THE AUTHORING AUCTIONEER

For nearly three years now, I have been one half of a very satisfying, loving, and all-in-all terrific domestic partnership with a very lovely woman.  If two people were ever fated to spend the rest of their lives together, surely they are Niki and I.  However, until we created our blissful home together, I never realized how forgetful I am and how many things are a direct result of my shortcomings.  In other words, I never understood how many things are my fault…

Armed with this new self-knowledge, I embarked upon a journey of reflection about all those moments at work when I feel that particular persons are or were being ignorant, dumb, or unreasonable.  Some of these episodes of angst occur repeatedly, while others have been unique.  Either way, after looking back, I now understand that it’s all my fault.  Indeed, I should not expect the masses to accommodate my weakness of mind and ability.  Rather, I should strive to improve myself so that I can make this existence a better experience for all of those with whom I interact.

For example, when a person calls my auction gallery to describe items that he or she possesses and wishes to sell, I should not expect that person to be able to answer any of the following questions:

• What color is the item?
• Where did you acquire it?
• How long have you had it?
• For how much are you hoping to sell it?
• Is it damaged?

Such a fool I have been, expecting to receive responses to such boggling queries.  Yet, they are nothing compared to the question I always ask when attempting to make an appointment to see whatever merchandise has been described.  Yes, after qualifying the caller, if I feel that his or her items warrant a field trip for closer inspection, I will ask, “And where are these items located?”  Many times, I will be given an address, which is the answer I am looking for.  But sometimes–perhaps ten to twenty percent of the time–my inability to communicate properly produces one of the following answers to “where are these items located?”

• At my house.
• In my garage.
• At my parents’  house.
• Oh, okay…

Totally my fault, I know, and I am working hard to fix it.  I also know that I should never, ever expect people to understand:

• That my father is not my brother, even after I call him my father.
• That even after it is understood that Dad is my father, that I am not five to ten years younger than him.
• That Carlo really is my brother.
• That just because Dad, Carlo, and I are not at the gallery at 11AM on a Tuesday, that we are not at the casino feeling up showgirls and two-fisting cocktails.
• And that auction gnomes don’t really exist.

So I beg the public’s patience.  I have seen the light and I am embracing it.  Now that I know so many things are my fault, I hope and I can forgive myself, strive for improvement, and stop criticizing those handful of people who refuse to read my brightly colored signs, who smell like a garbage can full of used diapers, and who show up at my gallery drunk off their asses trying to sell me their belt buckles.  Because it’s all my fault.  I must learn acceptance of the ignorant, compassion for the putrid, and tolerance for the inebriated.  I know that with time I can become a better person.

And now a Muppet Classical Music Moment…