No Subject

Too tired to think. Ate some leftover lunch for dinner, then sat in my chair staring into space. The piano doesn't fit the dolly but the piano must be moved, probably have to carry the damned thing so make some arrangements with some large guys. The piano tuner does what he calls a rough tuning, but the instrument needs to be in location for the final adjustments. The second piano we move on stage, after sweeping the chips and scrapings of a turning demonstration, after setting up chairs for a lecture, after starting to clean the kitchen after the Board Dinner, after clearing tables and chairs from the gallery, after doing several sinks full of dishes, after unplugging a toilet. The piano doesn't fit the dolly, still, when we look at it again, later, and we discuss modifications. We discuss redrilling some of the holes, we discuss cutting the sleeves, cutting the arms, bolting the casters on in a different configuration, sending the damned thing back. Do more dishes, put away more chairs. The Richards Gallery was packed for the lecture and people are slobs, they drop things to the floor in public spaces they would never drop at home, and while I'm sweeping I docent a group through the turnings. A variation on Mop And Tell. I still can't believe the piano doesn't fit the dolly, the hoops we jumped through to order exactly the correct unit, the piano tuner is cool, reminds us that the 800 number person has never moved a piano, checks our specs, says that, yes, that dolly is supposed to work for that piano but that clearly it doesn't. Move on. Elect to cut the sleeves, have them cut, with a plasma torch at Rush Welding, later. The concert is Sunday and we have to move the piano tomorrow, so it can be final tuned. No way around it: we have to carry the fucker. Consider a Grand Piano and the way loading is carried down through the legs, consider the stress on the joints where the legs meet the body, consider the weight of the sounding board, there is no way in hell to roll this thing across an uneven floor, something will snap, a piano in your lap. Yet, ever stupid, they've put these cute little casters on the bottom of the legs, which we'll have to remove to put the damned thing on a dolly, assuming we surgically alter a dolly to fit, and those cute little casters, solid brass in a fitted sleeve, are $160 each, AND DON'T WORK. I'm beyond appalled, in denial. I have friends that work in clay that could design a better system, I have friends that work on paper that would never imagine this would work. You don't run a sport's car on bicycle wheels, what were they thinking? Inept fucking assholes. Like Clov said In "Endgame" -But my dear sir, look at the world, and look at my trousers- a tailor with principles, my kind of guy. What the janitor said. I wasn't even going to write tonight, but I'm glad I did, I feel better. Surely I must have offended someone. My job. Love those pictures of your kids, we should take a cruise, watch the sea-level rising. Going to hell in a hand-basket.