The law of friends, it seems, is threefold: There will be friends; those friends will move; and when they do, you must help them. It's usually a simple proposition -- unless the friend lives in the Tenderloin, and the only free time she has is after 12 a.m. Pimps, drug dealers, and other colorful characters were playing football in the middle of Post Street, which didn't help the flow of traffic much, and upset our friend quite a bit when a deep pass hit the box her cat was in, nearly dashing him onto the TL's mean streets. As things proceeded, the hookers in front of her building increasingly gave the impression all this carrying of furniture was disturbing their business, which it probably did, and for that we apologize. Before the move, our friend was a bit sad, having grown attached to her lively little 'hood. Afterward? Well, let's just say that as the last box was loaded, no tears were shed.