Being ‘between jobs’ is of course a euphemism for unemployment, but the wonderfulness about having no job is having no master, too.
If you’ve got the time, and you’ve got the resources, financial and otherwise, you can do pretty amazing things once you’ve got no other distractions for your passions. But passions don’t keep the electricity on.
Well, I’ve got distractions now, and my avocations no longer can be my vocation, so attempts to find out, for example, the number of active cranes in Seattle, and where they’re at over time, are no longer a feasible enterprise. When you’re a reporter at a newspaper, again for example, your job full-time is to pester people into telling you the things you want to know or else getting to print the dreaded ‘did not return multiple calls by press time’ statement.
That is not the case now, and while I’m paying rent, I can’t even let the threat of consistent nagging motivate the put-upon civil servants tasked with responding to so many public information requests. This is a shame, although perhaps I never could have turned the information turned over to me into something immediately useful and graspable, and therefore viral in the shallowest, most social immediate sense, but whatever.
Ubi pus, ibi evacua.
There’s always unpleasant things that need brought out into the open, and while numbers are the most trustworthy, smells are the most evocative.
(Fear not, and carry a big stick.)