We Felida-ites have been dutifully driving into the turn lane and back on our main drag for maybe a month now so as to miss a Qwest truck and his little maintenance tent seemingly permanently squatting there in the bicycle lane.
I hadn't really thought about how many times I have had to go around him until today. Then I started considering what the hell could be so broken that they have not been able to fix in three weeks.
I like to picture a guy in the wet, cold little maintenance tent, holding two wires together, waiting and waiting for his order for a wire-holder-together piece to come through the Automatic Qwest Red-Tape-A-Tronic 2000 (in need of an upgrade to 2010, which actually consists of a new number decal).
A second, more probable guess is that it is a CIA listening post, using Qwest materials, which would be brilliant, as common lore has it that Qwest was the only big telephone company to turn down the CIA's offer to help them with their, um, information storage (We'll just take it over here for a minute first. Be right back.)
If I can keep these sentence lengths up, I will be well on my way to junior college-level blogging. Cross your fingers.
In the meantime, as I fritter away the cold, wet afternoon thinking Bush-league paranoia thoughts, and considering tiling the hallway and kitchen as an alternative to a February vacation, my son is racing by the beach in Tasmania, swapping stories late into the night in a youth hostel, and traveling back to New Zealand to meet friends who seem a little too eager to drink to excess with him.
Just remember, Kiwi trouble makers: damage my American son and I will report you to the CIA. And Dick Cheney. There seems to be a hot line just down the street.