I was able to make it out to the South Bay Ducati Night in Santana Row last night. Snapped a few pictures of this nicely painted Hypermotard:
(That’s my red 848 to the right of it. And there’s another red 848 to the right of mine. Might be popular bike…)
More info about the Bay Area Ducati nights can be found here: http://norcaldoc.com/
Met with the State Farm claims representative regarding the damage on my house. If I’m extremely lucky, I might get enough money to cover a bucket of chicken and a cheap bottle of wine. Looks like I’m paying for this myself.
Assuming you have a house, that is.
Last weekend was spent in Michigan, being slave labor for an impending estate sale. Usually when I’m conned into this stuff there’s a promise of golf, great amounts of booze, gambling or firearms. Sometimes a combination. This time it was all work and no play.
To add to the misery, I get a call from my real estate agent informing me that somebody saw fit to steal a car, smash into three cars on my street, ending up planted in my porch. It’s not like the house wasn’t there when he started the rampage. I’m blaming it on GTA because it’s convenient, but now I have to get my house fixed before it goes back on the market.
Last October I decided I’d had enough of working from home and rented an office. It’s not bad, although kinda small. Despite the size and the surprisingly noisy neighbors, I’m getting a lot done in here. One problem with suddenly having an office is I never take breaks. I eat sometimes, but I’m largely hunched over a keyboard, grinding away until late at night. When I worked at home, the cats would frequently bother me, so I’d be forced into movement.
Grinding away for 14-18 hours is great for Monday-Wednesday, but when Thursday finally hits, I feel like I’ve taken a firm beating and I just have nothing else to give. So Thursday is mostly a wash. Let’s not talk about Friday. Saturday and Sunday are also spent in the office, but only half-days: 12 hours.
Holy shit I gotta get a life.
NPR is carrying the story of a astronaut Lisa Marie Nowak, who drove all night from Houston to Orlando in order to kidnap her love interest’s love interest. Ever the problem solver, Lisa wore diapers so she wouldn’t have to stop during the drive.
It’s that kind of problem solving and can-do spirit that I expect from our astronauts. Great job Lisa!
Just to prove that chaos and mayhem capture attention, everyone conveniently ignored another testicularly-challenged astronaut setting some record about something or other.
The start of Oscar season always means watching a ton of movies. Who wins and loses doesn’t really matter to me, but I have a hard time determining what’s crap and what’s worth spending $10 on. The last two weekends I’ve watched “The Last King of Scotland” and “The Departed”. Both excellent and deserving to win something. If I had to pick a favorite, it’d have to be “King”. It’s a special movie that makes you want to be an African dictator.
Next up will probably be “Little Miss Sunshine”.
The blog has languished long enough. It’s not that I haven’t wanted to post, or that I haven’t had time. Nothing really post-worthy has happened. But hey, blogs aren’t about interesting. 
Blogs are about the mundane.
And I have a lot of mundane.
I love the smell of ballots in the morning. For this election, I decided to vote for women. I try to change it up each time. Last time I voted for candidates with last names ending in a vowel. Failing that, I voted for the candidate with a name that most reminded me of a tropical fruit.
My dad gives me a hard time about how I select the candidates that I’ll bless with my vote. I don’t think it matters who I vote for. If Republicans hold power, we don’t get anything cool like stem cell smoothies. If by some chance the Democrats seize power, I’m going to be taxed into the Stone Age. No matter who wins, we lose.
How can a country throw off the yoke of communism only to vote for a fucking socialist?
Records for low turnout. Who’s surprised?
So I’ve been a bit of an insensitive lout these last few weeks. I closed on my house and have been wrapped up in trying to finish the work on it to get it back on the market. Electricians and painters are going to be working today and over the next week. Also have a carpenter coming in to redo the master bedroom closet.
On top of my other projects, I’m all ahead full. However, I try to find time to browse Flickr. The new favorite tag has to be foodporn.
Office safe. Bring a napkin.
iBooks should be issued as survival gear. They’re more reliable at catching fire than sterno.
2 AM hits and I’m just hitting my stride. Armed with vodka on the rocks, I can churn code or write until the wee hours until I finally pass out next to my girlfriend who rises at 5:whatthefuckever AM. But not this week.
No, this week I’ve been racking out around 11 PM so I can get more out of my mornings. And that’s been enlightening. Get up around 7ish, shower, make some coffee. Start work. Then the phone calls roll in. And the emails. And instant messages. Finally, the cats need attention. Clocking maybe 60 minutes of work in 4 hours, I feel like I’m back working for The Man again.
And it’s been this week that I remember why I do my best work at night: to get away from people.
Paul McCartney and Heather Mills are splitting up. They claim it’s because they don’t have a private life. I think she just wants a burger.1
1. For those that don’t know, McCartney is a vegetarian. Or vegan. Whatever. He’s a pussy.
Walking to Cafe Sushi last week, we were entertained by the Walgreens manager wrestling a woman to the ground. She’d apparently stolen something and threatened him with a needle.
The entire spectacle was especially fun for the southsider that joined us for the sushi expedition. She claimed that such things don’t happen in Sox-land, but having been to 87th and Western, I have to call bullshit.
Either through combat or drinking, Old Town is always fun.
My favorite grocery store near me has to be the Dominck’s on Clybourne, near Costco and Menard’s. It’s big, clean and the food looks great. The wealth of attractive women doesn’t hurt, but that’s a different post.
Leaving Dominick’s with a few bags of gear, a very excited guy tried to sell me a home theater. Out of the back of his SUV. Nevermind the legality of it - who’s going to the grocery store with a few hudred bucks to buy stolen merch? Jackass. I told him to put it on Craig’s List. Maybe he’s dumb enough to try it.
I’m in DC again for another project that finished up Thursday night. At one point during the wrap-up, I needed a break to get out of the heat and visited a nearby Burger King. (Nothing else around. Piss off.) Being a metro ‘King, this location had a basement for additional seating. The basement was also a few degrees cooler, so I headed downstairs.
Walking down the stairs I spotted a woman in red lingerie with a curling iron. Curling her hair. In Burger King. “Lingerie” might be a bit strong. Red pants of some sort, but her top was see-through. And she was well past her prime, which is to say the girls were well on their way to her navel.
I don’t have a problem with anybody trying to earn a living. Rent has to be paid, and that crack ain’t free. But I was understandably shocked to see the same ho walking into my event with her john for the evening. Even the cops working security took a second glance.
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09 9th, 2008| 
