Not in the clamor of the crowded street, not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, but in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
REDIRECT ALERT! (Scroll down past this mess if you're trying to read an archived post. Thanks. No, really, thanks.)
Due to my inability to control my temper and complacently accept continued silliness with not-quite-as-reliable-as-it-ought-to-be Blogger/Blogspot, your beloved Possumblog will now waddle across the Information Dirt Road and park its prehensile tail at http://possumblog.mu.nu.
This site will remain in place as a backup in case Munuvia gets hit by a bus or something, but I don't think they have as much trouble with this as some places do. ::cough::blogspot::cough:: So click here and adjust your links. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it's one of those things.
Thursday, February 12, 2004
Here’s you a ding-derned story!
Oh, I'm just joking, it’s not really that bad. As a good bureaucrat, I have become comfortable in the role of mushroom (you know, as in, “keep ‘em in the dark and feed ‘em manure”), so getting a buttload of stuff dumped on me that I have NO idea about, nor any inkling about what decisions have already been made about, nor any clue about to whom I am to report, nor what the schedule is--aside from it being INCREDIBLY URGENT--is not really that big of a deal. You get your tape measure, your clipboard, your pencil, your calculator, and get to work.
We’re doing a bit of freshening up on an old storefront canopy project done 25 years ago--at the time, it was probably pretty rad and hip, but time, pigeons, and the elements are not kind to exposed steel framing and translucent plastic panels.
[We interrupt this story for something almost entirely unrelated: At the Bad Place where I used to work, one of the other building tenants had made a small sign and put it in the little front patio area. It said, “Do Not Feed The PIGONS!” Every time I saw that sign, all I could think of was, “We must let pigons be pigons.” And it just made me giggle like a madman, even though it’s not that funny.]
Anyway, back to what I was doing--we’re going to take off the plastic, sandblast everything in sight, paint, new metal roofing, new lights, and run away. But before that, I had to go and do a rough estimate of how much it’s going to cost, which is ALWAYS fraught with peril--too much, and everyone says to forget it because it’s too ‘spensive, not enough and everyone wonders why you’re such a friggin’ idiot. And I had to get it done NOW. So I did. (One of the benefits of also having a degree in building construction is learning how to do estimating. And how to be creative on writing change orders.)
So, I went out and wandered around in the miserable wet cold looking like an awfully gooberish white guy and did some quick measuring and cogitating and hunkering and scribbling, came back and did some figuring, went to the library to look at cost data, came back and figured some more, and typed it all up and slid the finished product into my boss’s chair, being careful not to disturb the body.
NOW, it’s time to get the OTHER stuff done I am supposed to do--you know, getting the barn ready for the BIG SHOW!!
AND WISH JANIS GORE A HAPPY 47TH BIRTHDAY! (Happy birthday, Miss Janis!)
Maybe tomorrow will be a bit less hectic.
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