So Steve calls me in a panic last night. “Kermit!”, ejaculates Steve, “The magazines aren’t here! You gotta call the freight company or call the printers to call the freight company to find the magazines!!!”
I don’t know how Steve pronounced three exclamation points – but trust me – he did. I told him to calm down and check storage and our booth area. His phone loses the connection. The union guys were supposed to actually deliver everything to our booth – yet Steve didn’t check that first.
So I track down the printers phone number. Call, leave a message because it’s after business hours, then I email our contact at the printer.
During all this, Steve calls again, “I found them!”, he exclaims while somehow sweating through the phone, “The union guys dumped them in the boneyard.”
I don’t really want to know if the convention center is actually built on an ancient graveyard, so I just tell him that’s good that he found them.
I spend the next hour apologizing to the printer for panicking them and reassuring them that the magazines really arrived.
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