Holy Shit!

A twelve hour turnaround! I thought I'd not live to see the day.

It's a whole twelve hours until I go back to work and I simply have no idea what do with myself. I could read or watch television or take a walk or eat a leisurely meal or do any of the myriad of other things that regular people do between the time that they get off work one day and report to work the next.

Normally I have nine hours or less. Anything more that fourteen is practically a weekend.

And with all the things I could be doing, I decide to spend my free time blogging. I should probably question the wisdom of that.

I'm Going to Die

And when I do please do not honor my memory with a bumper sticker or a window decal.

I prefer that my legacy not be communicated through the same medium as SHIT HAPPENS, Naked Girl Mudflaps and TruckNutz.

Gravity Check

Passed my recurrency.

Four months out of practice and I still stood up the landing.

It's good to be back .

I Bought a New Truck

Three of them, actually.

I was on the phone with the freight brokerage getting the quote for our matching trio of tractor-trailers and the woman on the other end asked, "What are you going to use them for, storage, shipping or freight?"

Politely and calmly I said, "We're going to fill the containers with dry ice and vinegar and then drive the whole thing over a fifty-thousand pound pneumatic ram in an attempt to flip it end over end while on fire."

"And you need three trucks?"

"We're going to do it three times."

"There's no drop down box in the database for that."

"I should think not."


I love my job.

He Had Two Bodies in His Trunk

And he drove five hundred miles to bring them to us.

Of course, I'm freaking out because I didn't know that's what he was doing. When someone says, "We have two custom fabricated incendiary mannequins coming from out of state that were supposed to be here today," I presume that means that someone shipped them, in a box, on a truck. Y'know, logos, hand-held scanners, tracking numbers. Being the one who handles all the shipping, I'm seeing my choice gig dangle by a thread as four thousand dollars worth of SFX material fails to arrive where it needs to be. Moreover, I'm looking like a fool rather than a victim because I have no shipping data whatsoever on this pair of faux corpses that are slated to meet the business end of a flamethrower in less than two hours.

Thankfully I'm redeemed when a guy, covered in ink and skate scars and sporting a beard only slightly less bushy than mine, walks through the door and asks if this is the production office and where should he put the bodies. Of course this is after scouring the shipping logs, the label backups, the freight certificates and after saying a few unprintable things to a FedEx CSR to whom I have now written an extensive apology letter.

Everything's okay now that we have someone to set on fire and I still have a gig because hey, no blood, no foul.

Old Food Doesn't Die

I once taped down the button inside the refrigerator that turns the light on and off.

I left a note in gothic caligraphy that said, "Gone on vacation. First in twelve years. Be back next Tuesday. Regards -- the Gnome."

The humor was lost on my housemates.