It's a beautiful day -- sunny skies, sixty-oh-my-Heavens-degrees outside. The wind has mostly died down and by golly, I got my motor scooter started up without too much drama.
But I'm not riding. Didn't go to the range, either, and I'm overdue. About 1630 Friday, the tech who normally works 0500 - 1300 on Saturday called in sick. There were three of us who could fill in; one was off, thanks to the rotating-overtime we all work that results in an occasional three-day weekend (preceded by a 1-day weekend, so it's no prize). The next had an appointment. And the third? The third was me.
So I cut out early, and was promised I'd only need to work until 1000. That'd get me home in time for nice, fresh donuts and a cuppa joe, and leave a little extra to run to the range, possibly on my scooter, even after I went to the supermarket and did a load of laundry. Yay, me, all that and OT pay, too!
Yeah, no. Along about 1001, I'm slouching off towards Babylon with my briefcase and lunchbox, fixin' to ride the rough beast* northward, when the center came unpinned and the falcon† spun out, deaf: a couple of Production people asked me just when I thought I would have the spare set of monitors set up, because they needed to check the lighting and such on the backup stretch of green wall.
This was all news to me and I admitted as much, which confused them. Did I not know the main greenscreen wall was being sanded, spackled and painted? (This in a room with I don't know, nearly a million dollars of sensitive optics and electronics. "Not my circus. Not my monkeys.") Nope. I started in on that project, which took right around 2 and a half hours of high-speed motion, fixed it up and arrived home punchy and frazzled.
But consolation, the donut place is usually open 'til 1400, so I was good, right? Yum, tasty-- CLOSED. Sorry, We Sold Out Early.
Sheesh. I did laundry while watching TV,‡ then at least started my motorscooter, warmed it up, sat in the saddle and thought happy thoughts.
Tomorrow is predicted to be as much as twenty degrees colder.
* This is all a series of skewed poetical references, not random tired Jabberwocky. Well, it's that, too.
† Actually, it's an an older RX300. Alas, metaphor! Oops, here come Yeats and he does not look best pleased.
‡ HBO's True Detective, Season One. This is very much not family fare but it's utterly brilliant TV -- H. P. Lovecraft and Dashiell Hammet, as filmed by the producer and crew of Homicide: Life On The Street and directed by Stanley Kubrick. Seriously, it's that good. But you'll need a thick skin.
T. R. MCELROY'S STREAMLINED TELEGRAPH KEYS
1 year ago