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.
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
You know, for 40 bucks...
...I think I would be willing to gnaw my own B-flat clarinet out of an ebonywood tree trunk.
It wouldn't have been quite so bad, except it started out that it was going to be $12. Then when I called yesterday, ("Oh, no, sir--we'll have it back to her next Monday, unless you want to come get it...") it had somehow risen to $30.
And when I went in just now?
I did get a very firm noncommittal from the guy at the counter (not the repairman, who was off somewhere stealing other kids's tubas or flutes or oboes) that the next time the silly thing (the clarinet, not the repairman) needed to be treated to unobtanium inserts or whatever, that a) the band director would be informed by the repairman himself, so Oldest wouldn't get misdirected blame and bad mojo; b) that the repair time would be stated explicitly so everyone knows how long it's gonna take; and c) that a firm price be established prior to leaving with the instrument.
I could see these admonitions float clear from one side of the guy's head to the other, where they fell out of his earhole, off his shoulder, then into a small pile in the floor.
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