How I rejected an $1,800.00 Paul McCobb Desk

You know, I'm starting to hate Saturdays as much as I hate Sundays.

It's pretty well known that I loathe Sundays, because they're the day when I wake up at 1:00 p.m. convinced that someone has strapped me into a gyroscope and I'm hurdling through time and space at herky-jerky angles.

And also I have to pee. And also I have heartburn. And also I'm sweating. And also I know that I have mere hours before I have to be a functional human being before I get chained back to my desk to fight with assholes. And also, I'm pissed that I've slept through Sausage McBiscuit with Egg time at McDonald's.

Until recently, I used to be a "stay-inner" on Friday nights, because my job was so soul-crushing, that I simply could not imagine going balls-to-the-wall on Friday nights, instead preferring to cozy up on my busted Futon and watch Most Haunted, and then pass the fuck out.

Not so anymore.

Now, the allure of getting tanked with my hipster, too-cool-for-me-why-are-you-even-my-friends friends is too much, and I go out on Friday nights as well.

As I have nary a modicum of self-control where liquor (OR BISCUITS OR SAUSAGE!) is involved, this results in my spending Shabbat, not resting and reflecting on a hard week, but sucking at Grey Goose's silver teat with fervent urgency.

Which, obviously, results in waking up at 9:00 a.m. on Saturdays (involuntarily) wishing for sweet, sweet death, as I have only slept for four or five hours, and will doubtless not get back to sleep.

In short, I'm an alcoholic, but not the fun, functional kind, rather, the kind that actually still suffers hangovers.

But I digress.

Today was a shitty, rainy, awful day. So I decided I was going to skulk through mid-century furniture stores to see if I could find an overpriced piece of furniture that I could drill through the back of, and use as my electronics console...

Well, I searched high and low, and found nothing.

Except this:



I wandered into an unassuming antique store, and was practically smacked in the face by this exact desk (not the one in the picture... but... the same desk.) It was designed by Paul McCobb, of the Planner Group in the 1950s. It's an iconic piece of furniture, and... yeah.

I immediately knew it was a McCobb piece, because I'm a fucking genius. It was in mint condition, a bright honey color, and practically singing to me "SuuuuuuuuuuperBeeeee... Buyyyyy meeee!"

I mean, I already have a desk, but I'd hurl my desk off the balcony to have this piece of art in my house. As I never think anyone else in the world is as smart as I am, I decided the shopkeeper must have no idea what kind of desk it was, and, with a pokerface asked, "Hey, how much is that desk in the front?"

(Inside, I was jumping up and down and crowing that if it was less than $800.00 I was going to buy it and figure out logistics some other time when I wasn't so mercilessly hungover.)

My heart sank when the lady said, "Oh, the McCobb Desk? We just got that in today. $1,800.00."

Fuck.

"Whaaaa?! $1,800.00?!"

"Well, it's actually not a bad price for that piece."

(I knew it wasn't a bad price for that, but it CERTAINLY wasn't the best price I'd ever seen for that desk... I was just counting on everyone else in the world's ignorance to let me pick up an iconic piece of mid-century design for a song.)

And so, I left. But not after rubbing the wood lovingly one last time...

And imagining that having that desk in my room would make my life complete.

God, this is a boring and pointless post.