I've never been one to dig descending into the basement.
Well, not since I printed art down in the darkroom amongst the doom, gloom, spider webs.
In the basement is where all the terrifying mechanicals hang, all the things that mysteriously work, do not go bump (one hopes) in day or night, and where there all sorts of things that can go completely wrong.
Like the sump pump.
Speaking of such, as well as the descending aversion, Yours Truly has been skipping down the stairs at a few moments to see if the duct tape is holding, if the lifetime-warrantied sump pump is still working, and to marvel at my woman of the new milennium pluck.
Brucey called this morning as I was en route to the John Edwards (yes, as in former running mate of the John Kerry, spouse of ketchup heiress) gig at the big U to ask if the above problem (the sump pump, not the loss of the Johns) had been fixed.
Uhhh, YEAH, I kind of snarked, DAYS ago.
John Edwards punched out fun facts. And I noted that he is a big-time Blinker.
YT also found herself today going through what was a Being John Malkovich door out of the undergrad library at the big U to walk out onto a roof to photograph some solar panels.
Can You say you walked on a rooftop laden with solar panels.
I thought not.
I came back in the BJM door and asked someone nearby if I was very tan as the Middling City sun beat down upon me and about a thousand panels converting sun molecules into power molecules.
It's like what happens in the basements of the world - best left to experts.
Ours is just to consume, pay, shoot.

Being Love.