Steady retweeted
Candied Jalapeno Cream cheese burgers ... My Cowboy Candy is always on point ....
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Steady retweeted
so, you probably know. but, just in case you don't, i've been working on a game that i'm affectionately calling gerhards. this has nothing to do with narcissism. ok, maybe it's a touch narcissistic. but, idgaf. anyway, it's a(n) snes lemmings style game where you lead gerhards from the entrance to the exit of each level utilizing various skills along the way. nothing crazy. but, ive really enjoyed learning what it takes to create a game. and, learning the process of vibe coding using ai. it's been quite eye opening. so much so that i now have other more professional irons in the fire. but, again, i digress. i've put a bit of thought into the game; lovingly combed over all of the images and sprites, freaked out about bugs, and worked on some things you guys will have to find.
this won't win me any gaming awards. but, i'll say it again, ive really had a lot of fun (and stress) building it. hopefully i can have it up and running on the grotto in the next week. and, i really hope the following week i find you guys enjoying the game as much as i've enjoyed making it. let's see how this week goes. hope y'all have a great sunday, mfers!
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Steady retweeted
My car wouldn't start in a Tractor Supply parking lot in Tennessee, so I opened the hood.
I know nothing about engines. In American movies, opening the hood is how a man calls for help. It works outside the movies too.
The first one arrived in under two minutes with a fifty-pound bag of chicken feed on his shoulder. No hello. He set the feed on my bumper, put his hands on his hips, and looked into my engine.
Then a man from a truck hauling fence posts. Hands on hips.
Then an older man came out of the store holding a receipt. He had not finished paying. Through the window I could see the cashier still holding his card. I think he heard the hood.
Nobody touched anything. Nobody asked my name. Three strangers stood around my engine like it was a campfire.
"Battery," said Chicken Feed.
"Could be the starter," said Fence Posts.
"It's not the starter," said Receipt.
Fence Posts made a clicking noise with his mouth to show what a bad starter sounds like. Receipt said that was the wrong click and did his own, and for a while two grown men in Tennessee just clicked at each other. I did not interrupt. It felt religious.
It was the battery. The terminals were crusted white. Chicken Feed walked to his truck, came back with a can of Coca-Cola, cracked it, and poured it on my battery.
"Has to be Coke."
"Pepsi works," said Fence Posts.
"Pepsi does not work, Ronnie."
"It's the same acid!"
"Then why'd God make Coke?"
I looked it up that night. Men have been having this exact argument online since at least 2004.
The sun was going down. Receipt said, "Somebody hold a light," and a flashlight was in my hand.
I pointed it at the battery.
"Not there. Where I'm looking."
I moved it.
"Where I'm looking NOW."
For ten minutes I chased an old man's eyes around an engine with a beam of light. I have trained with a sword for twenty years. Nothing has ever asked more of my wrists.
Then, without looking up, Receipt said, "Don't watch my hands, son. Watch my face. Took my daddy eleven years of yelling to teach me that."
So I watched his face. I saw where he was going to look before he looked, and the light was already waiting there.
He stopped correcting me.
The car started on the first try. Nobody cheered. Chicken Feed took his feed back off my bumper, Fence Posts said "There ya go," and in under a minute they were gone, the way they came.
I was closing my hood when a truck two rows over wouldn't turn over. Up went its hood. A father, and a boy of maybe nine.
I walked over with the flashlight. I did not ask. I put the light where the father's eyes were about to go.
He glanced at me. Then at his son.
"Watch how he holds it."
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Steady retweeted
the japanese were always steady. they just didn’t know it yet.
For fifty eight years, my boss in Tokyo believed that beef should be sliced as thin as paper.
In Japan, we cook thin meat for four seconds in boiling broth. That is our way.
Then last month, the YouTube algorithm showed Director Sato a video of a man in Texas smoking a brisket.
It changed his life.
On Monday morning, he called me to his desk. His eyes were bloodshot.
"Have you seen this?" he whispered, turning his monitor toward me. "The American pitmaster does not sleep for sixteen hours. He sits by the fire in the dark. He guards the meat like a castle."
I said, "Sir, it is just a barbecue."
He slammed his hand on the desk.
"This is not cooking," he said. "This is a vigil."
Last Saturday was our annual company picnic by the river in Kanagawa. Normally, we grill thin meat and yakisoba for two hours and go home at 2:00 PM.
I arrived at 9:30 AM to help set up.
Director Sato was already there.
I want to be accurate here: he had been sitting in a folding chair since 10:00 PM on Friday night. He was wearing a towel around his head and staring at a massive black barrel smoker he had imported from Oklahoma.
Inside I said: THIS MAN HAS ABANDONED CORPORATE LIFE FOR THE SMOKE.
When we tried to help him, he held up a pair of metal tongs and clicked them twice.
"Step back," he said calmly. "The stall has begun. Nobody opens the lid."
Twelve Japanese accountants stood in complete silence around a barrel for four more hours. Nobody dared to eat a single noodle until he gave the signal.
At 1:45 PM, he sliced the meat. It fell apart on the cutting board.
My boss looked at the pink smoke ring, nodded once, and wiped a single tear from his cheek.
He has already submitted an official budget request for a trailer smoker for next fiscal year.
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