Closed Doors

Something was going on today, but I never did figure out exactly what. I think Trish and Pegi are pissed at me because I told them the scheduling of weddings and receptions when we're putting up or taking down a show had to stop. A bit of a rant, actually. The art shipper picked up the crate going back to Reno, Nevada, $1,600 for one crate, but it's traveling first class, temperature and humidity controlled truck. Another bid for that same crate was nearly $7,000, but the Kernz Group make the run every other week, thank god. I think TR has the last two crates taken care of. Friday D meets Boggess in Huntington, to return his paintings, then zips all the way across Kentucky, to Lexington, to pick up the last of the folk art, except for some local stuff. Logistics. Started thinking about the packing for the folk art, as it's going to three other venues, need to come up with a few things. The concrete pieces, literal concrete, are fine in blankets wrapped with that stick to itself plastic (which is called flat twine); the carved and painted plaques of Cincy Reds baseball players need better protection than a plastic bag, which is how they arrived. Might have to build a few crates, or boxes within boxes, always a favorite. Pegi and Trish are behind closed doors most of the day, at one point, when I came upstairs to sit down for a few minutes, I pointed at the door and TR shrugged. Despite what Pegi might think, I'm not trying to stake out turf, I'm just trying to install a show, and I assumed the mandate of the museum leaned more toward art and less toward wedding receptions. I could be wrong, but I don't think so. I spent most of the day preparing for an event in the theater, tomorrow, a catered event, which means food everywhere. If I could get a corporate sponsor, like Saab, I could have their foot-mats; just take them out and hose them off. Where's my secretary when I need her? And then I have the list D and I made, prioritizing my actions for the next few days. In my spare time I look under parked cars for pennies. This month, I'm already up $56.26, just from looking between parked cars. Old Tom, yeah, I knew him, he prowled the parking lot at Kroger, said he got more change than he knew what to do with. Too many quarters and you end up on someone's radar. And he was fixated, during that period, on being completely invisible. At the end, the last we saw of him, he was fading out, off, into the Everglades. I'm somewhat driven by the heat-death of the universe, not that it will happen in my lifetime. Heaven forbid. But I think about it. A black hole, then nothing. Nothing is too hard to wrap your head around. Great talk with Sara this morning, though I'm not particularly good on the phone. Talked about the office politic and about reading the Carter archives, then, and the reason for the call, we talked about the big, local, juried show, Cream Of The Crop, that we'll be doing in June. It's a mega-show and requires unbelievable planning. She was writing the prospectus and working on the other various publications, and had noticed the glitches in the schedule. I think I know where this went bad, it was when we started letting the office manager run the show. But mostly I put my foot down so D wouldn't have to; he has a temper and I want to avoid a collision between him and Pegi. I'm curiously not expendable (while D is in school), so I can throw myself across the tracks. Trish had never seen this side of me, where I ranted that a specific thing was impossible: and please, don't tell me how to do my job.