Life in a construction zone

When the way is marred by chipped concrete and raggedy strips of turf strung out like a sun-dried garden hose, there is nothing left but for to weep.

Lament for the earth.

Rickety steel fence, smushed upended orange cones and little metal bits broken off the teethy bucket of the backhoe impede progress.

Progress is essential.

Only one real way out of this administration building without a roundtrip circuit of the bushy periphery. The demolishers in their hardhats look up at my window and make their plans to put the jet-powered generator under my lookout.

Am I not a minion of The Man? Do I not deserve favorable preferential undocumented rediculous treatment?

The rain will come today and add one more day to unheaval. The hardhat men will cower in their utility truck, drink coffee, eat pork rinds, wear their flip-flops and listen to Dokken to pass the time -- wondering all the while whether they will get overtime for all this.

All for a visitor center.