Alison and I have gotten quite adept at consolidating our junk to a single carload and moving it thousands of miles to new residences. Not only have I accepted the minimalistic lifestyle necessitated by the trifecta of low income, transitoriness, and limited space—I’ve actually grown to enjoy the freedom that comes with fewer possessions and the catharsis of purging my junk. We are an obese society, not just in terms of physical fat but material fat as well. Most of us walk around with the clutter equivalent of spare tires and jiggly thighs, and my itinerant relocating has resulted in a liberating kind of liposuction.

Another aspect of this that we’ve gotten used to, and I dare say even learned to enjoy, is owning no permanent furniture. We move to a new location, then beg, borrow, or buy off Craigslist whatever we need: bookshelves, chairs, a coffee table, a desk. With the exception of fabric-centric items like couches and mattresses—where the unknown variables of previous ownership range from foul odors to sentient bacteria—I’m perfectly content to use only second-hand objects to rest my food, clothes, or rump upon. We buy these items on the cheap, and when we’re ready to move again I have no qualms re-peddling them on Craigslist and recycling them back into the great circle of lower-middle-class life.

The benefits of this pilgrim style living are many, but one of the key downsides I’ve found is that, when we move into our new location, it hardly feels like a home. Stuff—be it furniture, art, decor, or simply the particular arrangement of clutter—is often what makes a house feel like home. We took to California with us only what we thought we’d need and little else. Thus, gone are the bookshelves teeming with varied and colorful old spines. Gone are the drapes and curtains that warm up a lifeless room. We left behind all that we didn’t “need,” but I’m learning that it’s all those needless things that make me feel at home.

So the dilemma now becomes, do we simply accumulate more “new” stuff to populate our empty apartment and transform it into a happily cluttered nest? Or do we open the door every day to a depressingly spare monastery of blank walls and an open floor? Hoarding is one vice that I am able and only too willing to let go of, but I’m starting to miss the pleasant domestic side-effects of being a pack rat.

One of the tougher vices I try to resist—now that I’m in the golden land of Hollywood—is the insidious act of schmoozing. It’s been hard not to schmooze ever since I started getting access to B (and occasionally A)-list composers, but now that I have the ability to communicate with various celebrities (both garden variety and the film-score-nerd brand) via email, phone, and in-person, the temptation is all the more alluring.

By schmoozing, I mean glad-handing, sweet-talking, or sycophantically approaching someone who I think can elevate me in some way. It can include asking for favors or privileged access, or simply the act of talking to someone. Schmoozing can be for the purpose of advancing my career, worming through the right channels to get access to the top dog, or maybe just for bragging rights. These are all temptations, some more seemingly “legitimate” than others.

I struggle knowing where the line is between appropriate networking and schmoozing. It’s a simple fact that “who you know” often plays a huge role in getting the jobs and opportunities you want. There’s nothing inherently greasy about making beneficial connections. To avoid being a schmoozer, I do my best to put myself in the celebrity’s shoes, to avoid coming across like a used car salesman, and erring on the side of not being pushy enough. I actively keep my distance at times, or wait a little longer to call back, or discard that drafted email.

But beyond the pitfalls of the more accepted act of networking, too often I crave the sweet fruit of posture and position that I think comes with chatting up so-and-so or displaying the personal note so-and-so sent me. I hanker to just call X person up and see if they can do lunch…and I question my motives. Ideally I want to be friends with these amazing people, but am I approaching them as I would a true friend…or as a film music god with enough clout to make my follow-up tweet glisten in the sun? Am I arranging for a meet-up out of pure curiosity or enjoyment, or am I doing it just to fill my ego bladder to bursting?

Not only is schmoozing a reprehensible characteristic (and reputation) to have, but it can do serious long-term damage to the relationships I’m trying so hard to cultivate. Must…resist…the schmooze.