P.O.S.

Cold cold cold. Cold hands. Cold fingers. Cold nose.

The P.O.S. furnace died yesterday. We heard its last gasp --- probably the last time it actually turned on, it was the sound of metal bearings scraping against blackboards to the acompaniment of screeching iron. And then -- nothing.

And it's cold up here! Anyhow, this morning Plottie took the original P.O.S. motor, which had been replaced eight years ago but saved against this very occurrence, down to the plumbing and heating supply place. A few hours later a new one has been ordered, but the company that made it became another company that became another company that became the third company and that one is in Texas and it'll take several days to get here.

There's a spiffy new Lowe's down where dependable old Goodman's Lumber used to be. Plot drove into the spiffy new parking lot and walked into the spiffy new Lowe's and bought a spiffy new space heater and got it home and turned it on and the P.O.S. new space heater doesn't work either.

There is a phone number for help. Plotnik has counted "All our representatives are serving other customers. Please remain on the line" seventeen times already. He will probably have to take the P.O.S. space heater back to P.O.S. Lowe's and he's more pissed off about that than he is about the P.O.S. furnace biting it.

It's 50 degrees in the living room. The studio is warmer. It's warmer outside than inside. Sounds like dinner out and a day at the coffee house with the computer.