Just sitting here, waiting for a virus check to finish up. Comp's acting all funky, locking up and refusing to run pages correctly. Very frustrating for the Northwestern Billyhank.
Nice day here in Jet City. Rode the bike home through a sunny 80-degree afternoon, weaving through a thousand, thousand people clogging up the Gilman trail, the sidewalks around Lake Union, the roads of Sand Point. Sweated my fat ass off, but that's nothing new, is it? Got some of the headache-inducing shit out of the shop so work won't, hopefully, feel quite so threatening every morning. Although now I'm on to working out the quarterly taxes, which, goddammit, seems to go WAY past the responsibilities of your average production manager. I hate figuring out my own fucking taxes, fer pity's sake.
Watching AMERICAN CHOPPER, kind of, out of the corner of my eye while I'm typing. I like this show not 'cause the bikes are cool (quite honestly, I'd rather be behind the wheel of a clapped-out '83 IROC than astride an OCC chopper), but because everybody, I mean EVERYBODY, is reading off cue cards for all of the fill-in-the-narrative-gap voiceovers. Everyone; the guys in the shop, their painter kid, the people building frames for 'em out in Michigan or wherever; truck drivers dropping off parts. It's cracking me up, the deadpan delivery, the extraordinary reliance on cliche to get through the simplest of speeches. I'm still curious as to whether or not someone's writing for them, but tonight Vinnie gave the same speech about powdercoat ("I like the look of powdercoat, but the problem is, it makes things thicker. And for some reason, this time it was even thicker than usual") that I've heard three times before about why they were having problems putting together a bike, which makes me think he's just coming up with this shit on his own. Even the laziest, slackass writer has a little more variety than that.
Admittedly, it's gotta be a fairly difficult thing, putting together a motorcycle out of a few stock parts and a lot of welded stock, but if you can't run a bolt into a hole that YOU measured, drilled & tapped, it doesn't mean that you've got a difficult job, it just means that you fucked up. Admit that you fucked up and get on with your shit. And, really, considering how much shit I've fucked up in a professional fashion lately, I know of what I speak. It sucks to be wrong, but it's worse to be a sniveling, craven cowardly excuse-making bitch.
Right, that's it kiddos. I think there's a story or two to post, but that's it for the personal jazz. Enjoy thyselves and try not to fuck with anybody smaller than you. 'Cause, really, where's the goddamned challenge in that?
p.s. Hey, any of you regulars, all three of you, anybody want to see a redesign? I've been fucking with the template a bit lately and I'm thinking it might be time to just bust down the old site and stick up a new one. Any thoughts?
Nice day here in Jet City. Rode the bike home through a sunny 80-degree afternoon, weaving through a thousand, thousand people clogging up the Gilman trail, the sidewalks around Lake Union, the roads of Sand Point. Sweated my fat ass off, but that's nothing new, is it? Got some of the headache-inducing shit out of the shop so work won't, hopefully, feel quite so threatening every morning. Although now I'm on to working out the quarterly taxes, which, goddammit, seems to go WAY past the responsibilities of your average production manager. I hate figuring out my own fucking taxes, fer pity's sake.
Watching AMERICAN CHOPPER, kind of, out of the corner of my eye while I'm typing. I like this show not 'cause the bikes are cool (quite honestly, I'd rather be behind the wheel of a clapped-out '83 IROC than astride an OCC chopper), but because everybody, I mean EVERYBODY, is reading off cue cards for all of the fill-in-the-narrative-gap voiceovers. Everyone; the guys in the shop, their painter kid, the people building frames for 'em out in Michigan or wherever; truck drivers dropping off parts. It's cracking me up, the deadpan delivery, the extraordinary reliance on cliche to get through the simplest of speeches. I'm still curious as to whether or not someone's writing for them, but tonight Vinnie gave the same speech about powdercoat ("I like the look of powdercoat, but the problem is, it makes things thicker. And for some reason, this time it was even thicker than usual") that I've heard three times before about why they were having problems putting together a bike, which makes me think he's just coming up with this shit on his own. Even the laziest, slackass writer has a little more variety than that.
Admittedly, it's gotta be a fairly difficult thing, putting together a motorcycle out of a few stock parts and a lot of welded stock, but if you can't run a bolt into a hole that YOU measured, drilled & tapped, it doesn't mean that you've got a difficult job, it just means that you fucked up. Admit that you fucked up and get on with your shit. And, really, considering how much shit I've fucked up in a professional fashion lately, I know of what I speak. It sucks to be wrong, but it's worse to be a sniveling, craven cowardly excuse-making bitch.
Right, that's it kiddos. I think there's a story or two to post, but that's it for the personal jazz. Enjoy thyselves and try not to fuck with anybody smaller than you. 'Cause, really, where's the goddamned challenge in that?
p.s. Hey, any of you regulars, all three of you, anybody want to see a redesign? I've been fucking with the template a bit lately and I'm thinking it might be time to just bust down the old site and stick up a new one. Any thoughts?
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