The worst thing any man can ever do is own a pickup truck and have friends who are musicians. You will always be called when one of them has to move a piano. And when you show up, 9 times out of 10, it will be you and your truck, that one musician friend, and the source of your future hernia surgery.
When a friend asked me to help him move, I said yes only because he didn't own a piano. He moved into an old house that had a third floor, where he would be living. And it had a staircase designed for when Americans were about 5' 7" tall and weighed 120 pounds,, not 6' 4" and 250.
I joked with him that the only reason I said yes was because he didn't have a piano.
"But I just bought one," he said. "We have to go pick it up."
Turns out the location of the piano was a verifiable crack den, where we had to step over people so stoned and glassy-eyed, I thought they were in the first stages of decomposition. Thankfully, a few nonzombies there helped us remove the piano.
Twenty minutes of driving, and three hours of two guys attempting to move a piano up three floors of that staircase, including the stairs leading into the house, and I got a cold beer for it.
I said no to every request after that.
As for cold, I moved a piano on a day that set a record low for Cincinnati for that date, somewhere around -20 F. So, been there, done that too.
Love the sound of a piano. Hate the weight of one.
I throughly enjoyed this post.
But possibly less so if you'd have been there trying to move the darn thing, ha ha. That's a one-time event.
I can only imagine the words that may have been said. Hope you enjoy this piano for years to come!
The worst thing any man can ever do is own a pickup truck and have friends who are musicians. You will always be called when one of them has to move a piano. And when you show up, 9 times out of 10, it will be you and your truck, that one musician friend, and the source of your future hernia surgery.
When a friend asked me to help him move, I said yes only because he didn't own a piano. He moved into an old house that had a third floor, where he would be living. And it had a staircase designed for when Americans were about 5' 7" tall and weighed 120 pounds,, not 6' 4" and 250.
I joked with him that the only reason I said yes was because he didn't have a piano.
"But I just bought one," he said. "We have to go pick it up."
Turns out the location of the piano was a verifiable crack den, where we had to step over people so stoned and glassy-eyed, I thought they were in the first stages of decomposition. Thankfully, a few nonzombies there helped us remove the piano.
Twenty minutes of driving, and three hours of two guys attempting to move a piano up three floors of that staircase, including the stairs leading into the house, and I got a cold beer for it.
I said no to every request after that.
As for cold, I moved a piano on a day that set a record low for Cincinnati for that date, somewhere around -20 F. So, been there, done that too.
Love the sound of a piano. Hate the weight of one.