christopher ming lee

Introduction

Rule One: bring less. It’s easier. Regardless of other variables – how many people, destination, your Chinese zodiac sign – this doesn’t change. Repeat it like a mantra. Repeat it regardless of your vehicle, because whether you have a single car or a fleet of U-Hauls, the rule applies:

Bring less.

Letting things go seems scary if you can’t imagine yourself without the furnishings surrounding you as you read this. They’ve been there for the past 20 years, after all. But most things can be repurchased or replaced. So minimize.

How to Minimize

Go through your belongings. Sort everything into three piles: Bring, Store, Toss. Take your time with this. It might take a few rounds to strip yourself to the essentials. Be ruthless. The smaller your vehicle, the better. Space limitations force you to leave things behind.

Use a “six months” guideline: if you haven’t looked at it or used it in six months, Store or Toss. Preferably toss. This will include a great deal from your college days; be ready to skip down memory lane (but don’t spend too much time reminiscing): postcards, posters, shot glasses, certificates, matches, old CD’s, batteries, headphones, notebooks, souvenirs from the summer in Cancun, old cell phone manuals, the computer maintenance kit. If you’re only keeping something for sentimental reasons, toss it. Resist the urge to Store everything. You’re wasting space.

In regards to manuals/computer CD’s/music CD’s – most of this stuff you’ll be able to access online. Save it to the computer, then back it up. Get rid of hard copies.

Take pictures of things you want to remember.

Start early. Start small. Most importantly, start and keep going. Clean out this drawer, or that book shelf. This part of the desk, those pile of papers, that section of the closet. Work 15 minutes at a time, then take a break – for five minutes, or for the day. In a month you’ll eliminate a majority of the inessentials.

Anything in the Store or Toss piles, see if you can’t donate, or sell on Craigslist or eBay.

Find a place for your Store belongings. This might be a storage rental or someone’s basement.

Examine the Bring piles. Do you really need everything? Will it all fit into your vehicle? On the first few attempts, the answers will likely be no. Start the process over again.

Some sticking points:

1. Furniture
   Don’t get hung up on not having furniture when you arrive at your destination. Even if it is possible to bring furniture (if you’re taking a single vehicle out, it’s not) it’d be expensive, time consuming, and labor intensive.
   You might rent a furnished apartment.
   You can always Craigslist sofas, bed frames, dressers.
   You may crash with someone who has furniture.
   The furniture situation will sort itself out. David Horvath said about his living situation after moving from Los Angeles to New York: “When we decided to start for real, I slept on my sister’s floor for 9 months, eating not much more than cereal, plain white bread, and salads… Rent was a few hundred backs, paid for by selling everything I owned in LA, keeping 5 days of clothes and not much else. I bought an air bed but had no table…”
   It’s an extreme, but it shows what can be done if you want something bad enough.
2. CD’s/DVD’s
   Get an iPod. If the movies are that important to you, subscribe to Netflix for $9.95 per month. Then leave the DVD’s at home. You won’t have space for them.
3. Collections
   Doll collections, pet rock collections, Final Fantasy 7 figurines, exploded hard drives, liquor bottles, bottle caps, Pokemon cards, movie posters, notebooks, coin collections, toe nail trimmings, spare voodoo dolls, stamps, Matchbox cars, Cabbage Patch dolls, sticker collections… whatever it is you choose to collect, leave it at home. Take pictures of it if it’s that important to you – Saran wrap things, store them in a cool, dry place and out of the sunlight, but whatever you do, don’t bring it.
4. Books
   If you haven’t picked it up in a year, donate it to your local library or give it away. If you can’t bear the thought, box them up or find someone else’s shelf space, because they’re not coming with you. Bring only the bare essentials to your work (cook books, writing books, acting books, comedy books) – and only the Canon, not something with a nice cover that’ll look good on the coffee table you won’t have. Books that have been dog eared and bookmarked and highlighted – those are the books you’re going to use.
   Bring one, non-Canon, can’t-live-without-book.
   Or buy a Kindle.
5. Shoes
   I got my trainers, of course. Then my gym sneakers, my dress shoes, and my sandals, but that’s it. Oh, and my boat shoes, too , the Sperry’s, because they’re kind of that versatile, casual-yet-slightly-dressy kind of shoe, and it’ll definitely be worth it to bring them. Oh, can’t forget my cleats – no, I haven’t played baseball/golf/soccer since college, but who knows, right? My rock climbing shoes, of course, don’t want to have to shell out another $70 on those. And boots, too, for riding the bike and in case it rains or snows, you got to have them…
   Just like that – you’re at eight (8!) pairs of shoes.
   Chances are ladies may struggle even more with minimizing their footwear.
   Guideline: one pair of trainers, one pair of sneakers, one dress, one sandal. Done. It is difficult, but remember: wherever you’re going, they have shoe stores.
6. Clothes
   Strip your closet down to its Core. For a more in-depth discussion, see Minimalism Attire.

Sorting through the material things in your life is time consuming, and it’s only the beginning. Read about how to minimize in small steps.

Other Pre-Move Steps

Next, schedule appointments with all your medical professionals before you leave. If you have health issues, better to find out now than when you’re on your own. This means doctor, dentist, orthodontist, dermatologist, chiropractor, and anyone you see on a yearly basis.

Handle your finances. Calculate your estimated monthly expenses in your destination city (health insurance, car insurance, rent, gas, cell phone, gym membership, food, miscellaneous expenses) and have a minimum three times that in a savings account.

Anywhere from six months to a year emergency reserve is better, but the three month buffer is the minimum.

Put your tax documents for the last five years in a folder and bring them with you. Create electronic copies of everything, and create back-ups. Take digital photos of important documents, save them on your computer and on an external hard drive.

Online banking has made money management more convenient than ever. Still, transactions can take longer than desired, and/or you may not have access to the web. Give someone you trust access to your bank account, in case you need to move money around quickly: a parent, a good friend, someone easily accessible. Use Free Credit Score to check your credit.

Unsubscribe to newsletters or magazines you no longer read.

Make someone responsible for your mail, until you’ve notified everyone of your new address.

Developing Connects

Compile a contact list of everyone you know in your destination city. You know more people than you think.

To clarify: you know more people who know more people than you think.

Start by telling a few people about what you’re going to do. Don’t announce it on Twitter or your blog – just close family and friends. Don’t tell people you think will help you out; tell those you know will, because they’ve bent over backwards for you in the past. These people are less likely to flake on you when you really need help.

Tell them, and if they have contacts, ask for their information. If they don’t know of anyone, tell them to keep an open eye. You’re not looking for people in your industry, or someone with an “in.” That’s not why you’re developing this contact list. You’re looking for people willing to talk to you about your new town.

As your departure dates draws closer, and your move enters the “This Is Definitely Happening Stage,” expand your search criteria. Tell more people about your plans: co-workers, friends of friends, friends of family. You’ll get lots of “oh, my friend is out there,” or “I know a guy.” Write them all down. Get phone numbers, addresses, and e-mails; of the referral and the person referring you. You’ll need to ask for permission to contact the person. Again, you’re not filtering for who works in your industry.

Use social networking tools to build the contact list. Scroll through your “friends” on Facebook. See if alumni branched off to where you’re going. If someone headed off to your destination city, don’t send them a message, asking to crash. But mark down their name, so you know they’re in the vicinity if something (a problem, a crisis, a reunion, an opportunity, etc.) comes up.

Once you arrived with your contact list, what do you do with it?

Whatever you want. How you use that tool is a matter of personal preference and comfort level. Just be aware: if it feels wrong, then it probably is. If it feels like you’re just using someone, the other person is probably aware of it, too.

Making Commitments

Start creating your plan of attack: what are you going to do when you actually get there? There are the obvious two objectives: find residence and find employment. But those two couldn’t occupy all 24-hours of your day.

If you’re an artist – writer, photographer, director, actor, painter – make the commitment now to keep working your craft. Twyla Tharp said her body knew when she took a day off from dancing. “When you walk away from your craft, even for a little while, your skill begins to diminish,” she wrote. Stay committed to whatever daily goal you have for producing your art. If you don’t have a daily goal, create one. Commit to it.

Pick someone you’ll call on your contact list. People have to eat, right? Choose someone who knows you’ll be in town – preferably someone who’s friendly and wouldn’t mind talking about the neighborhood. You have a lot to learn, and just having a conversation about it will be a good start.

Make a list of the touristy stuff you want to do. The city will lose some of its glamour after a few short weeks. Before it does, explore it like the neophyte you are. One day you’ll be too seasoned to look at everything with a naïve eye; enjoy it while you can.

Find out where the library is, and get a card.

Look out for any MeetUps of your interest.

Plan to subscribe to the local papers and your trade magazine.

Make a list of the “spots” you must uncover. This includes your go-to: coffee shop, farmer’s market, Asian supermarket, chain grocery store, beach, and pub.

Use Craigslist not only to keep tabs on employment opportunities, but on sales of the big ticket items you couldn’t bring with you – namely, furniture.

Goodbyes

Start saying your goodbyes. Visit friends and family. There’s something classy about “Goodbye” and “Thank-you” notes. Unfortunately, few people adhere to common courtesies in these run-and-gun, tweet and gChat days. That means if you do adhere to these rules, you stand out as someone with composure and maturity – two qualities also in short supply.

Who’s been particularly influential in your childhood, while growing up? These could be teachers, parents of your friends, coaches, and mentors.

Who gave you rides to baseball games, or cheered for you on the soccer field when your parents weren’t there?

Who was always supportive of what you wanted to do? Who encouraged you?

Whose influence made you into who you are today?

Who is an example of the type of person you strive to be?

The very least you owe these people is a note telling them how important they were in your life.

A Complete Packing List

Clothing

1. (7) T-shirts
2. (4) Boxers
3. (4) Pairs of socks
4. (2) Long-sleeves
5. (1) Leggings
6. (2) Zip-Ups
7. (7) Button-Down Shirts
8. (2) Pairs of casual pants
9. (5) Ties
10. (2) Pairs of athletic shorts
11. (1) Suit
12. (1) Down Vest
13. (1) Pair of Swimming Trunks
14. (1) Windbreaker

Shoes

1. (1) Trails Shoes
2. (1) Crocs
3. (1) Dress Shoes
4. (1) Walking Shoes

Electronics

1. iPod Nano
2. Laptop (w/ charger)
3. Camera (w/ charger and spare battery)
4. Dana Word Processor
5. Spare Cell phone

Camping

1. Cooler-Bag
2. Extra zip-lock bags
3. 2-Person Tent
4. Sleeping bag
5. Sleeping mat
6. Swiss Army Knife

Food

1. Peanut butter-Jelly sandwiches
2. Fruit: apples, bananas, cherry tomatoes
3. Mixed nuts

The Car

1. Jumper cables
2. Check tires
3. Spare Fluids
4. Spare tire and jack
5. Road Atlas

Other

1. Toiletries
2. Toilet Paper
3. Notebook
4. Skateboard
5. (2) Books

Sidebar: The Contact List

Arc: xc2la
by admin
Tagged: Los Angeles, road trip
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He said he needed to get out. Out of Albany, out from his family, who had his back since forever, really. It was the reason he stopped trying in high school (“I stopped taking it seriously, since I always knew the family business was going to be there.”)

That was six years ago, and he’s been going crazy ever since.

“You don’t know how sick I am of old people. And omelets. That’s all I see: old people and omelets. If something doesn’t change soon, I’m going to lose it.”

He asked about coming out to Los Angeles with us. If it was okay with us, he’ fly in after we got settled down and live with us for a year. He wanted the West Coast. He wanted sunshine. He wanted an adventure – at least for a year. If things didn’t work out, then he’d move back to Albany. Go back to the business.

We talked about it over drinks. We expressed our concerns – that it wasn’t okay to piggyback off of us, after we’ve did all the leg work of finding a place to live. That if he wanted to do this, he had to haul ass, too. He had to be committed. Get in touch with brokers. Travel around town, looking for an apartment we could afford. If he wanted in, he was in all the way.

We talked more. We ordered more drinks.

We told him this wasn’t a vacation. This was the rest of our lives, and if he wanted to be a part of it, hustle was essential. We’d live tight, especially for the first year. There might be some staying in hostels, some nights sleeping in the car.

His face darkened.

“Are you guys planning on living in the ghettos?” he asked.

His desire and his sense of adventure waned. “I have commitments I have to take care of first,” he said. Then later, “It’s just hard. I might have to give up everything I have. Everything I worked for.”

You’re 24-years old, still living at home. What is this “everything?” we asked.

He nodded. “Maybe you’re right.” He half-smiled. “Maybe this is what I’ve been saving up for all these years, right?”

We left the bar on that note of optimism, with the faint hope we had another brother-in-arms, someone from Back Home, who’d join us out west. He drove me home, and we sat in his car, in my driveway. In the quiet night of suburbia, he petted the leather steering wheel as we talked, as if coaxing it to sleep. “Everything in my life was handed to me. I never had to struggle, and I think that’s what I need for a little while.”

I understood that much. We came from similar backgrounds, and there was this need to prove to our respective families we could make it on our own. Even when others scolded us, told us not to be silly, we didn’t have anything to prove to anyone, we knew they lied.

There was something to prove.

That was the last night we spoke of him coming out to California. Two days later, I received a text from him, his explanation for why he couldn’t make the trip out:

“I feel like I’m slowing down your guys’ momentum and I don’t want to get in the way. I know I have to get out of here, but I can’t find a way to make it work. Maybe after a year when you guys are settled in and you want to upgrade and I still haven’t found what I’m looking for, something could be worked out.”

That was it. No phone call, no farewell, no good luck. We haven’t spoken since.

It’s simple, to speak of adventure, of doing this or doing that. Or to talk about struggle, to imagine betting it all on a car ride across the country where you may or may not live in the ghetto.

To talk about how hard your life has been, or how bored you are doing what you’ve been doing for the last six years.

Just as simple is to resign yourself to doing it for the next six.

What’s hard is following up on the dream. Doing it, even though no one believes in you. Actually living The Struggle, not just romanticizing about it – that’s the hard part.

Arc: xc2la
by admin
Tagged: Los Angeles, road trip, sidebar
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The good news: my foot broke the bike’s fall. If I irreparably damaged Teddy’s two months before we left for Los Angeles, I wouldn’t forgive myself.

The bad news: my foot broke the bike’s fall.

In the background, I heard the engine putter to silence as I remembered the last time I laid the bike down. It was in an abandoned parking lot, and the bike was at a standstill. I put her down to the pavement gently, and Teddy was right there.

“Well, good; at least now you can see how hard it is to lift that back up after laying her down,” he said.

I crouched down and heaved. The bike barely budged. How many pounds is it? I asked.

“About 500 pounds.”

Shit. At peak condition, I benched 200, dead lifted 225, and squatted 250 pounds. That was about forever ago.

Teddy helped me get the bike back upright. “Don’t worry about,” he said. “Just don’t do it again.”

I wish I listened to his advice.

There was no one on the street. My cell phone was charging back at Teddy’s house – two blocks away. My foot was trapped, but I didn’t think I broke it; my leg neither. The sweet smell of gasoline wafted into my nostrils.

My father said to me once, “It’s funny what people are capable of when they have no choice.” The discussion pertained to restaurant management. Applying the wise words towards lifting motorcycles wasn’t his intention.

But whatever works.

It took two tries, but I got her back up – armed with one foot and enough adrenaline to resurrect a dead rhinoceros.

I rode the bike back to Teddy – first gear only; trying to shift into second sent shooting pains into my left foot. After profuse apologies and some arguing, he convinced me to go to the hospital (“Why wouldn’t you go? That’s why you’re paying for your health insurance.”)

He drove me back to my house first – I drove a manual, and couldn’t use the clutch with my foot. Then I took my family’s minivan and drove him back, and returned home.

Afterwards, I called my cousin, asked her if she could drive me to the hospital. And to bring crutches, because I was getting tired of hopping around on one foot.

We’re sitting in Albany Medical 45 minutes later. I know the attending nurse; she’s a regular from the Restaurant. My x-ray’s are taken immediately, she writes me a prescription, and I’m back out the door in record time. My cousin drives me to the pharmacy, and helps get me inside the house. I heat up leftovers, and watch an episode of Entourage.

A smooth day, all things considered.

Had this happened in Los Angeles, it’d have been a different story.

No extra vehicle that happens to be available when I needed it.

No family available to help chauffeur me to and from the hospital, the pharmacy, back home.

No established relationships – from business or my personal life. In Los Angeles, I’m another face, another customer, another patient.

No house.

Probably no leftovers either. Certainly no on-demand cable.

It’s not easy to make the choice to give up everything. It can be done; but you must know how much you’re giving up.

Arc: xc2la
by admin
Tagged: Los Angeles, sidebar
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You are moving your entire life away from your family and your friends. You’re leaving the house you grew up in, the street your school bus ambled down. Love or hate your hometown, at the very least, you know it. And by leaving, you sacrifice your knowledge of the terrain, the edge of familiarity – which is fine – but you better know why you’re doing it.

Don’t underestimate what you’re giving up. You’re leaving your doctors, your dentists, your favorite orthodontist. The relationships with your mailman, the grocer, the girl who has your coffee (light and sweet; extra whipped cream; sprinkle of cinnamon) ready before the bell above the door finishes chiming. You know which places have the best sushi, shrimp scampi, and after 10 p.m. drink specials. You’ll uproot nearly two decades worth life.

Ask: why?

If you’re still living with your parents, you take many aspects of your life for granted. That’s not a generalization. If you think otherwise, you’re naïve or foolish; neither of which you can afford while making this transition.  If you do pay rent, your parents (hopefully) aren’t gouging you. You don’t pay utilities, electric, cable. Someone buys groceries, someone cooks, even if it’s just occasionally. There are leftovers, and a microwave to heat them up. If you choose to cook, pots and pans are available for your use. You have a spice cabinet. You didn’t buy that oil, the salt, pepper, the paprika, the cornstarch, the chicken stock – you caught them like a senior citizen Wal-Mart associate – snoozing in the condiments aisle. Same with the countless oddly shaped mugs, your favorite Giants glass, the Corelle with the olive branches and dark stain that just won’t come out. You didn’t buy any of it.

But you’ll have to.

So you better know why.

Better spend serious time contemplating this question. Romanticizing about your beautifully independent life, or L.A. dreaming with your car windows rolled down for an hour isn’t doing the question justice. It might take weeks. Or months.

Why?

What’s the ultimate goal behind this move? What’s your metric of “Mission Accomplished” after a month? A year? Five years? Don’t expect to map out your life before leaving. It’s unrealistic, and probably impossible. But goals are essential.

What are you ideally doing when you get out there?

What’s a normal day like for you? What kind of work are you doing?

Who surrounds you?

Does this move align with the dreams you had for yourself when you played beneath tables and clung to pant legs?

What are you going to use the time and new-found proximity to accomplish?

What are you not going to do?

How far are you willing to fall before you realize it’s not working out? It’s fine to “fail,” even to fail utterly, but have a clear idea upon what those standards are set. What’s the back-up plan?

Is there a back-up plan?

Can you afford to have one?

Examine these questions before proceeding with your planning. If they scare you, good. David Horath said, “If you’re not scared, you’re doing something wrong.” That fear is a gut-check, a poke before the final question:

Are you ready?

Sidebar: Breaking Falls

Sidebar: The Struggle

Arc: xc2la
by admin
Tagged: Los Angeles, road trip
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He watched.

Caress with the index’s paddy flesh paddy, then square off the block of rice. With two fingers, shape it: give it a curl that’d make Goldie Locks blush; an arc so gentle baby’s bottoms gives it a rash. Rotate, and repeat.  21. 22. 23. Rotate, repeat. Rotate, repeat.

It takes 10,000 repetitions to achieve mastery.

26. 27. 28.

“Let me show you something.” From the bar, Joe come-hithers with a wagging digit.

He plucked the Saran wrapped rice finger without a raised eyebrow. The sliver of warm sushi rice, encased in a sheet of plastic would prompt questions from most, but it isn’t Joe’s first time. hardly

“It’s about being fast, right? You got to be quick, doing sushi. So when you first take the rice, don’t start by rolling it up into a ball. Roll it into a cylinder,” he demonstrated, whirling the rice morsel in his excuse for a right hand. It’s more the size and texture of a baseball mitt; dark and leathery, the color of chocolate, capable of fielding blinding hot grounders or crushing the skulls of children and smaller horses. It can get surprisingly surgical, too; his fingertips manipulate the grains more skillfully than a Boardwalk full of rice scribbling scribes trying to make a buck. In seconds, his sliver of rice is the correct proportion to top with sushi.

“Then, when you’re squaring off the fish, do this first.” He squared off the rice; a block with rounded corners, then with deliberate slowness, he slid his hand into First Position, the Caressing Index Finger.

From there, he slipped into the Shaping Position, adding an arc that’d make Greek architects tear out their hair and bring the finest NBA 3-point shooters to their knees.

Joe’s sushi making was a streamlined methodology, one honed with his own 10,000 repetitions. He shaved off every possible millisecond and discarded every wasted motion from his procedure. He once managed Ichiban, a speedy sushi spot that churned out 200 plus checks on nights this restaurant clawed for triple digits. He saw his share of sushi before he quit, to open his café in downtown Albany.

“Owner of Ichiban, no good,” his girlfriend Tracy said a few days ago. “He make Joe do lot of work, and Joe have to make specials, too. But he always say, Joe, you not do enough work.”

“And Joe, he always outside,” she continued, “Talking to customer. So they thinking he owner. But Owner, he has to stay inside and cook, and get mad at Joe. But he not tell them this thing, they just thinking it.”

Joe’s ruddy face was serene as he continued explaining sushi’s finer points. He was either unaware or unmoved by his previous employer’s indiscretions. “The most important part of sushi is the rice,” he said. “The rice has to be right, and it’s got to be right the first time. You don’t get a second chance.” He imitated laying the rice to the fish. “When the rice touches the fish, it sticks because of the vinegar and the sugars. It won’t stick if you try using the same piece of fish twice. And when you roll, you got to roll with your fingers tips.” His mitts became cat claws, and he mimicked raking across the table. “Don’t do it like these sushi chefs; you can’t mash rice on the seaweed, you know? It’s got to be fluffy, or it’ll taste bad.”

He leaned back in the bar chair, and stared up at the television screen through his fashionably square glasses. “Oh my god, my master, he put me through hell like you wouldn’t believe. Eight months, and all he let me touch was the rice – wouldn’t even let me make a California roll. Would you believe that?”

Harder to believe Joe’s decision to give it all up, and turn his back on the time he invested into his training, the 10,000 and 100,000 and 1,000,000 repetitions he underwent to reach his current level. Mastery might lie somewhere in the 10,000 repetition mark, but how many more does it take to know this isn’t what you want? How long after working out the finer points before reaching the point where nothing’s fine?

Joe offered one more tidbit. “Oh, and sushi is supposed to look alive, okay? So don’t make it look like a brick; give it a long tail, so it looks like its swimming. Make it look like a fish.”

No one asked Joe for his advice. No one requested his expertise. But in his café, when he stands behind a deli counter, surrounded by cappuccino machines and milk steamers and triple-shot-espresso-soy-milk-no-foam-latte shenanigans, that mastery will amount to nothing. Offering the fruit from his labors is his one more last chance to make use of his skill set, before embarking on a new 10,000 repetitions.

He returned the sliver of sushi rice in the Saran wrap. It was still warm.

Arc: restaurants
by admin
Tagged: chefs, sushi
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