Last night: after two days without sleep, my mom finally passed out. I did not. I couldn't drink myself to sleep because, if the hospital called, I would need to lucid. I didn't know if my father would be with us when we woke up.
It was a long, dark night.
No one called with news of either kind during the night, so... it was a no-news-is-no-news situation. We went to the hospital, thinking it would be more of the same.
My father was awake.
He's groggy and cannot speak. But he moves and can smile. He knows what you're saying to him, and gave a weak thumbs-up when he heard he would be able to golf again.
Daina was pleasantly surprised. She didn't say it in so many words, but I could tell they didn't expect for this to be the outcome.
Here's what happened:
On Monday, it was bad news of course... having a minor stroke is like getting shot with a minor gun. (Or an "insignificant bullet," as Werner Herzog would say). It's not exactly a paper cut. But he could talk on the phone, and lie comfortably in bed.
Thus, they weren't watching him every second on Monday night. So when he had trouble breathing, it was several minutes before a nurse noticed. It was no one's fault, just some bad luck. He was a victim of his own relatively good health. When he wasn't breathing, the oxygen was cut off from his brain. Luckily, it wasn't long enough to kill him, just knock him out.
This morning: we met with Dr. Gorman. The tests for which we'd been waiting came back.
He had a stroke in the right side of his brain stem. The flow of blood to the brain had been blocked by an obstruction. But the test didn't show anything here - whatever had caused the stroke has since moved on. There was no bleeding in his brain. The stroke affected the cerebellum, which controls the senses. From what we can tell, nothing that controls basic motor functions was damaged.
He can breathe on his own, but is still aided by the tubes. They don't want to rush it. It could come out today, or tomorrow. They still want him to get a lot of rest, hence my being home at the moment. We can only visit for limited periods.
Thanks to everyone for your prayers and support. My dad could have gone either way last night. It was 50/50. We flipped a coin... and we came up heads. I'd like to think he was aided by the good thoughts that came his way.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
My Father - What Happened, and an Update
His name is Thomas Stanley Kuciak, and he had a stroke.
As to what happened, I wasn't there - so please forgive the lack of detail - but this is what my mom's told me:
On Sunday night, my dad didn't feel well when he went to bed.
At three o'clock Monday morning, my mom woke up and found him awake and sitting in the next room. He said it was time to go to the emergency room. She dialed 911.
They got him to the hospital, which is luckily about five minutes away. He was lucid and awake, but in pain. His left arm felt strange. The doctors said he'd had a stroke.
My mom called and told me what had happened. She said he was getting tests, and would call back. Having nothing else to do, I worked until they called at about 12:30 Monday afternoon. He dialed the phone himself, with his right hand, and held the phone to his head with his left.
He said, "I feel like shit." He said something else, but his voice was slurred. That was all he could say. That was fine - I didn't want to strain him.
At the time, it seemed like a relatively minor stroke. A warning stroke, something to tell my dad he'll have to life a different way, and keep an eye on his health. It was distressing, but seemed in the moment that, after a scare, we'd be able to just move on with our lives.
I called my mom again at about seven last night. She was home. He was about the same, and the nurses said she should get some rest. She was exhausted, and I only talked to her for a couple of minutes. However, she later told me she got very little sleep.
My flight was at 9:45 this morning out of Burbank. I got in at about noon Phoenix time. Their friend Jerry picked me up. I got to the house, dropped off my stuff, and we went to the hospital.
When we arrived, he wasn't in the room. He'd been taken down for a series of tests. But we were only there for a few minutes before they brought him back.
He was unconscious.
The nursing staff got him hooked back up to the battery of machines and cleaned him up. It took several minutes, during which my mom and I sat in the corner, watching.
When they were done, Taina - the nurse - explained where we were at:
Last night at about 10:30 or so, a nurse checked on him, and he wasn't breathing. His lips were blue. They got a tube in him. He hasn't woken up since. He isn't breathing on his own.
If you call his name, his eyes flutter open. She did so, demonstrating. But the eyes don't track. There's no one home. That doesn't mean he's gone per se... he may just be too far down. The eye blink is an almost reflexive response. He didn't open his eyes when my mom or I spoke to him, though.
He clenches is left fist. Taina thought that was odd, since when he was awake, all of the discomfort had been with the left side. Ordinarily, discomfort on the left side means that's where you'll have the most trouble. But he's moving that side... and not the right. It's not good or bad, just unusual.
Right before we'd arrived, the neurologist, Dr. Gorman, had sent him to do a range of tests. They wanted to see if there was brain activity. They wanted to see if he'd had another stroke, which is possible. These things sometimes come in groups.
The thing is, no one, including the medical staff, knows anything at this point until the tests come back. We're in limbo.
What we DO know is he's now a diabetic. He also has high blood pressue. It's not dangerously high, just high.
Daina was told us the unvarnished truth: we have a 50/50 chance of keeping or losing him. There is a chance he could wake up in an hour and, after rehab, be fine. There is a chance he could wake and have suffered neurological damage. And there is a chance he won't wake up.
She was very clear... she said that, if she felt we needed to, she'd let us know that we should stay in the room. And that was not the situation. He's out, but (relatively) stable.
Until we know more, all there is... is not knowing. He may not have brain activity, and there is only blackness. Or he may be thinking, and just be too deep in the dream to communicate.
I'll post again as soon as we have information.
As to what happened, I wasn't there - so please forgive the lack of detail - but this is what my mom's told me:
On Sunday night, my dad didn't feel well when he went to bed.
At three o'clock Monday morning, my mom woke up and found him awake and sitting in the next room. He said it was time to go to the emergency room. She dialed 911.
They got him to the hospital, which is luckily about five minutes away. He was lucid and awake, but in pain. His left arm felt strange. The doctors said he'd had a stroke.
My mom called and told me what had happened. She said he was getting tests, and would call back. Having nothing else to do, I worked until they called at about 12:30 Monday afternoon. He dialed the phone himself, with his right hand, and held the phone to his head with his left.
He said, "I feel like shit." He said something else, but his voice was slurred. That was all he could say. That was fine - I didn't want to strain him.
At the time, it seemed like a relatively minor stroke. A warning stroke, something to tell my dad he'll have to life a different way, and keep an eye on his health. It was distressing, but seemed in the moment that, after a scare, we'd be able to just move on with our lives.
I called my mom again at about seven last night. She was home. He was about the same, and the nurses said she should get some rest. She was exhausted, and I only talked to her for a couple of minutes. However, she later told me she got very little sleep.
My flight was at 9:45 this morning out of Burbank. I got in at about noon Phoenix time. Their friend Jerry picked me up. I got to the house, dropped off my stuff, and we went to the hospital.
When we arrived, he wasn't in the room. He'd been taken down for a series of tests. But we were only there for a few minutes before they brought him back.
He was unconscious.
The nursing staff got him hooked back up to the battery of machines and cleaned him up. It took several minutes, during which my mom and I sat in the corner, watching.
When they were done, Taina - the nurse - explained where we were at:
Last night at about 10:30 or so, a nurse checked on him, and he wasn't breathing. His lips were blue. They got a tube in him. He hasn't woken up since. He isn't breathing on his own.
If you call his name, his eyes flutter open. She did so, demonstrating. But the eyes don't track. There's no one home. That doesn't mean he's gone per se... he may just be too far down. The eye blink is an almost reflexive response. He didn't open his eyes when my mom or I spoke to him, though.
He clenches is left fist. Taina thought that was odd, since when he was awake, all of the discomfort had been with the left side. Ordinarily, discomfort on the left side means that's where you'll have the most trouble. But he's moving that side... and not the right. It's not good or bad, just unusual.
Right before we'd arrived, the neurologist, Dr. Gorman, had sent him to do a range of tests. They wanted to see if there was brain activity. They wanted to see if he'd had another stroke, which is possible. These things sometimes come in groups.
The thing is, no one, including the medical staff, knows anything at this point until the tests come back. We're in limbo.
What we DO know is he's now a diabetic. He also has high blood pressue. It's not dangerously high, just high.
Daina was told us the unvarnished truth: we have a 50/50 chance of keeping or losing him. There is a chance he could wake up in an hour and, after rehab, be fine. There is a chance he could wake and have suffered neurological damage. And there is a chance he won't wake up.
She was very clear... she said that, if she felt we needed to, she'd let us know that we should stay in the room. And that was not the situation. He's out, but (relatively) stable.
Until we know more, all there is... is not knowing. He may not have brain activity, and there is only blackness. Or he may be thinking, and just be too deep in the dream to communicate.
I'll post again as soon as we have information.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
On Re-Rewriting
When my Gateway laptop crapped out on me, it was a pain in the ass in the sense that I lost a lot of time dealing with it instead of working.
But in terms of data, it wasn't that huge of a loss, since almost everything that was on it had been emailed at one point in time or another, either between other people, or to myself.
The only truly significant loss was the work I did on the third draft of my script EXTRADITION while visiting my family over Thanksgiving. A week's worth of writing... gone.
I've been rebuilding that work since then, a little at a time.
On the one hand it's easier. Over Thanksgiving, I wrote a ton of pages I ended up throwing out, chasing ideas down rabbit holes, only to discard what came out the other end. No big deal... that's how I write, anyway. So it wasn't wasted time, in the sense that now I'm rebuilding writing that was based on choices made after many other choices were explored and discarded.
On the other hand... the work isn't kept fresh by creative exploration, which is always fun for me. There's a pervading sense of, "Fuck, I DID this already!" Instead of enjoyable, it's frustrating, a constant reminder of what a piece of shit my old laptop was, and the trouble it caused me. It is exactly like getting three quarters the way through building a house, only to have a hurricane come along and blow everything down.
I hate having to fight my way back up to zero, but that's a frequent situation in my life.
I made it up to page 75 before the laptop died. I've rebuilt everything up to page 55. So, in 20 pages, I'll be back in virgin territory. Those last pages will be purely new... I have to come up with a completely different third act climax. It'll be harder work, but more fun.
After I hand that in, I'll be back on DESERT RUN. Not only do I rewrite that project every time I go back to it; each go-around is another reinvention. Again: harder work, but more fun.
And after that's turned around, I'm gonna crack out this horror idea that's rattling around in me. I'll keep the writing of that first draft to within 10-14 days, so it doesn't get in the way of the more commercial stuff.
But in terms of data, it wasn't that huge of a loss, since almost everything that was on it had been emailed at one point in time or another, either between other people, or to myself.
The only truly significant loss was the work I did on the third draft of my script EXTRADITION while visiting my family over Thanksgiving. A week's worth of writing... gone.
I've been rebuilding that work since then, a little at a time.
On the one hand it's easier. Over Thanksgiving, I wrote a ton of pages I ended up throwing out, chasing ideas down rabbit holes, only to discard what came out the other end. No big deal... that's how I write, anyway. So it wasn't wasted time, in the sense that now I'm rebuilding writing that was based on choices made after many other choices were explored and discarded.
On the other hand... the work isn't kept fresh by creative exploration, which is always fun for me. There's a pervading sense of, "Fuck, I DID this already!" Instead of enjoyable, it's frustrating, a constant reminder of what a piece of shit my old laptop was, and the trouble it caused me. It is exactly like getting three quarters the way through building a house, only to have a hurricane come along and blow everything down.
I hate having to fight my way back up to zero, but that's a frequent situation in my life.
I made it up to page 75 before the laptop died. I've rebuilt everything up to page 55. So, in 20 pages, I'll be back in virgin territory. Those last pages will be purely new... I have to come up with a completely different third act climax. It'll be harder work, but more fun.
After I hand that in, I'll be back on DESERT RUN. Not only do I rewrite that project every time I go back to it; each go-around is another reinvention. Again: harder work, but more fun.
And after that's turned around, I'm gonna crack out this horror idea that's rattling around in me. I'll keep the writing of that first draft to within 10-14 days, so it doesn't get in the way of the more commercial stuff.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Boots
The other day, I was riding southbound on Vine, coming back from the gym. I shifted gears, and the sole of my left boot came off. It fell into onto the street. I pulled over.
By some bizarre coincidence, I was within fifty feet of California Surplus, an army surplus store from which I had bought this pair of boots a year ago. I limped to their front door... and they had closed fifteen minutes ago.
I have a spare helmet, but not a spare set of boots.
I rode over the next day wearing my Converse. It was weird - I felt like I was shifting with my bare feet.
I got boots, and I hope they last at least another year.
New boots chew up the side of your leg. It's like a tattoo - you earn it through pain.
My first set of boots were a little tight. They left neat, read circles of cut skin around my mid-shin. I thought perhaps this happened because they were too tight, so this time I got boots a half size larger. They did an even worse job on me, sawing at the skin right beneath the muscle. It sucked and it bled. I wore nothing but those boots for a week, trying to break them in as soon as possible.
It worked. Now the boots fit fine, but I haven't healed yet. It looks like I walked into barbed wire. But again... if you're scared of pain and injury, you don't belong on a damn motorcycle.
Freedom demands pain.
By some bizarre coincidence, I was within fifty feet of California Surplus, an army surplus store from which I had bought this pair of boots a year ago. I limped to their front door... and they had closed fifteen minutes ago.
I have a spare helmet, but not a spare set of boots.
I rode over the next day wearing my Converse. It was weird - I felt like I was shifting with my bare feet.
I got boots, and I hope they last at least another year.
New boots chew up the side of your leg. It's like a tattoo - you earn it through pain.
My first set of boots were a little tight. They left neat, read circles of cut skin around my mid-shin. I thought perhaps this happened because they were too tight, so this time I got boots a half size larger. They did an even worse job on me, sawing at the skin right beneath the muscle. It sucked and it bled. I wore nothing but those boots for a week, trying to break them in as soon as possible.
It worked. Now the boots fit fine, but I haven't healed yet. It looks like I walked into barbed wire. But again... if you're scared of pain and injury, you don't belong on a damn motorcycle.
Freedom demands pain.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Dan O'Bannon
Dan O'Bannon died.
It would be easy to find eulogies to the guy online. I don't feel the need to add to it, beyond to say that ALIEN is one of the best movies ever made, and is deeply important to me in the sense of the path I took in life.
I would put RETURN OF THE LIVING DEAD up there as one of the best horror-comedies of all time, right up with EVIL DEAD II in terms of brilliance. Hell... let's not shove it into a niche. It's not just an amazing horror-comedy, it's a damn good movie, period.
One of the hardest times I've ever laughed in my life is the first appearance of the beach ball monster in DARK STAR.
Thanks, man.
It would be easy to find eulogies to the guy online. I don't feel the need to add to it, beyond to say that ALIEN is one of the best movies ever made, and is deeply important to me in the sense of the path I took in life.
I would put RETURN OF THE LIVING DEAD up there as one of the best horror-comedies of all time, right up with EVIL DEAD II in terms of brilliance. Hell... let's not shove it into a niche. It's not just an amazing horror-comedy, it's a damn good movie, period.
One of the hardest times I've ever laughed in my life is the first appearance of the beach ball monster in DARK STAR.
Thanks, man.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Rejoice, For I Now Own a Coffee Maker
I visited my parents for Thanksgiving. It was impossible not to notice an new addition to their kitchen counter-top: a big-ass coffee maker. Brand new. This thing is the RoboCop of coffee making.
They typically drink decaf, because that's what happens when you retire: you try to relax. I, however, have no interest in decaf. I worship at the altar of caffeine.
These days, I'm getting to the gym, eating right and pulling down some real sleep, so I don't have to prop myself up with a gallon of burning go-juice like I used to... but hell, I'd be a damn liar if I said I didn't love a good shot of joe, black and in a cup.
Anyway, the parents are well aware of my disdain for decaf so, when I swing out to visit, they stock up on real beans, as God intended. This time around, they got a bag of the Dunkin Donuts blend. There's a rare commodity. In Chicago, there are so many Dunkin Donuts around, you could skip a rock off their roof tops. In LA, not so much. It's not chain donut town. I've seen a couple of Winchell's around, but even they're not as ubiquitous as DD in Chicago. When it comes to donuts, LA is more of a mom'n'pop scene. Doesn't matter to me either way... I can't remember the last time I ate a donut.
But I digress: we now live in a world in which good coffee is as close as the nearest fast food joint. But even in that stratus, the DD stuff stands out. My parents made some coffee. I'd say they made a pot of coffee, but it isn't that kind of maker. You press a button, and a specially made shot of coffee shoots into your cup, crafted just for you.
I was expecting coffee. What I got instead was hot happiness in liquid form.
Pure bliss.
I expressed my deep appreciation of this wondrous machine, and its product.
Now... I used to have a coffee maker, but the pot broke, and it was a piece of shit anyway so I threw it out. Juan Valdez could have shown up at my front door with a freshly harvested sack of beans, roasted them right there, hand-cranked the grinder and lovingly brewed a cup, and my old maker would have still turned it into black urine. Good riddance.
But I've been waking up to some caffeine for years. It's not just a habit, it's a ritual that signals the beginning of a day.
I've been getting by with green tea. It's supposed to be good for you, or at least better than coffee. Water - that I can boil. And I've been regularly hitting the Hollywood farmer's market, where I scored a bunch of fresh mint for a buck. Toss some of those leaves into the green tea, and... not bad.
It doesn't have the bitter kick of a good cup of coffee, and the caffeine is a more mellow experience. Green tea is like having mom gently shake you awake. "Honey? Time to go to school..." Coffee is a drill sergeant. Good coffee is like R. Lee Ermey with a bullhorn.
Point is, apparently my parents took note of my love for their coffee machine. A few days ago, Santa Claus showed up at my door. He used his elfin Christmas magic to make himself look like a UPS delivery guy. Santa gave me a box.
Inside the box: an early Christmas present from the 'rents. An identical coffee maker.
I have yet to deflower it. You don't just dump Folgers in this thing. It demands a higher grade of bean. I've been mulling my options, deciding what brew I'll use to lasciviously sully my new coffee maker. Starbucks? An organic blend from Whole Foods? Something else I haven't thought of yet...? I've been circling the machine, mulling my options.
There are some coffee guys at the farmer's market. They've got a damn good cup. If I don't think of anything brilliant before Sunday, I'll probably score a bag from their stall.
I have nothing but happiness on my horizon.
They typically drink decaf, because that's what happens when you retire: you try to relax. I, however, have no interest in decaf. I worship at the altar of caffeine.
These days, I'm getting to the gym, eating right and pulling down some real sleep, so I don't have to prop myself up with a gallon of burning go-juice like I used to... but hell, I'd be a damn liar if I said I didn't love a good shot of joe, black and in a cup.
Anyway, the parents are well aware of my disdain for decaf so, when I swing out to visit, they stock up on real beans, as God intended. This time around, they got a bag of the Dunkin Donuts blend. There's a rare commodity. In Chicago, there are so many Dunkin Donuts around, you could skip a rock off their roof tops. In LA, not so much. It's not chain donut town. I've seen a couple of Winchell's around, but even they're not as ubiquitous as DD in Chicago. When it comes to donuts, LA is more of a mom'n'pop scene. Doesn't matter to me either way... I can't remember the last time I ate a donut.
But I digress: we now live in a world in which good coffee is as close as the nearest fast food joint. But even in that stratus, the DD stuff stands out. My parents made some coffee. I'd say they made a pot of coffee, but it isn't that kind of maker. You press a button, and a specially made shot of coffee shoots into your cup, crafted just for you.
I was expecting coffee. What I got instead was hot happiness in liquid form.
Pure bliss.
I expressed my deep appreciation of this wondrous machine, and its product.
Now... I used to have a coffee maker, but the pot broke, and it was a piece of shit anyway so I threw it out. Juan Valdez could have shown up at my front door with a freshly harvested sack of beans, roasted them right there, hand-cranked the grinder and lovingly brewed a cup, and my old maker would have still turned it into black urine. Good riddance.
But I've been waking up to some caffeine for years. It's not just a habit, it's a ritual that signals the beginning of a day.
I've been getting by with green tea. It's supposed to be good for you, or at least better than coffee. Water - that I can boil. And I've been regularly hitting the Hollywood farmer's market, where I scored a bunch of fresh mint for a buck. Toss some of those leaves into the green tea, and... not bad.
It doesn't have the bitter kick of a good cup of coffee, and the caffeine is a more mellow experience. Green tea is like having mom gently shake you awake. "Honey? Time to go to school..." Coffee is a drill sergeant. Good coffee is like R. Lee Ermey with a bullhorn.
Point is, apparently my parents took note of my love for their coffee machine. A few days ago, Santa Claus showed up at my door. He used his elfin Christmas magic to make himself look like a UPS delivery guy. Santa gave me a box.
Inside the box: an early Christmas present from the 'rents. An identical coffee maker.
I have yet to deflower it. You don't just dump Folgers in this thing. It demands a higher grade of bean. I've been mulling my options, deciding what brew I'll use to lasciviously sully my new coffee maker. Starbucks? An organic blend from Whole Foods? Something else I haven't thought of yet...? I've been circling the machine, mulling my options.
There are some coffee guys at the farmer's market. They've got a damn good cup. If I don't think of anything brilliant before Sunday, I'll probably score a bag from their stall.
I have nothing but happiness on my horizon.
Hardhat Days
After my epic travails with the laptop, I had to clock some serious catch-up time. I'll pulled on the hardhat and leaned into it. My life turned into: wake up, flip on the Mac, work until one, go to the gym, eat lunch, work until nine or ten, pour some wine and write until I fell asleep.
Not too different from the days I worked for seven years at my former gig. But now I had the added satisfaction of knowing that every minute I put in was a minute spent furthering the goals I have for myself and my clients.
I'm not quite up to speed, but I'm close enough that I feel like I'll be able to round the corner by the end of the weekend, and figured I could spend a few minutes on an update.
My initial decision to start a company was abrupt; it occurred within the moment and, though I took a few minutes to make a couple of calls and bounce the feasibility of the idea around, I knew I was going to take this direction.
But I hadn't gathered a war chest, or lain a lot of track. So I've been handling really mundane aspects of the business while flipping around and doing the creative work. I don't mind, I'm used to wearing a lot of hats, and switching them throughout the day,
But, by a stroke of luck, it turned out my timing was perfect. Thanks to the holidays, I was not only able to get a stable of writers together, I also have the opportunity to develop the slate while the town is idling in neutral. I've been making submissions but, except for the novel, I haven't taken anything wide.
When 2010 rolls around, I'll be ready with a fully developed slate: follow-ups on the novel, another book, and five scripts. Seven projects. My plan is to launch these projects wide, one after the other. And they're all coming along well... they'll be ready.
I'll be doing a much different kind of work in January and February than I've been doing in November and December. I can't fucking wait.
Not too different from the days I worked for seven years at my former gig. But now I had the added satisfaction of knowing that every minute I put in was a minute spent furthering the goals I have for myself and my clients.
I'm not quite up to speed, but I'm close enough that I feel like I'll be able to round the corner by the end of the weekend, and figured I could spend a few minutes on an update.
My initial decision to start a company was abrupt; it occurred within the moment and, though I took a few minutes to make a couple of calls and bounce the feasibility of the idea around, I knew I was going to take this direction.
But I hadn't gathered a war chest, or lain a lot of track. So I've been handling really mundane aspects of the business while flipping around and doing the creative work. I don't mind, I'm used to wearing a lot of hats, and switching them throughout the day,
But, by a stroke of luck, it turned out my timing was perfect. Thanks to the holidays, I was not only able to get a stable of writers together, I also have the opportunity to develop the slate while the town is idling in neutral. I've been making submissions but, except for the novel, I haven't taken anything wide.
When 2010 rolls around, I'll be ready with a fully developed slate: follow-ups on the novel, another book, and five scripts. Seven projects. My plan is to launch these projects wide, one after the other. And they're all coming along well... they'll be ready.
I'll be doing a much different kind of work in January and February than I've been doing in November and December. I can't fucking wait.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Rejoice, For I Am Now a Mac Guy
I've been in business for myself for seven weeks. I've spent that majority of that time fucking with my beater of a laptop. Every time it went into the shop, it cost me days of productivity. Perfect timing.
Open letter to Gateway:
"Dear Gateway,
Fuck you.
Sincerely Yours,
Michael T. Kuciak"
At last, it completely crapped out on me. By this time, I was not only burned out on Gateway, I was done with PC as a whole, forever. I went to the Apple store and got a MacBook.
Except for working on Macs in various writing gigs and internships, I've been a PC guy my whole life. It takes some getting used to, but I can say right off... I love it. And it's refreshing to finally have a machine that actually, like, does stuff. And works.
I'm a simple guy. I don't ask for much. For example, with a laptop I don't need it to write my scripts for me, render high-end CGI or give me a shiatsu massage in the morning. I just need it to do stuff like handle email and let me write. Not a tall order, huh? But those simple tasks were way beyond my former machine.
Baseline, I just need a computer that doesn't fuck with me.
Overjoyed at finally having a machine that operates and stuff, I've been putting in massive work days. Hard hat on, eye of the tiger alight, it's been early in the morning to late at night, with breaks only for gym and lunch. I put in nineteen hours on the machine yesterday. I slept late this morning (nine... for me, that's like waking up at noon). It wasn't like I'd been swinging a sledge hammer all day - which I've done. I guess my brain was tired. Too damn bad.
Let the rocking once again commence.
Open letter to Gateway:
"Dear Gateway,
Fuck you.
Sincerely Yours,
Michael T. Kuciak"
At last, it completely crapped out on me. By this time, I was not only burned out on Gateway, I was done with PC as a whole, forever. I went to the Apple store and got a MacBook.
Except for working on Macs in various writing gigs and internships, I've been a PC guy my whole life. It takes some getting used to, but I can say right off... I love it. And it's refreshing to finally have a machine that actually, like, does stuff. And works.
I'm a simple guy. I don't ask for much. For example, with a laptop I don't need it to write my scripts for me, render high-end CGI or give me a shiatsu massage in the morning. I just need it to do stuff like handle email and let me write. Not a tall order, huh? But those simple tasks were way beyond my former machine.
Baseline, I just need a computer that doesn't fuck with me.
Overjoyed at finally having a machine that operates and stuff, I've been putting in massive work days. Hard hat on, eye of the tiger alight, it's been early in the morning to late at night, with breaks only for gym and lunch. I put in nineteen hours on the machine yesterday. I slept late this morning (nine... for me, that's like waking up at noon). It wasn't like I'd been swinging a sledge hammer all day - which I've done. I guess my brain was tired. Too damn bad.
Let the rocking once again commence.
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