My big drive up the coast tomorrow is now off.
In a sense, I'm relieved. Four days of that particular scene is three more than I can take. It would have set me back some serious money, too, even though major expenses would have been covered.
But I am also furious. Once again, it's a tale of promises, agreements and simple do-right behavior gone wrong. I bitterly resent the actions -- or, better, inactions -- of fuckweasels having so much influence over what I can and can't do.
Still, it frees me from having D. constantly yammering about stories we could do that are virtually impossible to sell, take more time than they are worth (at least for me; as photographer, he's done in a couple of hours) or simply bore me to tears.
But I would have loved to get out of here for the weekend.
I should have known. Every time the pleasure/pain ratio approaches parity, something goes wrong.
Now I can only hope someone else does something to piss me off. I need to explode at somebody. And those whom I would most like to rant at have their voice-mail systems turned on.
Guess I can shampoo the carpets this weekend....
1 day ago