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Posts for the date of Friday, April 12, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 2:00 PM |
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I was riding the elevator ascending to the swanky mid-town offices that is currently doing business as “McGraw-Hill.” This building was designed by someone who was either blind, stupid or had some sort of fetish involving a checkerboard.
But I digress.
Playing, rather mawkishly, over the speaker in the elevator was a commercial for a local riverboat casino. Now, this riverboat isn’t actually in a river. It’s in a puddle next to a river. The boat doesn’t actually move. I suppose it’s really a building in the shape of a boat, imitating a boat. If the area flooded, would it float? Probably not.
But I digress.
The commercial informed me that, if I partake in the gambling activities that this particular casino offers that I could, in fact, “Wang Chung tonight.” Yes. Wang Chung.
Now, I’m hardly a prude. I like adventure. I like doing things that are exciting and off the beaten path of normal entertainment. I enjoy letting loose and partying like it’s 1999. I’m adventurous. I like offensive movies and music that no one has ever heard of. I’m not afraid of wearing Mickey Mouse underwear. Hell, I grew up in the eighties.
But, I have never actually Wang Chunged. I have gotten down. I fought for my right to party. More than once I’ve shook my groove thang and let my freak flag fly. I’ve even gotten the party started. However, I have never in my life had the opportunity to Wang Chung.
But the commercial went on. It was adamant. If I gambled there, I could Wang Chung.
Does this casino hold the secrets of Wang Chung? Could this casino actually be the center of the Wang Chung universe?
I don’t know. Because, I have absolutely no idea how to Wang Chung. If I’ve seen Wang Chung in progress, I may not have understood it. Just like the time I went to the modern dance recital and watch the fall of Rome performed. I thought I was watching a reimagining of Fame. But I was wrong. But they had naked ladies cavorting and it was art.
Maybe that was Wang Chung? I don’t know.
Once I went to an art exhibit where a man painted pictures of various religious figures out of dog feces. At the exhibit was a man with silver hair and a cane. He was followed by a group of young boys and a pale, rail thin woman. Perhaps they would Wang Chung later while drinking mimosas and discussing the finer art of dog feces.
What is Wang Chung? Is it a state of mind or an action? Is it an ancient Oriental art that has been passed down for centuries from generation to generation of the chosen people? The truly enlightened?
Did Buddha Wang Chung? What about Jesus? Or was Wang Chung before his time? Can you safely Wang Chung in the street, or do you do it in private?
Probably not. If you can Wang Chung at a casino, it must not involve anything perverse.
Can children Wang Chung, or is it an adult activity? If I happened to Wang Chung at Disney World, would I be asked to leave? Or arrested?
These are the things I think about. Welcome to my mind.
I have to go now. I have to find Mickey’s Monkey who may be doing the Watusi with the Shimmy Shimmy Coco Pops.
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 8:03 AM |
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Parenting 101: First give up your dignity.
Kids are cute. There is no way around that fact. They are drooly, pudgy masses of cuteness designed to make us love them, in a primal way, so that we do not leave them behind when we uproot our lives and move on to the next encampment where the nuts and berries are plentiful.
“Kachuk, where baby?”
”Me left at other camp because baby heavy.”
”Good idea. We got other one.”
That’s why nature makes them irresistible. Just try to tell your wife that you left the baby at the supermarket because there was no way you could fit that charcoal in the cart with the baby in there too. You have to set your priorities.
Once the baby has you firmly wrapped around her little finger, you find that your entire life is spent on meeting her needs. Be it food, comfort, sleep or entertainment. The first three are easy. If she isn’t hungry she must need to be held. If that doesn’t help, try to get her to sleep.
It’s the entertainment portion that gets tricky. After all, this is a being who has no concept of entertainment. Where Harold Lloyd may make you laugh uncontrollably, a baby will have no frame of reference. What makes a baby laugh is a mystery and, it may not work two times in a row.
Raspberries? Hilarious. For a while, but you better have more material than that. Tickling? It moves from spot to spot. It takes time to find its home on the chubby body. Funny faces? Yeah, that’s nice. But you have to have a wide repertoire. Remember, everything is new to this little mind. While it may stand to reason that fish lips will be a time-honored, hilarious gesture, the kid is seeking more challenging material. Why get stuck on fish lips when wind is cool? “Something is touching me, yet . . . nothing is touching me. Woah.”
That’s why we lose our dignity. It’s all for the sake of the kids, man. It’s all for the kids.
That’s why, for some reason, all of Gertrude’s toys have names. And we’re not talking “Blue Rattle”, no. It goes beyond that.
Our family has the following toys:
Floofy Fly
Chewy Fly
Bumpy Star
Orbit Ball
Snozzleberries
The Chronosynclastic Infandibulator
Butterfly Guy
Ladybug Guy
And on and on. If you were to come in from the outside and say, “What’s Gertrude playing with” we would genially reply, “Floofy Fly.” If you were to be hanging out, we may ask you to hand us the Chronosynclastic Infandibulator.
That you don’t understand is your own fault.
Parents, at the moment of birth, become their own mysterious culture. We have our own language. We have our own customs. We have our own relics. We even have our own music. (How many sane adults choose to listen to music by The Wiggles. None. Because you have to be insane. Having a child automatically makes you insane.)
Eventually we may have our sanity return. Perhaps by the time Gertrude hits school.
But by then, Kaitlyn will be 12.
And just the thought of Kaitlyn going through puberty, becoming interested in boys and being only four years away from a driver’s license makes me yearn for the blissful ignorance of complete, utter insanity.
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Posts for the date of Thursday, April 11, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 6:56 PM |
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We will go blogless today. Why? Well, let's just say that a cup of coffee in your file cabinet is not a good thing. All my files are brown.
I guess if I ever get tired, I can suck on a spreadsheet and get a rush.
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Posts for the date of Wednesday, April 10, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 7:48 AM |
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There’s been another bombing in Israel. This time they think 20 people died.
I see these stories and feel so helpless. I can’t imagine living a life where you are terrified to ride a bus, go get pizza or let your kids play outside for fear that some ass with dynamite strapped to his body will blow everything you love up into bits.
Of course, were I a peace loving Palestinian, I’d be afraid of my kids getting run over by a tank.
It’s a horrible situation, and there is just no solution. Land for peace won’t work. At this point, I don’t think anything will guarantee peace, short of stripping everyone of his or her nationality and religion.
All these suicides and deaths in the name of “God” has gotten me thinking. What would Jesus do? This man, as well as his counterparts in Islam and Judaism is probably sitting in the Afterlife vomiting right now. Jesus will turn to Mohammad and say, “I gave them a book. It gave them instructions. We get David Koresh and Jim Jones.” Mohammed will reply, “Tell me about it. I’ve got a bunch of young kids strapping explosives to themselves or flying planes into buildings, killing and maiming in the name of Allah. I’m pretty sure I never said to do that.” Buddha probably is sitting there saying, “I ask for nothing, I receive nothing. I am at peace. Except for that Richard Gere guy. He’s screwing it up.”
How many wars have been fought in the name of God, be it God, Yahweh, Allah, etc.? How many people have killed themselves because they felt God wanted it? That God wanted them to kill others.
Look. God has plenty of ways to get rid of us, should he so choose. There are diseases, Earthquakes, floods . . . and if we continue this way, we may just be giving him reason to scrap his plans. According to the Old Testament, he’s done it before. He’ll flood the damn place and yell, “Do over!” Or he’ll just give the planet to the monkeys.
Think about the deaths cause over the millennia over religion. At their heart, these religions teach peace and tolerance. Yet, it only takes one charismatic zealot with a twisted interpretation on the doctrine and you start a group of people bent on destroying him or herself, or another group.
God doesn’t want war any more than he wanted Kurt Warner to win the Super Bowl. He has trusted us with this little blue and green orb and, in many different ways, left us with instructions. Heck, you can boil down Jesus’ teachings to “Be nice.” Judaism has a wonderful mysticism and the Muslims I’ve known, and respected, have had an enviable sense of peace.
It’s the Osama bin Ladens, David Koreshes, Jim Joneses and all those other psychotic asses who claim God wants us to hurt one another because, in essence, “I’m right. You’re wrong. Die.” The truly great men and women of religion spend their days in the trenches, with their communities and congregations, helping people heal and communicate. These men are rarely heard from because they are trying to change the world through a message of kindness and caring.
So, even though I’m sure I’ll be setting myself up for argument . . .
I propose an agnostic government. In general agnostics respect religion, but they do not have the faith in religion. They agree that there is an intelligent design behind this whole “life” thing, but they don’t know who or what did it. Many agnostics spend their lives seeking these answers, but are unsatisfied by the answer of one religion. It doesn’t sufficiently explain the universe to them. Or, they find no comfort in the religious doctrine.
Not atheists. I’m speaking of agnostics. Agnostics believe that life couldn’t possibly just be one happy accident, but they question the answers they’ve been given. They seek knowledge and understanding.
So, agnostics should run countries. They would allow all religions equal access, since it may bring solace or happiness to another. They would preach tolerance of all reasonable points of view because, at their heart, agnostics believe in being good human beings. Generally, they believe they should be good because it’s the decent thing to do, not for the promise of an afterlife, or 20 virgins. They believe that the community is important. Those extended families are the secret to our happiness. They know that loneliness is the number one killer in our world. Our coins would say, “In something we trust . . . maybe.”
Agnostics understand the flaws of human nature and would work together to find a solution. They understand there is a black and white and a gray and purple and blue and orange and polka dot . . .
Agnostics don’t have all the answers. No one does. But I can guarantee that the answer isn’t bombing the shit out of everyone around you in the name of piety.
I’m not saying religion is bad. I’m not saying any religion is bad. In fact, I envy anyone with the capacity for faith. I, for one, do not have that capacity. I fear I will never find my answers, but I find solace in the search.
What I am saying is that religion with firepower is bad.
Think about it. When was the last war fought in the name of “Something . . . maybe”?
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Posts for the date of Tuesday, April 09, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 8:08 AM |
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I don’t really have anything to say today. The little sausage (Gertrude) and I slept in for a while this morning and we’re both a little groggy. For some reason, neither of us really wanted to begin the day. No reason why, really, since all we do is play, eat and mess our diapers. (Well, I clean the diapers.)
Yesterday I picked up a Boppy for her. She’s become more interested in vertical, versus horizontal, play. Unfortunately for all of us, she can only sit up for about 1/1000th of a second. The Boppy gives her the ability of not falling over. To an infant, this is a major boon to her life.
Now she can sit up and play without the fear of spilling backward and slamming her head against the floor. That little melon of hers is sensitive!
I feel I must explain the sausage bit. Gertrude has gained a chubby quality that is as adorable as it is dangerous. Her little arms have a cute little pudginess that makes you go, “Aw she’s so cuuuuuuute!” Flash forward to six am where she’ll only finish off her fitful night of sleep in bed with me, while mom gets ready for work.
That cute little pudgy arm flails about with the power of a sausage shot from an air cannon. When it goes slamming into your face, it hurts.
Last night I actually wrote something that would merit the phrase “creative writing.” I don’t know what I’ll do with it. I certainly can’t publish it here because, well . . . it’s not bloggy.
It all started when I was driving in the car listening to Steve Ward and Cherry Twister do a killer cover of McCartney’s “Another Day.” I started thinking about this woman looking into a mirror wondering if she’s pretty. Everything else formed from there.
Seriously, though, I don’t know what to do with it. It’s only about three pages long, so it couldn’t possibly be published. It’s only a vignette, so it’s not really a beginning of something larger.
I just don’t know what it is.
Ah well, this was the most useless blog I’ve ever written. Sorry about that. Tomorrow I want to discuss the differences between a state that is ruled by religion and a state that is ruled by agnostics.
I have to go now. I’ve been asked to solve the problems in the Mid East. (Mid East? Why is it called the Mid East? I’m sure the residents would call it “here.” And we don’t call the US the “Evil West.”)
I have a solution to the problem, which will clear up all the animosity that thousands of years of conflict have stirred up. It’s not a simple solution, but I think with a little faith and good judgment Sharon and Arafat will accept.
It involves cheese. No one is unhappy when they have cheese.
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Posts for the date of Monday, April 08, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 8:44 AM |
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It’s a slow day. Quiet, rainy and slightly painful. I have this compulsion inside me to do something other than sit here and work. I want to . . . do something. What, I don’t know.
Gertrude is currently asleep, which is frightening. She slept all night long. In fact, she woke up two hours ago. This means that by 3 p.m. when I’m ready for the crash cart, she’ll be bouncing off the walls.
Tonight I have to send out reviewer letters for the textbooks I’m developing. Let’s just say that this is my least favorite portion of the process. I love working with the authors, love getting manuscript in, love processing artwork. Love turning over the manuscript and reviewing pages. Getting reviews is almost like measuring the wall you’re about to paint. Important to the end result, but doesn’t appeal to the creative instinct.
These thoughts came to me as I was writing an email (note official eMaritz spelling . . . I can't get rid of it) today.
A few weeks ago I came across the website of a local photographer who has traveled across “America’s Highway”, or Route 66, in search of the remnants of a bygone era when highway lanes could be counted on one hand and pulling off the highway didn’t always require a cloverleaf and three hours of prayer. Fewer people owned cars, teenagers rarely, and Mom and Dad held the magical powers of the combustion engine.
It’s still fun to try to find these examples of archeological significance when you’re driving. Naturally, you have to leave the interstate and drive down highways that don’t receive regular attention. Except for the periodic angry young man with a loud, thumping penis in the shape of a car zooming past you, it’s easy to forget the franchised, corporate, rarely locally owned businesses that dot the highways, and sometimes our communities.
These photos remind me of hot summer days spent in my father’s red Chevy Impala station wagon. And I mean red. There were at least six kids piled in the back, along with luggage, snacks and drinks and a pop-up camper being towed behind us. One brother would invariably be asleep, with his head resting on the back of the seat, nose pointing straight up at the ceiling. His mouth was always open when he slept.
We usually tried not to put gum wrappers in his open mouth. But it was hard not to.
We were crammed into the car as close as could be. It was summer, so we were all wearing shorts. How many of my childhood memories involve peeling my sweaty skin off of the vinyl seats of the car? How many involve peeling my skin away from that of a brother or sister? We were packed so tight that we’d often stick together. Literally.
We’d take the scenic route to our destinations. Often because a) the Interstate freaked my mother out, b) it was more relaxing, c) Dad was lost but wouldn’t admit it, or c) our destination was in the middle of nowhere. Often the destination would have some sort of historical significance. . . and a pool or a lake. Most often, a lake. Camping was the most affordable way to house up to eight kids on a vacation. Sometimes we’d meet cousins with the same predicament. Once, in Shelbyville, I think we had 140 blood relatives roaming around the campsite. When swimming, we drove off the rest of the campground. Forget the Hell’s Angels, Helen Kremsreiter’s kids and grandkids had just invaded town.
“What are you rebelling against?”
“Nothing. Do you have an Rocket Pops in the freezer?”
We’d see these dead signs, in obscura, partially hidden by trees or scrub. Most of us missed out on the days when the secret destinations lauded by these signs were flourishing. To us the Skyview 66 had the same personal significance as the great library in Alexandria. It was an ancient memory. The Skyview had more weeds.
I see fewer of these remnants these days. Either their memory has become obscured, or their physicality has. But, the truth of the matter is, I spend my time on major interstates these days.
I don’t often venture off into the road less traveled. Maybe I should.
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