Was a new day yesterday...an old day now.

I had another tough show, made much tougher by my own negligence and stupidity. I loaded in to Santa Barbara on Wednesday around noon. It was a hard drive up, over five hours in traffic. I stopped at a client's to look at a painting, which I took on consignment but ultimately failed to sell.

I woke up to a text alert in the middle of the night from my bank, dangerously low balance. What? There should have been close to ten grand in the account. It turns out that somebody held a big check for about three months, one that I had assumed, shitty bookkeeper that I am, had been cashed. Why they held it I don't know? Turns out I bounced a couple grand in checks too. The bottom had officially fell out.

I was underwater and not breathing oxygen on any level. Feelings of failure and melancholy coursed through my being, what the fuck could I do? What a loser. Serious existential dread.

I texted my sister my sos. She put some money in the account that night. Thank god for her. Alyssa fronted me until the end of the show. Thank you both so much.

The show itself was slow. I had a decent Friday, no Saturday and thankfully sold better on Sunday but it was very weak. Still I managed to bring my balance up to a near respectable level, just not nearly enough. These three shows were supposed to provide me with a cushion. Guess again.

ot of the big time buyers didn't show, lack of interest, rain falling, post election angst or joy, I don't know? 

I do know that it was my last show of the year with the exception of the flea market in a couple weeks and I have one course of action left, keep grinding.

I did have a real estate billionaire who has bought from me before decide to see if I would bark like a dog again, offered me a third of my list prices on a painting and silver. Way under cost.

I declined the shopping center magnate as gracefully as I could. Perhaps I should have taken the money?

He likes to watch me break. It is plainly fun for him.

Every time we do manage to do business I feel like I need to take a bath to rid myself of the toxic grunge and shame, it is plainly sport for him and survival for me. Glad to give him his kicks.

Oh well, it is the life I have chosen and it has done well for me, for the most part. But it is not like there is a retirement plan or anything and I have seen more collecting fads come and go in my lifetime than I care to list. I have always been the young buck in the game and then you hit a point where you are one of the older lions and wonder, what the fuck happened?  

Where did it go? Most of my comrades have given up the ghost long ago and got into something else. A few of us stuck around and waited for the promised comet to provide us with the fated epilogue, we are apparently the slow learners in the group.

Some people I know managed to work the gig until they were eighty or so before giving it up, I don't think I can go much past seventy five. Give it eight more years and cash out whatever chips are still cashable if I make it that long.

The drive is killing me. Three shows in four weeks plus a trip to the flea in Long Beach. Bad motels, too much meat and not enough salad or exercise. My feet and ankles are sore from pushing the pedals. My legs are swollen from too much sit time around the booth.  My brain is tired from talking and trying to sell. I just unloaded my truck this morning with its three shows of contents and I feel whipped.

I sold mostly cheap stuff this show. I think I am going to come to the next one with junk, people seem to be intimidated by prices and just looking for a bit of color, regardless of pedigree. Fine, I can do that too. Tired of being a museum. Tired of being a chump.

Will try to resuscitate the magic tomorrow, put the shop back together. Supposedly it is a new day.