In which CheeseburgerBrown emphatises with overworked mules, and broaches the idea of the HuSi 500.


Don't Do What I Do

I need to rest. I am going to die. My brains have turned to mucus, and are running out my nose. My limbs ache from being folded into this chair day in, day out, for three months. I am nearing the end of my rope.

In a matter of days the support crew of the Great Stereoscopic Cavalcade will jaunt off to Tokyo for the big big debut of my 3-D movie. I will not be in attendance, partly because I am too tired/too sick/too busy to go, but mostly because nobody wanted to pay for my plane ticket.

Yes, and in the background I am juggling a multi-screen show for another Japanese auto manufacturer -- a different stream of video in a different language for each screen. I have no idea what part of the world this show is for, but I don't care. I'll be happy if I never have to look at another Japanese car as long as I live, let alone trying to figure out what to show on screen to illustrate a rear multi-link independent wishbone suspension system.

And my brother's pissed because I haven't finished the layout for his new album. It's months overdue. Everybody is waiting on me. Shit, shit, shit.

My computing infrastructure is busting at the seams. I have to move shit around everytime I want to do anything, shuffling a little space here, putting it back when I'm done, tucking files into this and that disused corner of my network to keep for a few hours until space can be found to work on them. Every time I try to render something somebody yells, "Alert! Destination volume is full. All overflow volumes are full."

So I burn a couple of DVDs, free up room, finish the render, move it, load the DVD contents back into my workstation. It's like one of those little mosaic puzzles with one tile missing, and you've got to shove around all of the other tiles one at a time to make the picture align.

And yes, it was stupid to stay up last night watching Star Wars DVDs. And yes, I knew I had bloody asked for it when I woke up this morning with a head-cold, my throat feeling like it's been used to wax a rusted car. I probably should've have drank so much homemade wine, either. The batch we imbibed wasn't quite ready for prime-time...and while the yeasty aftertaste wasn't so bad after the first glass, it's a whole different number when it's coming out of your ass in the morning. Mercy.

My weekend is booked solid. Next week is booked solid. And the week after. Then come my precious five days off. How in the name of chronic exhaustion am I going to make it until then? Fock.

Oh yeah...and do you know how I'm spending my five days off? Retraining in new software. Fun and a glass of juice, right? Fock.

I've made $13,600.00 so far this month. Too bad I owe it all to somebody else. Every red dime. Not a stitch will stick to the walls -- it all goes to stave off bankrupcy, and keep us just barely bobbing above water. Cheques come in, cheques go out, and my bank accounts maintain a stodgy equilibrium of zero.

F-O-C-K!

I am so very tired.


Schoolhouse Jamboree

I think that next summer you should all come to my house. Sure -- we'll make franks and burgers. I'm thinking we could have a Go Kart Championship...the HuSi 500. I've mentioned it to the hairy Italian lady who runs the track, and they would be willing to let us book a day for a special event. The track is just down the road from the old schoolhouse.

I mentioned it to LittleStar, asking whether she thought it would best to stay in a hotel in Toronto for most of the time, in order to be near the nexus of action. She disagreed, and figured we should just try to put up as many people as we can right here in Gilford -- we could fit a good number into the nooks and crannies of the schoolhouse itself, and a fairly large number could camp in the field if they go for that sort of thing (not everyone does -- I said, "Some geeks prefer hotels, for the control factor," and LittleStar suggested the Motel 400, a few blocks away, as a passable compromise).

We'd get some kegs, and brew up extra batches of wine (and let it mature a bit, even). We could go to the beach at the end of the road, and have a little chortle around in our pontoon boat (or even my wee sailboat, if she's seaworthy again by then). We also offer rides on the 4x4, archery and -- I don't know -- maybe wallet-making or something. Like camp.

We'll have bonfires in the evening, and show off pet tricks by day.

Folks could rent cars were that their 'druthers, but we have several vehicles here at the schoolhouse that could be used to ferry people around. I'm sure we cold arrange a kind of shuttle service to and from the airport.

Anyway, I'm thinking about it.


Bloodbath

Poor Schrodinger! I woke up the other morning and saw pools of bright, fresh blood on the porch. I noted the streaks and drips of gore painting the front door, and then trailing through the house with drips and smears. I followed the trail up into our closet, where poor Schrodinger was nursing a grisly wound.

His left forepaw had been torn open from elbow to knuckles, and the flesh was hanging around it in a loose, disturbing way, presenting a clean view of his quivering muscles, their protective membranes torn and dangling. Every time he moved a flagon of blood poured out of the wound, a major artery severed.

LittleStar bound his paw with gauze and tape, but he bit it off a few seconds after we got him into the cat carrier. We jumped in the car and sped to nearest veterinary hospital. By the time we got there the carrier was slick with blood, thick mucus welling out of the wound and gathering around Schrodinger.

He meowed plaintively, just once.

Yes, and now it's $385.00 later, and he's all patched up. He hobbles around on his bandaged leg, mewling and falling over as he tries to put weight on it. It's really quite pathetic. I try to massage an antibiotic pill down his throat but he keeps spitting it out, so LittleStar does it for me.

The sight of blood makes me weak in the knees. Thank goodness for LittleStar's calm head and steady hand!


All Employees Must Wash Hands

My footage has finished importing into the Media100. Now I have to sort through a few dozen car commercials, trying to find cuts I can swipe for my show. I should've stopped typing five minutes ago, and gotten back down to work.

Here I go. Wrapping it up. The diary is done. I'm practically already working again.

...Here I go. Any second now.

Fock!