Penultimate Day

Working on the punch list. No one messes with me, show opens tomorrow night. I've slipped into the role of bartender at these openings. What you might call the default bartender. Meet and greet. I'll enjoy it, despite the bitching and moaning. Just hate getting home after dark. Must remember to pick up a fifty pound sack of "Old Yeller" dog food, fed the dog a can of beans tonight. She liked them. She'll eat anything. Went down the creek this morning, and in the other way this afternoon. The other way is over a mile further, but faster and less crooked. On the way out this morning, though, I didn't pass a single car, seven and a half miles. Lovely drive, cooler, windows down, smelling the end of summer. The punch list, before you open a show, is a very interesting thing. Dozens of discreet tasks that really need to be done before you open the doors. This is part of my job description, and I take the job seriously. Hammer away at the list, and we are just about ready, another one under my belt, I'm sure we can finish tomorrow. I shouldn't have doubted the kid, but I hate waiting until the last minute. I have the thought that my writing is coded, not with any intent of mine, but there might be another text. Here's the exercise. You must place two screws in a perfect line in three space. Fucking plaster wall. Igmorphoz into something hard to deny. Did I mention that I'm tired of shows? You and your breath-list, is closer to the point.