Every day in the not-too-distant lands of Westchester or Park Avenue penthouses (any category of "up"), people move out of their homes, and their belongings go with them. They call movers and they go to brunch and they come back and all their stuff is in a new place. It's a simple process, really, a matter of physics and packing tape. But for those of us stuck on the ground, for whom "up" is five flights and penthouses come wrapped in plastic at the corner bodega, moving in Manhattan is a strange and fascinating hell. And for all of us who have endeavored to transport ourselves from point A to point B on this island, there is a story being told about "the worst moving experience ever." One person's CD collection goes missing, another tells of a magical moving truck that takes four hours to drive five blocks, yet another mistakenly spackles the dog. We've all heard it all. Well, almost all. The very nature of the gripe is to think that your story must be the worst. Needless to say, I have more than a... More >>>