Wurkin'

Hey people-- Behold the SuckWOW. It's 99% done. Yesterday I did a lot of cutting and what I did on the bench top as shown went fine, but when I hung the steel out over the edge and tried to work that way it wasn't sucky enough and the room filled with metal dust and fumes. Boo. The next modification will be cutting a couple of slots on the sides I can close off with magnetized "doors". But admit it-- awesome no? Tadaaaahhhh!

Here's how the next commission is progressing. Hopefully you can tell it involves birch trees. They're going in that wheel rim. The clients want to mount it on the wall of their sunroom. (These are the very nice Unitarian Wisconsinites who've been waiting for about a year and a half-- I know-- I am suck-- wow.)

Some leaves and a view of the SuckWOW's top.

Work itself went pretty smooth the last couple days. No more fires, getting a lot done, but yesterday was a bit disappointing in the jamming out department. I got myself a little treat and downloaded "Keep It Hid", Dan Auerbach's new album. I listened, and it was alright, but Dan--wtf dude? I still have a face! You DID NOT rock it off.

Apparently, even though you are massively, virtuostically talented, Pat's rock/punk influence on you is a big part of what I enjoy about the Black Keys. (check the player) I can only take this less than rockin' solo debut as a sign you've finally managed to get over me and move on. I get it, you needed to try something totally different, all on your own, to help you get out of your box. This is good, and healthy, even if I don't like it as well as other stuff you've done.

Maybe now we can move into the much more fun bromance phase of our relationship. No more weirdness, just hanging out, goofing around, and sometimes socking each other on the arm affectionately.
Whew.

In other Sue news-- Ray continues to try to poison us with cutosterone. Still up to his evil fuzzy geniusing tricks.

Here he is with Mike (aka Meathooks). Yes, we don't have a sun room, but the cats do. Priorities...

God this is random, but -- too bad, I'm going for it.

So last night I got together with a couple of my arty/writery buddies and they asked me if I'd learned the drum solo from "InnaGoddaDavida" (or however you spell it) yet, and I said we actual drummers, who've had 3 or more lessons, feel huge extended drum solos are a little showboaty and the mark of an amateur. (You know, in retrospect I think they may have been secretly mocking me... ~simmer~)

Anyway, later they asked me about my leg-- how it's been holding up with the running (which I've been pwning lately btw). I said fine and we got to talking about injuries and stuff and I was like, "It's a bone. It should heal by itself." But secretly inside I was picturing myself in some kind of Charlton Heston God get-up thumping my staff booming, "Tibia-- heal thyself!" -- and my tibia sort of quaking with fear and getting on it.

Then last night I had this dream where I was getting a drum lesson from this old Moses-y dude. I busted into this giganto fill and he was all, "NO NO NO! You're not playing the silent beats. Like this--" then he forces my to play just three, painfully slow beats with miles of space between. Hmm, deep? or just trippy?

Oh brain, sometimes I wonder just who is entertaining who here.
Take it easy people. Shake something if possible.