Clunksy Fanderbust

Being a Program Manager is not at all the direction I intended to go with my career. Basically, it is my job to make sure other people understand what they need to do, that they do it on time and within a certain budget. I flag the risks, plan out resources and schedules and problem solve all day long. For those of you who know me well, you can attest that it is the mother of all ironies that this is my job.
What does make sense is that I ended up doing this job in a creative industry. I am an artist managing other artists. I generally enjoy being around them. We have a whole variety of characters that make my day fun.
I have been fortunate enough to forge a friendship with my cube mate, Matt. Together Matt and I have created a nice area for people to come by chat, bitch, gossip, whatever. We have the typical extra wide cube- his computer and files in one corner and mine in the other. Behind us are offices and conference rooms. But there is also a large, exposed wood beam right smack in the middle of the walk way between our desk and the offices parallel to us. To create a cozy environment, and fire hazard, we have put a 4 foot tall file cabinet next to the pole with a peace lily and my "Irony Is Not Dead" cross stitch (thank you Rebecca) on top. In front of the cabinet is a yellow ottoman large enough for two people to sit on. Next to the ottoman is (or rather was) a standing, oscillating fan for those random heat waves we've been experiencing (I think I smell global warming!). Between my side of the desk and his we have two small potted plants and my "WTF?" cross stitch (thank you again Rebecca).
Yesterday I was working away listening to my iPod, oblivious to the people running back and forth behind me. I heard a commotion of sorts, I glanced back and saw Mr. Moxie Wanderlust, one of the designers, walking quickly away. Yes, you read his name name right. Moxie Wanderlust. I did not pay any mind to him or the noise and went back to work. About 20 minutes later Matt came over, yelped and tapped me on the shoulder. "Who did this!? Who broke our fan!?" I looked down on our ottoman, and snapped in half, with a post-it reading I've fallen and I can't get up, was our fan. I had to laugh. I was able to deduce that Mr. Wanderlust was the culprit. I do not know how fast he was going to hit the fan with such force that the stand snapped clean in half. What I do know is that office roaming was without moxie.
He is now been officially renamed Clunksy Fanderbust.