Anyone who knows me knows about the usually-annoying attention to detail that I employ in automotive projects, but it's something that really interferes with everyday life. I mean who cares if every slice of pepperoni is exactly 3/32"? Can't some be 1/16 and the next one be 1/8? It tastes the same. So I generally try to tone it down for mundane purposes.
So one of the Things I Do is read books. Like a lot of damn books. Someday the house is going to collapse under the weight of all these books. And I usually find a typo, or a factual error, usually car-related.
Anyone who's read Tom Clancy will cringe at his mention of the Jaguar's "powerful V8 engine" (this was in the pre-Ford days.) Stephen King is even worse. Seems like every time he even mentions an automobile, he gets it wrong. I think he does it just to fuck with me.
So I'm reading this book, right? And right there in the middle of page 499 someone (likely someone's kid or grandkid) has inserted POOP in the middle of a word.
How did that get past proofreading? I mean it's POOP, in all caps.
The author sends out e-mail blasts promoting his new book (which is where I found the POOP) and actually reads the replies.
So I replied. Hey dude, you might want to check this POOP out.
Quite naturally, the author was aghast.
This led to a discussion about some other, less significant, errors in the same book (the seventh in the series) and long story short (too late for that) he sent me another copy, and one of his first book which is due for another re-print with instructions to pick all the nits.
This is right in my wheelhouse. So I grabbed a hi-liter and did work. Still doing it, should finish up later today. And holy shit, what a goddamn rush.
I've never really let that OCD dog off the chain before. I'm checking spelling/grammar, editing for Chicago style (which is more or less universal in literature) and fact-checking.
I'm a bit reluctant to call him out on automotive facts, because this is a guy who hangs out with the likes of David Hobbs and Dan Gurney, and has driven most of the cars he talks about in the books. But a few mistakes made their way in, and it's my job to find them (for a given value of "job." We haven't discussed compensation.)
But I'm Googling team transporters from 70 years ago, checking pre-Interstate map routes, tire sizes, shit like that. Details, in other words, that damn few people would ever pick up on or care about if they did.
It's a rush, and I don't know why. It should be boring as fuck. I literally get up at 0400 to do it, because it gets my heart going, and my brain (or what passes for one, see first image) is bouncing off the rev limiter.
The one time I tried cocaine, it felt a lot like this.
So yes, I am fucked in the head, and enjoying it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to verify the tire size on an old Alfa.