Technology Will Be The End Of Me

Oh, Blogger. You make me crazy with your refusals to publish and your half-assed FTP impementation.

But oh, WordPress, trying to switch to you is making me EVEN FUCKING CRAZIER.

Why didn't I learn something useful in school, like PHP programming? Then I could figure out what the fucking problem is.

More to come, possibly over here when I'm done tearing my hair out. In the meantime, feel free to tell me how fugly that design is.

A Stab At Explaining This SAG Nonsense

Trying to explain why, even though it does not appear the Screen Actors' Guild is actually going to strike anytime soon, I am frustrated with the lack of progress in the talks, is a little hard to explain.

The stalemate has brought all feature production to a grinding halt, and because of the weird timing of the pilot I'm on (even if it gets picked up, it won't go for a few months, and almost all other TV in town has already started up), I had been looking to hop on a feature when it finishes in a couple weeks.

So, why is a stalemate a bad thing for feature films? Well, I'll try to explain.

Were the Screen Actors' Guild to strike, everything would shut down immediately because without actors, there is nothing to shoot. That's the easy-to-explain, apocalyptic part.

In a stalemate, which is where we are now, the actors are not striking, but they have not signed a deal and could theoretically strike at any time.

With a stalemate, TV shows keep shooting because they have all the actors under contract for basically the entire year. Were a strike to happen, they would give the crew an unpaid hiatus for the duration of the strike, and then everyone would come back to work when it's over (assuming a short strike of about a month or so, which everyone is).

With films during a stalemate, you run into the big problem of actor scheduling: While television shows have the principal actors under contract essentially year-round, every film has a very short window in which its principals are under contract.

For example, pulling a name that's fun to type out of the air, let's say Jake Gyllenhaal is scheduled to do a film that starts tomorrow, and finishes in early September. Then, he's scheduled to go on to a second film that starts in mid-September.

If the actors strike, it will eat up all the time that he was on film #1, and they still lose him to film #2 in mid-September. The fact that the strike is happening does not push everything back, it just makes the time disappear.

Why is this a problem? Well, the main issue is that because a SAG strike could completely fuck up actors' schedules, major films can't get what's called a completion bond.

This is a very large insurance policy that will pay the a substantial portion of the cost of production should the film not be completed for some reason beyond the control of production (actor is hit by a bus and/or drops dead in the middle of production, earthquake destroys Los Angeles during shooting, whatever).

The insurance companies don't want to give completion bonds right now because if Gyllenhaal starts shooting film #1 and SAG strikes for a month in August, he will still have to move on to film #2 on the same schedule. Film #1 could potentially only be half-finished and largely unusable, and the insurance company would be on the hook for the money.

If you can't get a completion bond (and right now, you can't unless you have a waiver from SAG, which you can only get if you're a small independent production not part of the AMPTP), the studio will not give you the money to make your movie.

So everyone on the features side is pretty much sitting tight, waiting for SAG to make a deal. Once they make a deal, plenty of stuff will start up, and hopefully many of us will be gainfully employed once again.

We'll see what happens. Again, I'm in a bit of an odd spot with scheduling, but hopefully by the end of July this will get sorted out, and I'll land on something or other. I'll probably get an involuntary break of a month or so, but hopefully not much longer.

I hope that sort of clarifies for those of you who don't have to deal with this glorious horseshit on a daily basis what's happening and why, and why while people in LA are worried about this, most of the national entertainment press is pretty much ignoring it.

Once More, With Feeling

It's always fun to read a story in Variety and, before reaching the end of it, start mentally calculating how much plasma and/or heroin I'll need to sell to make rent.

Thoughts That Cross My Mind

After blotting calamine lotion on my ridiculous number of flea bites, leaving a pattern of dark pink spots on pasty white skin: "God, I look like a gay leopard."

There Goes That Idea

All the good ellipticals were taken at the gym this evening, so I elected to try doing some jogging on the treadmill to see if my idea to improve my gym triathalon time would work.

I got about three steps and my ankle gave me a very decisive (and rather painful) verdict of "Fuck you, asshole."

I was okay with doing a very rapid walk on a real steep incline, but once I started with the bouncier jogging, it was all over pretty much instantly.

Perhaps I'll try again after I take off my remaining poundage, I'm sure that can't possibly be helping with the pain aspect. Still: BAH.

Strike Two

Depending on who you read, talks between the AMPTP and the Screen Actors' Guild either ended without a deal or completely fucking imploded tonight. You know it's serious when Nikki Finke breaks out the clip-art alarm bells.

So now, we're staring down the barrel of another potential strike, this time by the Actors.

A smaller union, AFTRA, is probably going to cut a quick a deal to undercut SAG on TV deals in order to gain a larger percentage of jurisdiction, but the vast majority of primetime TV (which I work in) and all feature films are SAG signatories.

The threat of a SAG strike has already ground a lot of stuff on the features end to a halt. Anything that's not already filming or that couldn't use the time without actors wisely (for example, Transformers 2 building more models and working on the VFX while everyone twiddles their thumbs) is not getting greenlit, because nobody will insure anything with a post SAG-deadline end date.

SAG's contract doesn't actually expire until June 30th, so there's about two months where TV shows are going to try and crank out as many episodes as they can, and networks will jam in as many pilots as they can (I'm actually leaving the pilot I'm on at the moment to go work on another in a couple weeks; more on that in a later post).

The difference between SAG and the WGA is that if SAG walks, everything grinds to a halt immediately. With the writers, people could still shoot finished scripts, with the directors making "tweaks" on set.

But without actors? No shows. No movies. No nothin'. No jobs almost immediately for a huge chunk of the already-hurting SoCal economy.

A SAG strike would be a colossal disaster for everyone involved, but SAG and the AMPTP seem to hate each other enough that they'd rather destroy themselves in order to destroy the other than let the other side even appear to win.

That mentality is almost exactly the same one that led to a three month writers' strike that drove a fair few people I know to the brink of bankruptcy.

I wish I could be more optimistic that both sides are going to pull their heads out of their respective asses and make a deal in the next few weeks, but at this point, I'm stocking up on ramen.

People Are Dicks, Vol. 1

Now begins a new feature here on Goat World, called People Are Dicks, in which I will be chronicling the ways both large and small in which people are dicks on an ongoing basis.

Today: People are dicks because they blow up something in the communal microwave, then let the shrapnel from this explosion burn onto the sides of the microwave, and then leave it overnight for someone else to clean up. Namely, me.

Congratulations, sir or madam of the exploding food. You're officially a dick.

Here We Go Again

SAG's next up in the Great Strike-ocolypse of 2008.

The problem this time? SAG and AFTRA, two sister unions that have bargained jointly for the last 30 years, have chosen this critical moment to get in a massive pissing contest with each other.

Their infighting has (as far as I can tell) delayed the start of negotiations, and left everyone in town on edge that there's going to be a second strike.

Already, with the SAG contract expiring June 30th, nothing that would finish past June 15th has been able to get any funding, which is part of why I had such a shit time finding a job after I got the ax.

I hope to hell this settles soon, mostly because no one, and I mean no one, can afford another strike right now. Least of all my broke ass.

Bad News/Good News

I got a call from the folks at Apple about my computer today.

The bad news is, because I have a matte screen on my MacBook Pro and will not even consider getting a glossy screen, they won't have a part in until Feb 7th, and won't have my computer back to me until Feb. 11-12.

The good news is, to compensate me for my inconvenience, they offered me two options.

1. Ship me a brand new computer with the exact same specs for the same amount I would have paid for the repair, and have it arrive Friday (Feb 1) or Monday (Feb 4), or

2. Cut the price of the repair in half, and get it back the 11th-12th.

I have to admit, option #1 was thoroughly tempting, especially because after a week of using the temp MacBook, I'm more certain than ever that I made the right decision to spring for the Pro. The reflections on the glossy screen drive me batshit.

But after calling the computer rental place to see how much it would cost to extend the rental and running some numbers with sales tax, I realized that waiting was going to save me almost $600 to just wait for the repair.

So, the bad news is, I have to put up with the tiny, glossy, pain in the ass rental for a while longer, but the good news is, I save six hundred bucks.

At this point, the option that saves me $600 wins, even if it involves fire ants. Which, thankfully, this does not.

If You Need Me, I'll Be Moving To A Cave

...Where there are no electronic things I can break or have crap out on me.

The fucking hard drive on the laptop I rented while mine's getting fixed up and died on me when I got back from work.

I ran disk utility off my Leopard install disk (a way you can sometimes fix problems with a pesky drive), and it was like the laptop's drive wasn't even there.

If, somehow, the shop I rented from decides this is my fault, I'm out a $1500 deposit on top of everything else. It's a low level possibility, but the way my tech karma's been fucking with me lately, I wouldn't be surprised.

I'm starting to think I should have just sucked it up and bought a new computer. At least then, among other things, I wouldn't be typing this on my crackberry.

When It Rains, It Pours

I had put my MacBook Pro on that counter before, a thousand times before. I had no reason to think last night was any different.

No reason until it came tumbling down, open, about 10pm last night. And that's when today's nightmare began.

I thought it was fine at first: Everything was working properly, no readily visible damage, at least not in the piss-poor lighting of my apartment.

I always work with my laptop on my lap, so the first, "Oh fuck" didn't cross my mind until I put the laptop on the coffee table so I could get up and start doing my foot stretches. I noticed it wasn't quite sitting level.

Okay, that's not too bad, I thought. Then I tried to eject the DVD I'd been watching, and it bonked against the case in a futile fashion. Crap, that's bad.

I decided to call and get some estimates in the morning. Taking it in to a reseller (who I thought might get me a better price than Apple directly, since Apple's warranty doesn't cover butterfingers), I noticed that when I closed it, the lid was obviously bent at a weird curve.

That was when I knew this was going to be REALLY expensive.

On any laptop, if you seriously damage something related to the casing around the screen, nine times out of ten you have to replace the whole screen, even if you've been lucky enough not to have the screen itself break on you.

Since the screen is one of the single most expensive parts of any laptop, and particularly expensive-ass MBP's, this was going to cost me.

The reseller gave me an estimate in the mid $1300's, but advised I go to the Apple store since they'd have to send it in to Apple for a repair that serious anyway, and perhaps I could throw myself upon their mercy and get something at least a little cheaper.

And a little cheaper it was: If I wanted to have all the damage repaired, rather than just the more egregiously fucked bottom part of the case (and the full repair is necessary to keep the warranty in force), it was $1240.

The good news is, the $1240 figure covers ANYTHING else they find wrong with it. If I fucked up the disk drive too, then that's covered. If they have to just send me a whole new computer, it will still be $1240.

I would also be without my computer for anywhere from 5-10 business days, necessitating renting a temporary computer, since the only work I have right now is freelance tech consulting, for which you need a computer.

The only place they could find that would rent to individuals (as opposed to buisnesses) gave the fairly reasonable-for-these-things rate of $170 for two weeks.

So immediately, I would be out $1460. Considering the computer itself cost $2800, this was a fairly substantial sum. It is also, I'd like to note, more than my incredibly steep rent for one month.

And in case you're thinking it, nope, renter's insurance won't cover it since it was a very obvious drop. If it'd been stolen or lost in a fire, maybe. Not dropped.

I briefly considered just bagging it and getting a new computer for the same money, but the problem is that I didn't get the cheaper MacBook for a reason: I do audio recording which strongly benefits from more advanced ports (firewire 800 vs. 400), as well as web design and photo stuff that really needs the extra boost of the bigger screen and better graphics card.

Plus, the glossy screen drives me batshit to absolutely no end. I'd been helping a friend set up her new MacBook and had been ever more convinced I'd done the right thing springing for the Pro.

I probably could have sold the busted Pro for parts, but I had no idea if it'd bring in enough money (around $1000-1200) to pay for the difference between the cost to fix it and a new Pro. Without that knowledge, I was kind of up a creek.

So I sucked it up and decided to get it fixed. I'm now typing on the rented MacBook (which, by the way, is good for basic stuff but is heavily reaffirming my decision to just get the damn Pro fixed).

Now I will admit, I'm EXTREMELY fortunate that I have some deep-freeze funding that I'm being allowed to access (which I normally would not have access to, but the parental units who control it deemed this a worthy exception) to pay for this debacle.

I'd be super-duper-mega-extra fucked without that, and I'm REALLY not happy I had to access that in the first place, especially since this was due to my own carelessness.

Lord knows when the busted computer comes back from the shop, I'll be velcroing the fucker to my desk/coffee table any time it's not on my lap.

I Am My Father's Daughter

So I'm posting this from my Crackberry, waiting to board my flight that was supposed to take off at 10pm.

I had decided to take the bus to the airport, since I have a lot more time than money at the moment. A cab is $35ish, the Super Shuttle is $21, and the bus was $1.25. The bus won out

(A side note; The flight at the gate next to me as I type this is flight 1492 to Columbus, Ohio. I smile every time they make a boarding announcement)

I had no idea how long the bus was going to take, and since I knew there were 3 buses involved, I figured anywhere from an hour and. a half to 3 hours.

Living by my father's "Never ever ever be later than an hour early for a flight," I figured, okay, my flight's at ten, if I leave at 6, even worst-case-scenario, I'll still be okay.

Joke was on me repeatedly; All three buses combined took exactly one hour, and the only people in front of me at security were the entire Old Dominion University women's basketball team.

I got to my gate at 7:20. As I type this, it's now almost 10:40, and our pilots just got here after being stuck in LA traffic for 2 hours.

That's still not even the holdup: The flight attendants were coming in from Salt Lake City, where there is currently a fairly large snowstorm. Between the snow and the de-icing, they're still 15 minutes from even getting to our gate, let alone being ready to have the boarding process begin.

The other issue is that, to try and tire myself out so I could sleep on the plane, I woke up super-early today. Now, as the plane should be somewhere over Nevada, I'm practically falling asleep in the astoundingly uncomfortable airport chair.

The waiting lounge is filling with passengers for the next flight scheduled for this gate (going to Guatemala City), and everyone's getting just a liiiiittle cranky.

I just want to get to Connecticut so I can commence complaining about how goddamn cold it is.

A Quiet Goodbye

Not quite a complete goodbye yet, since I've already agreed to come in on Wednesday and help out with some holiday nonsense as I badly need the money.

But today was my last day of real work. It's been almost exactly two years since I started working for my employers, and today I officially got laid off.

It's been deathly quiet for some time, with more than 90% of our crew gone. But tonight, as I packed my belongings and deleted my files from my computer, I was the only one there.

All I could hear was the buzzing of the fluorescent lights, and the insanely loud ticking of the clock in the bullpen as I addressed a couple of letters and finished cleaning out my desk and all my decorations.

I don't know when this strike is going to be over. The WGA's NLRB complaint, while it may be legally justified, certainly isn't going to speed up the process of returning to negotiations.

Because of that, I have no idea if I'm coming back. I have some savings, but not enough to last me more than about three months, if I'm being realistic. I have to start looking for a job at the first of the year if I don't want to starve.

So I packed up everything, from my Giant Bottle O'Advil to the hilarious "While You Were Out, Everyone Exploded" message a co-worker left me over a year ago, and that I'd tacked to the wall for posterity.

And I listened to the clock tick and tick and tick, time marching inexorably forward, and life moving on whether I wanted it to or not.

So I walked out the door, and I shut off the lights in the office for the weekend. And I closed the door behind me, wondering when (besides Wednesday) or if I'd be opening it again.

Fuck Fuckity Fuck Fuck Fuck

My industry is so completely and totally doomed.

I am going to ignore the protests of Mr. Cranky Ankle and have a nice stiff glass of bourbon or three.

The Axe Swings Backward

Well, at least the uncertainty is pretty much gone: If the strike's not settled by the end of next week, then next Friday's my last day.

At least I got the courtesy of a warning so I can get my shit together both physically and financially, unlike the last time I got canned.

It sucks, but I'm getting paid for two more weeks than the entire crew and most of the production office, so I'm still in a better position than most.

And now, to try and trim the nonexistent fat out of my budget...

The Wind-Down

I've experienced the wind-down once before, during summer hiatus between seasons 2 and 3. Between 3 and 4 I missed it, since I was trapped in my apartment after getting foot surgery instead.

The wind-down comes after we finish filming, which we did on Thursday. Everyone gets their wrap days, cleans out all their shit, and says, "See you in a couple of months."

Except this time, nobody has any fucking clue when we're going to see each other. Up until Thursday night, I had some confidence that this could be settled soon.

Then this hit, and it became clear that this wasn't a realistic offer, and even more dreariness descended upon us.

So everyone wished everyone else a Merry Christmas, a joking "Happy Strike-atus!", and offered our fervent, probably false hopes that we'd see each other again in January.

Normally, during the wind-down, everyone knows we'll see each other in a couple months. This time, if there's no settlement by Christmas, nobody knows.

The problem is, everyone needs to eat, and if the strike goes long enough, we and every other show around will probably lose half our crew to features, if not more. So we say goodbye and see you soon, and hope to hell that's the case.

This is a time that's very odd for me as well, since working for the one and only non-writing Executive Producer who's there day to day, I'm going to be one of the last people out.

I'm exceedingly lucky that I've worked twelve months a year for the last two years, and I'm even luckier that I still have a job when the vast majority of my friends are going to be unemployed after tomorrow.

Were this a real hiatus, this would be simultaneously the worst time at work, but the best time out of work.

Worst because there's not generally a ton for me to do except take the occasional messenger run up to our corporate overlords in Universal City, and some research that I beg for to keep my brain from rotting.

Best because I actually get out of work after ten hours at 6pm, early enough to feel like I have a normal job for once in my life. During the summer, during real hiatus, it's early enough for me to go for a bike ride down to the beach.

But it's strike-atus. It's the middle of the winter, and unless I leave at about 3pm, I would never get home with enough light to make it to the beach before the sun set and the temperature dropped precipitously.

So I'll wander in to my apartment complex in the dark, worried as hell about what happens after Post finishes and my presence becomes even more redundant.

And I'll enjoy the last few episodes of my favorite shows as the networks burn them off, waiting for an RSS bulletin or a phone call or a news flash while flipping through channels to tell me it's finally over.

And then we'll slam back into gear, and I'll be busier than ever. But I sure as hell won't be complaining about how much work I have to do.

Dear Cold

You could have come anytime last week. You could have come on Thanksgiving, making dinner a bit awkward, but giving me three days of sitting at home on my ass to recover.

But when did you decide to come? Sunday night. Yes, Sunday night you started me on a downward slope of dozens of consecutive sneezes and disgustingly dripping nostrils.

I hoped, nay, I prayed that it was simply because it's been getting a little chilly at night and I've got my heater turned way down to save money.

Then I woke up this morning, and because of you, I sounded like Elmer Fudd until almost noon. I walked around all day like my brain was made of Jell-o. I tried drowning you in orange juice last night and this morning, to no avail.

I had four days off in a row. And when do you come? When I have to work for five, when I do not have time for this bullshit.

You are a terrible, rude houseguest, Cold. And I hereby order you to get the fuck out, and take your friend Sinus Congestion with you.

Damn You, Time Warner Cable

You and your "system upgrades" that leave my interwebs running at the speed of cold molasses (ie, 400kb/s). Seriously, if I wanted speeds this slow, I'd save myself $25 a month and get DSL.

I'd better be able to view four thousand pictures of cats with goofy captions nigh instantaneously when this "upgrade" is finished.

This Can't Be Good

Ah, fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

As the potential armageddon draws closer and on a day when I'm not as tired, I'll go into more detail about exactly what a strike would mean, both to the industry in general and to me in particular.

Suffice to say for now, I'm becoming very, very glad that I'm going to be in Chicago this weekend, away from the HOLLYWOOD STRIKEWATCH! madness seizing this town.

Exercise The Demons

Part of why things have trailed off a touch on this blog is because of the absolutely absurd amount of gym time I've been putting in lately.

5 days a week, killing myself at the gym, waiting for the tiny little reward on Sundays when I see that, if I'm lucky and have been trying to watch what I eat, all that fighting has lost...one pound!

This all started in February, after several weeks of sedentary moping, when I looked at the scale and saw a number I swore I'd never see.

I'm a quarter of the way to where I want to be from where I was, which, thinking about it, is actually pretty decent. But the slow, slow pace is just maddening.

I'm hitting something similar with my foot (which I go to Physical Therapy for the other two days a week), where it's miles better than it was, but the pain and continued PT are making me nuts.

I want to be in shape and running around, not fighting for ever tenth of an inch of plantarflexion and just about dying on the recumbent bike.

Stupid body. Why must you make me pay for my prior indiscretions?

Dear Asshat Neighbor

You are not the same neighbor over-alarming his 1989 Nissan. You live in the building across the alley from mine, and you park in a spot under your building that's not walled in, directly across the alley from my window.

You have a new car, but you have purchased a very similar but infinitely louder alarm to the one has already caused me much consternation. You have not figured out how to use your new alarm. The goddamn thing goes off every five minutes.

The sound echoes through the alley, and becomes unbelievably loud in this apartment, to the point of actually being painful when I'm in the bedroom.

I am tired, I am cranky and hormonal, and I am in pain. I need sleep more than anything right now, and you, my dear neighbor, are preventing me from getting it.

If you do not learn to use your alarm properly, I may have to come across the alley and duct tape you to the hood of your car so that you can hear exactly how annoying it is.

That is all.

Damn You, Apple

You are sorely testing me, you evil fruit.

First, you push back Leopard until October, then you go and release these shiny new LED backlit laptops that I would have bought sometime in the next month with a copy of Leopard had it come out on time.

Instead, my aging, creaking, full, angry PowerBook will be forcing me to Force Quit for another four months, because I can't justify buying a new computer just to drop another $130-150 on a new OS 4 months later.

I suppose the one good thing is that maybe I'll have time to pay off my giant pile of medical bills and get my Computer Fund back up to snuff by the time Leopard actually comes out.

In the meantime, the Spinning Beachball of Death will taunt me and taunt me, until nigh upon All Hallow's Eve when, to quote Wayne's World, "It will be mine. Oh yes...it will be mine."

You Knew This Was Coming

It's official: I need surgery. Sometime next week, not sure when yet. Whee!

It's pretty insane how much my left leg atrophied over three weeks. It really looks like it's from a different person, particularly when compared to my right leg which has been carting my fat ass around all this time.

I'd post pictures but a) the pictures don't really capture the difference and b) my leg still looks pretty hideous given that it was imprisoned for weeks.

The small solace is that I can at least hobble in the boot until the surgery. The pegleg will sit to the side, since I'll need it for another 3 weeks after the surgery. But for now: Hobbling.

The leg hurts like a motherfucker (I'm sure all the muscular atrophy isn't helping matters there), and I'm still supposed to keep it elevated pretty much all the time, but at least I can take out the trash now.

Yay?

Foot Follies: The Castening

It is done.



And the pegleg has arrived:



Yeah, I know it looks goofy as hell, but it works, and that's all I give a shit about.

More pictures at my flickr page, which will be getting updated quite a bit since I now have a whooooooooooole lot of time on my hands and pretty much no place to go for at least the next 3 weeks.

Whee!

Foot Fiasco Followup

I was a bit busy to post about this in the last week or so, partly because I went to various doctors about five times on top of everything else that's been going on.

So now, I've finally come to a decision: They're sticking me in a cast and on crutches for three weeks to let the irritation calm down, and then reevaluating exactly what surgery I will need, if any.

Best case scenario, resting this will finally get it to calm down enough to not get re-irritated, and will do so without needing to have surgery.

I'm not terribly optimistic that will happen, but I'm willing to give it a try. And if it doesn't work, it at least gives a much more targeted area for them to cut, which I suppose is a good thing, though I'll be frustrated about wasting three weeks.

I am getting the pegleg thing, I'm having them ship it so I'll be able to try it out next weekend before I actually have to depend on it. Hilarious pictures TK.

I'm still trying to figure out if I can (or more accurately, should) try to make my scheduled trip to Chicago in a couple weeks for Laz's wedding.

Not having to have surgery yet takes away one of my big problems, but the idea of trying to crutch around all weekend is unpleasant, particularly in airports, though I suppose I could ride the little cart with the flashing light.

Also, my doctors have told me I need to not go in to work while the cast is non-weightbearing, and I'm going to guess that going to Chicago probably falls under the same heading of "prohibited activites."

Anyway, suggestions of things I can do without leaving my house are welcome. I'm well stocked on DVD's and I'm gonna bump my Netflix subscription up to the 3-at-a-time plan, and I'm gonna do some studying for the Apple Certified Helpdesk Specialist exam.

However, particularly if I need surgery after the three weeks, I'm gonna need a few more suggestions as well, because I'm basically stuck at home until this thing passes. Whee!

Thanks, Technology!

I love it when my computer chooses one of the busiest weekends of the year to crash rather spectacularly, necessitating at the least a trip to the "Genius" Bar at the Apple store, and given what it's doing and what it hasn't responded to, rather likely a wipe and restore of the hard drive.

God bless the Crackberry (from which I am posting this), Super Duper (the auto-backup software I run twice a week), and the old-ass PC that's been gathering dust in my living room (from which I was able to schedule an appointment with the Apple store).

D'oh

My physical therapist threw in the towel today. I'm not making any progress with anything other than the exercises I'm doing at home, so he doesn't see much point in me continuing to come in.

I can sort of understand, since I can do quite a bit of stuff on my own, and I suppose it's best not to waste money and insurance-covered PT visits when they're not going to do much beyond what I could do on my own.

The problem is, it basically means surgery is now pretty no longer a question of if but what and how. Still waiting on getting a second opinion for that.

The Revenge of Mr. Cranky Ankle

I had a longstanding follow-up appointment with my orthopedist today. I walked back and he was talking to my physical therapist (whose office is across the hall).

After I finished giving the PT a light berating for Tuesday's fiasco, the orthopedist came in, and started investigating why my foot's not getting better.

His conclusion: Two of the major tendons that hold my foot together (the anterior and posterior tibial tendons) are starting to fail. He thinks that I need to get surgery to prevent the tendons, anterior tendon in particular, from snapping.

And not just simple laproscpic surgery, no no. But "let's disassemble and reassemble half your left leg" surgery that would leave me on crutches for 4-6 weeks.

Resetting at least one of the two affected tendons, lengthening the calf muscle (which he thinks is putting more strain on the tendons), and doing a couple other things that went over my head. 4-6 weeks, no weight on the foot at all.

I have a job where a substantial portion of my day is spent schlepping stuff from Point A to B, and occasionally to C. I live on the second floor of a building with no elevator. 4-6 weeks on crutches is going to be a special little corner of hell for me.

The orthopedist at least is willing to try re-targeting my physical therapy and really ramping it up for a couple weeks to see if it at least makes a difference.

He also, whether he likes it or not, will have to wait for both the show's season to wrap filming (my boss is directing the finale, and ain't no fucking way I'm dealing with that on crutches) and for me to get a second opinion, since I'm clearly not going through with anything this drastic without getting a second goddamn opinion.

I'll know more in a couple weeks after doing the intensive PT and seeing how it works, but it's not looking good. I've written off today to wallowing, but hopefully starting next week, the re-targeted PT will actually start paying off.

Cross your fingers for me.

DOOOOOOOOOOOOM

Well, the need for the MRI of DOOOOOOOOOM is official.

Went to the doctor this morning, and there are basically two main possibilities about why my ankle has severely regressed in the last four days:

POSSIBILITY "BAD." The ankle is inflamed because pieces of bone have broken off from the location of my avulsion fracture and are irritating the tissue. If this is the case, I have to have arthroscopic surgery to remove the pieces. However, once the pieces are removed, the swelling should go down and I should be fine.

POSSIBILITY "WORSE." The ankle is inflamed for no particular reason, I have to do several more months of rehab, and there's a strong possibility this will turn into an unpredictable and chronic issue with no cure other than repeated stints rehabbing whenever it flares up.

I didn't think I'd ever be in a position where I had to say this, but man, I really hope I need surgery.

Oktobercrapfest

Can I just hide under my bed until October is over?

I mean, at the rate my luck is going, the bed would collapse on me and I'd be trapped and die, but can I at least give it a try? Because that's almost looking like a better option than continuing to try and power through the rest of October.

Welcome To The Neighborhood

Fuckin' kids.

I was sound asleep about an hour ago and was awoken by the cat yowling. This isn't anything out of the ordinary, but I heard a police radio, so I figured the cops were busting up the guys who hang out in another part of the alley that runs behind my building, and rolled over to go back to sleep.

Then my phone rang. "Hi, Miss Shapiro, this is Officer [X] of the Santa Monica Police Department, I'm outside behind your apartment and it appears your vehicle has been broken into."

Turns out someone on the alley heard someone smash my passenger-side window, looked out and saw the guys futzing around and called the cops. The cops scared off the thieves, who were apparently just some shithead kids.

They weren't particularly smart kids, as the only thing they got was a $30 electricity inverter, and if they'd thought for about five seconds, they wouldn't have even had to break the damn window to get into the car, as both the driver's and passenger's side windows were cracked.

I mean, I'm glad they didn't get my stereo which I went to so much damn trouble to install, and there wasn't really anything else of value in the car, so I suppose that's good.

But I was speaking to my next door neighbors, one of whom has been living in the apartment for 17 years, and he said this was the first time someone had smashed a window in the parking lot that he could remember, though he noted that someone had let the air out of his wife's tires this morning.

Nice to be the new guy in the neighborhood. Now I'm going back to bed, to get up even earlier to try and figure out how to clean up all this glass when I haven't gotten around to purchasing a new broom or dustpan.