An F5 tornado has just ripped through my home. Fueled by black coffee, prednisone and a looming, self-imposed deadline that urges me on so I can stop paying for living in two different houses at the same time. Such is the discord of moving.
Not to mention the pain of leaving the place I called home since the 20th century.
On the plus side there is the joy of Döstädning, Swedish Death Cleaning, the pitching and tossing of useless papers -- why am I keeping an Edison electricity bill from 2007? And how many times have I told the kids to turn off the damn lights when they leave a room.
Additionally, why do I have five different size Phillips screwdrivers. In the junk drawer in the kitchen, the upstairs junk drawer by my night stand and a very small one jammed into the self closing hinge of my screen door after the locking pin snapped in two?
And finally, as any suburban nomad who has packed up and moved on can tell you, there is no finally, why do I have a collection of laminated newspaper ads, magazine spreads and miniature outdoor board reprints? Why, indeed?
I'm happily retired.
I haven't looked for work in the last 1000 days. And even turned it down when, unsolicited, work came looking for me. Moreover, if I were looking for work, it certainly wouldn't include laminates, from three advertising lifetimes ago, when rubyliths were cut and art directors jetted off to graveyard shift printing houses in Wisconsin to do a 3AM press check.
And so I must part with them.
A very small sample of the work I did while climbing the advertising agency ladder. Captured for posterity. And for lookie loos who know how to upsize a screengrab, your amusement. Feel free to mock the puns, the overwrought copy and the undiscovered typos.
I had imagined my daughters, both employed in advertising, to posthumously go through my files and hang on my every word. With admiration and professional pride. But they told me in advance they probably wouldn't.
Especially if Love Island or Below Deck were still on TV.
I haven't looked for work in the last 1000 days. And even turned it down when, unsolicited, work came looking for me. Moreover, if I were looking for work, it certainly wouldn't include laminates, from three advertising lifetimes ago, when rubyliths were cut and art directors jetted off to graveyard shift printing houses in Wisconsin to do a 3AM press check.
And so I must part with them.
A very small sample of the work I did while climbing the advertising agency ladder. Captured for posterity. And for lookie loos who know how to upsize a screengrab, your amusement. Feel free to mock the puns, the overwrought copy and the undiscovered typos.
I had imagined my daughters, both employed in advertising, to posthumously go through my files and hang on my every word. With admiration and professional pride. But they told me in advance they probably wouldn't.
Especially if Love Island or Below Deck were still on TV.
There is some saving grace. Before going into the giant trash bin I have parked in my driveway, Abby, who lives in Williamsburg, snagged the Brooklyn Bridge full page newspaper ad we ran in the NY Times and was featured on a Regis and Kathy show.
She's going to have it mounted and framed and hung in her tiny apartment, which in a previous life had been a small manufacturing plant that spit out wooden clothespins.
That's how life goes, I guess.
She's going to have it mounted and framed and hung in her tiny apartment, which in a previous life had been a small manufacturing plant that spit out wooden clothespins.
That's how life goes, I guess.
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