Sunday August 11 2013
Had thought to make this a daily post, but couldn't get motivated. Maybe I'll ramp up over time.
Anyway...
Had started to introduce myself before was distracted by a rant about the age thing. Have been running The Shoreline for 20 years. Before that my working life had been eclectic and erratic, meaning that I worked in many places, none of them for longer than a year or so. Counted them once, and was able to identify 63 different jobs over the course of my life.
Started out delivering groceries with my friend Norman at the age of 8. We were entrepreneurs, Norman and I, although when we launched our business back in 1954 I doubt that word had much meaning. Our gig was to stand in front of the local grocery store--no "super" in markets back then-- and be as cute as we could manage while asking every person going in if we could carry their groceries home. Best customers were grandmothers. We'd load Norman's wagon and haul the bags a few blocks before packing them up three flights of tenement stairs. For this we'd receive a dime and a smile. Sounds like indentured child labour, but you could buy a hamburger for a quarter at the time.
Where was I... Jobs!
So from that inglorious beginning, I went on to become many things, ultimately, at least so far, an indentured newspaper owner. What that means is I own a business that produces a newspaper but little income let alone profit. Result is I run a business that keeps me poor, and can't be sold because it doesn't make any money. I'm trapped.
Now, having said that, it's a nice trap. My life is easy. I've got my boat and Butkus. People treat me well. And I get to live in a beautiful place.
Still, I'd give it all up for the chance to move on. Always thought I'd figured out how to avoid being stuck in a rut when I walked away from 9 to 5 forty years ago. Was working in advertising back east; good job, well paid and with a future. But was having lunch with our regular group at our regular table in our regular tavern one day when one of the regulars, who had been frothing at the mouth about how shitty his morning had been, suddenly stopped. Took a moment o realize he's stopped because of the din from other tables and because most of us hadn't really been paying all that much attention. But eventually we were all staring at him--can't recall his name; older guy, probably in his mid forties, seem to remember him as having dark, curly hair; don't know why that would stick in my mind. We were all staring at him, and no one else at the table was talking. Then, all of a sudden, he said in a clear, quiet voice, "I sure as fuck wish I was doing something else." More silence while everyone chewed on that statement, and then someone said, "Well it's too fucking late now, isn't it?" And the table went back to normal.
The table did, but I couldn't. Couldn't get the "Well it's too fucking late now, isn't it." to stop recycling through my brain.
Got to stop now. Butkus is pacing. Time to go for a walk.
Had thought to make this a daily post, but couldn't get motivated. Maybe I'll ramp up over time.
Anyway...
Had started to introduce myself before was distracted by a rant about the age thing. Have been running The Shoreline for 20 years. Before that my working life had been eclectic and erratic, meaning that I worked in many places, none of them for longer than a year or so. Counted them once, and was able to identify 63 different jobs over the course of my life.
Started out delivering groceries with my friend Norman at the age of 8. We were entrepreneurs, Norman and I, although when we launched our business back in 1954 I doubt that word had much meaning. Our gig was to stand in front of the local grocery store--no "super" in markets back then-- and be as cute as we could manage while asking every person going in if we could carry their groceries home. Best customers were grandmothers. We'd load Norman's wagon and haul the bags a few blocks before packing them up three flights of tenement stairs. For this we'd receive a dime and a smile. Sounds like indentured child labour, but you could buy a hamburger for a quarter at the time.
Where was I... Jobs!
So from that inglorious beginning, I went on to become many things, ultimately, at least so far, an indentured newspaper owner. What that means is I own a business that produces a newspaper but little income let alone profit. Result is I run a business that keeps me poor, and can't be sold because it doesn't make any money. I'm trapped.
Now, having said that, it's a nice trap. My life is easy. I've got my boat and Butkus. People treat me well. And I get to live in a beautiful place.
Still, I'd give it all up for the chance to move on. Always thought I'd figured out how to avoid being stuck in a rut when I walked away from 9 to 5 forty years ago. Was working in advertising back east; good job, well paid and with a future. But was having lunch with our regular group at our regular table in our regular tavern one day when one of the regulars, who had been frothing at the mouth about how shitty his morning had been, suddenly stopped. Took a moment o realize he's stopped because of the din from other tables and because most of us hadn't really been paying all that much attention. But eventually we were all staring at him--can't recall his name; older guy, probably in his mid forties, seem to remember him as having dark, curly hair; don't know why that would stick in my mind. We were all staring at him, and no one else at the table was talking. Then, all of a sudden, he said in a clear, quiet voice, "I sure as fuck wish I was doing something else." More silence while everyone chewed on that statement, and then someone said, "Well it's too fucking late now, isn't it?" And the table went back to normal.
The table did, but I couldn't. Couldn't get the "Well it's too fucking late now, isn't it." to stop recycling through my brain.
Got to stop now. Butkus is pacing. Time to go for a walk.
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