundings - she was very clear about that when we met way back in 2011. I guess that was part of the attraction. I liked people who had the guts to move when their heart told them to.

But let's be honest. I'm lazy. Without her dream of leaving, I would not have overcome my own inertia.

I like Pittsburgh, but I also know it's not your garden-variety US city. I've been here a few days and already I'm accosted with weird shit. Like the Duquesne Brewery Clock. Just look at this thing.

This is the largest clock face in America, and the third largest in the world. It is 60 foot tall, twice as tall as Big Ben (pfft, those Brits and their puny-ass clock). It is run by a motor you can buy at Home Depot. It isn't even in its original location - it was built in the 1930's for a Coca Cola billboard on Mount Washington, then moved to this factory - the former Duquesne Brewery, hence the name.

The Duquesne Brewery Clock is in my neighborhood.

Amy and I get a good view of it from across the Monongahela River. We are biking on the Eliza Furness Trail, which is situated in the median of I-376 coming out of downtown Pittsburgh, and there it is. This giant-ass clock.

"I don't think it's the right time," Amy says.

I look at my FitBit. It's about 6 hours off. Or maybe it's my FitBit, I dunno. How can you argue with a giant-ass clock?

This is very disorienting. It's my German ancestory - I want all the clocks to show the same time, goddam it.

And then I look over and there she is: Amy, riding her bike with me.

That gives me perspective. Amy has been there for almost 14 years now, no matter how weird things got. When I need her opinion, her chastisement, or her encouragement ... hell, when I just need her ... she is there.

I mean, c'mon. A Sunday bike ride with your best girl? Who cares what time it is?

Shenanigans

A lot of people have wished us a smooth transition to Pittsburgh, and I do appreciate your good wishes. But let's get real. We have uprooted our whole lives, and much of what we know, to live in this converted Steel Mill of a town, this Paris of Appalachia. Who knows what shenanigans is in store for Amy and me?

I know two things:

• Shenanigans have happened before, and with my Amy beside me, things turned out OK. Maybe not the way I expected, but OK nonetheless.
• Shenanigans make for great blog posts. "Remember when we saw the Duquesne Brewery Clock for the first time? It was 6 hours off. How lame."

And that, in itself, is some much-needed continuity.