A Man a Plan a…Wait, What Was I Talking About?

It’s frustrating to have a journal full of ideas and no way to spit them out on your computer screen, especially after you told like EVERYONE you’re going to regularly update your blog with extended semi-autobiographical stories of work and other obstacles that get in the way of my writing career or at least what’s left of it. Man, I’m finally starting to see why some of my co-workers get so resentful when they work a full-time schedule or when I have to yell at them to get back to work when they’re in the middle of exchanging ideas while I’m barely hanging on the back of a crate that’s centimeters from falling down a marble staircase. God, I’m such a dick. 

I recently dusted off my old Flickr account and found an old photo from 2006, December of 2006 to be exact. It was a handful of work friends standing outside of a local bar in my old Greenpoint neighborhood, half of them outside for a smoke break, the other half just hanging outside for the company, not complaining about the smoke and out of the half dozen or so in the frame, only one is aware of my camera, mockingly pushing his chest out, hands on his hips, proud smile. Hell, I could write a novel about the comradery amidst our co-workers alone, how a career in art handling wouldn’t be so bad as long as we had each other and I totally take that one Livejournal entry back earlier that year about finding a new career. That was almost six years ago and it’s funny to think how content I was at the time. 

Some of the people in this photo are no longer around: One had gotten fired for a DUI, one got married and had a kid with someone who made enough income to where he didn’t have to work again, one who moved out to the West Coast to do exactly what he does here for significantly less pay while the rest of us are still kicking around at the same place of employment while waiting to relive how good things were before. Goddammit, sometimes I hate that feeling of when you realize that years later, far removed and you never hear from anyone anymore. Does that mean I’m going to be nostalgic for this time right this second? God I hope not.

Intermission

I was on the road all last week in New England, two weeks before that in the arctic tundra of Minnesota and a particularly brutal work week in between that involved a lot of heavy lifting at an auction house. I mean seriously, what kind of asshole buys a collection of 15th century mahogany church choir pews that are about the size of a wall and could easily crumble into dust if you grab it in the wrong –which was like fucking all of it? I mean, for all I know, these things survived the black plague, but could be potentially destroyed by a human wrecking tornado klutz such as myself who still has no idea how he got into this whole art handling mess in the first place. But I digress.

Human Wrecking Tornado Klutz Who Has No Idea. That ought to be the title of my art handling memoir.

Still writing, but due to exhaustion and a co-worker who watches NCIS at top volume in our hotel room, it all comes out in a fragmented pile of turd; more so than usual.

So yeah, there’s a lot more to come and I promise that I’m not slacking like I was in 2011, 2010, 2009, 2008, Etc. Oh yeah, comments, feedback, constructive criticism and recommendations for good chiropractor are always welcome.