2003-07-16 07:59![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
digitaldiscipline
digitaldiscipline[If you can all hear that in that 50's "Build Your Own Bomb Shelter" voice, so much the better. Add audio artifacts, like scratches and pops, for that extra frisson of authenticity. . . I'm just making shit up]
So, yeah. Yesterday was essentially twelve straight hours of work, sans lunch. Sixteen if you count the hours K contributed.
Is there a sense of relief and accomplishment? No, that's been successfully undermined by one guy's comment that "The stuff you're working on there, it's a lot of stuff, but it's like half of that section, and then there's a whole other section, too."
That's right, kids - I'm approximately one-third done with this. The first seminar is Tuesday morning.
Have I mentioned that this stuff is supposed to go on the CD's we're going to hand out? You remember, the ones where the original production company needed a 12-day turnaround? Yeah, boss, good fucking idea - you know the regulations. . . THE KEY FUCKING COMPONENT OF THIS LITTLE ENDEAVOR. . . are gonna be published on July 1st. WHY THE BLOODY FUCK wouldn't you give yourself more time to prepare? It's one thing to want to strike while the iron is hot, so to speak, but when your blind, stupid optimism is unsullied by such real-world considerations as production time, your own bloody incompetence, and the fact that your right-hand man CAN'T USE A FUCKING COMPUTER TO SAVE HIS LIFE [his wife types stuff for him, I've been transcribing page upon page of his handwritten notes. . . at least he has decent penmanship, even if he can't fucking spell - "NTL" = "No Later Than" has been my pet peeve of choice, however.
So, yeah. . . how many of me do you think there are, genius? And is the blank, hostile stare and the ever-more-abrupt utterances of "You want me to find =what= for you right this second?" when he casually tosses off the web-hunt-of-the-moment thought might finally be making an impression.
"How -are- you?" he asks.
"I'm fucking swamped, Charley. Would it be okay if I ignored the little shit so I could get something done here? No offense, but I really don't have time to track down some scrap of paper I gave you last week, could you find it yourself? It's probably on your desk."
I haven't told him that it's bloody fucking unlikely I'll get everything done. He looks at the registration tick-marks and sees "Hey, seventeen now! That's a few more than yesterday," without processing the concept that we need to have FIFTY-FIVE people show up just to break even.
I've been here just over a year, and the decline in his mental acuity is startling. It's sad, too, but I'm at a point where I'm more interested in providing for myself than worrying about some ever-more-doddering semi-stranger.
The other guy has been slogging through some incredibly menial text reformatting. I am eventually going to have to incorporate his handiwork into whatever abortion we put forth.
Assuming, of course, that I can get the printer to output the CD-rom labels correctly. This is far from a given.
Damn the Coast Guard for being redundant fucking redundant fucking redundant fucking dipshits.
Damn the boss and his fading grasp on reality.
Damn the torpedoes.
So, yeah. Yesterday was essentially twelve straight hours of work, sans lunch. Sixteen if you count the hours K contributed.
Is there a sense of relief and accomplishment? No, that's been successfully undermined by one guy's comment that "The stuff you're working on there, it's a lot of stuff, but it's like half of that section, and then there's a whole other section, too."
That's right, kids - I'm approximately one-third done with this. The first seminar is Tuesday morning.
Have I mentioned that this stuff is supposed to go on the CD's we're going to hand out? You remember, the ones where the original production company needed a 12-day turnaround? Yeah, boss, good fucking idea - you know the regulations. . . THE KEY FUCKING COMPONENT OF THIS LITTLE ENDEAVOR. . . are gonna be published on July 1st. WHY THE BLOODY FUCK wouldn't you give yourself more time to prepare? It's one thing to want to strike while the iron is hot, so to speak, but when your blind, stupid optimism is unsullied by such real-world considerations as production time, your own bloody incompetence, and the fact that your right-hand man CAN'T USE A FUCKING COMPUTER TO SAVE HIS LIFE [his wife types stuff for him, I've been transcribing page upon page of his handwritten notes. . . at least he has decent penmanship, even if he can't fucking spell - "NTL" = "No Later Than" has been my pet peeve of choice, however.
So, yeah. . . how many of me do you think there are, genius? And is the blank, hostile stare and the ever-more-abrupt utterances of "You want me to find =what= for you right this second?" when he casually tosses off the web-hunt-of-the-moment thought might finally be making an impression.
"How -are- you?" he asks.
"I'm fucking swamped, Charley. Would it be okay if I ignored the little shit so I could get something done here? No offense, but I really don't have time to track down some scrap of paper I gave you last week, could you find it yourself? It's probably on your desk."
I haven't told him that it's bloody fucking unlikely I'll get everything done. He looks at the registration tick-marks and sees "Hey, seventeen now! That's a few more than yesterday," without processing the concept that we need to have FIFTY-FIVE people show up just to break even.
I've been here just over a year, and the decline in his mental acuity is startling. It's sad, too, but I'm at a point where I'm more interested in providing for myself than worrying about some ever-more-doddering semi-stranger.
The other guy has been slogging through some incredibly menial text reformatting. I am eventually going to have to incorporate his handiwork into whatever abortion we put forth.
Assuming, of course, that I can get the printer to output the CD-rom labels correctly. This is far from a given.
Damn the Coast Guard for being redundant fucking redundant fucking redundant fucking dipshits.
Damn the boss and his fading grasp on reality.
Damn the torpedoes.
