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Posts for the date of Friday, June 07, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 1:38 PM |
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“ya'll don't know what it's like
being male, middle class and white”
--Ben Folds
I was watching the MTV Movie Awards last night and listening to the gentle hiss of my intellect slowly escaping. I could actually feel myself lowering to another demographic. I had a sudden urge to watch wrestling, play video games and eat Skittles while I wore a hat all cock-eyed.
Some guy had won an award for something (lost my short-term memory right about the time Eminem hit the stage) and referred to his boyz.
Then it hit me. I don’t have any boyz. I don’t have a posse, a crew or a gang. I’ve never been in a clique, a klatch or even a crunch.
No one is helping me keep it real. I’ve never spoken to anyone on the down low and I’ve never shared my bidness with anyone. No one has even referred to me as “Yo.” Well, not as a proper name. Usually “Yo” is followed by an expletive and a beer thrown at me.
How does one get a crew? Where are my boyz? Am I keeping it real?
I could ask my male friends, but they would laugh at me and go back to watching Tech TV or listening to obscure contemporary classical music (yes, it exists but it is being suppressed by an elitist minority of music fans who resist change). In fact, if I ever have the opportunity to win an award and I thanked “ma boyz for keepin’ it real” my friends would probably ask me who the hell I was talking about.
Then they’d make fun of me for weeks by calling me “Kool Mo G” or “G-Train.” (You can thank Mr. Downing for “G-Train.”)
But it goes further than that. What would I win an award for?
I’ll certainly never make it as a musician, actor or filmmaker. Lack of talent holds me back. But I have the passion for it (perhaps that is keeping it real? Hell, no one who says “perhaps” is even allowed to have boyz, are they?)
Maybe I can make it as a writer. I’m certainly going to try. Someday. Before I die. Even then, I doubt I’ll be writing anything that will win me awards outside of the “Duluth Women’s Club Certificate of Merit”.
Who am I kidding? I wish?
Even the reviews I envision won’t be that exciting. Maybe I could crank up the heat on my views so that I can become “the voice of the disgruntled middle class stay-at-home dad and freelancer.” Or, “a rousing new voice of anger and rage hidden beneath the seamy underside of suburbia.”
No, it won’t happen. I don’t really have rage directed at anyone. I grew up in a pretty comfortable home environment. I was never abused, never a drug addict and have never been a Don Juan. I’m not gay, republican, democrat, green, libertarian or any other “ist” or “an.” I do what I do. Don’t know what exactly that is, but I think I’m good at it. In fact, I’m good at many nebulous, non-defined things. Including that one thing I do with a fork and that whatdoyacallit trick thing with the whoozie on the whatzit.
Even if I ever do write a book, my dust jacket will probably contain the words “touching”, “heart-warming”, “goofy”, “silly” and “portly”. I swear, though, if I ever see the word “cute” associated with anything I write I will personally track down that person and show him pictures of my children until he throws up. (I don’t like violence. It musses my hair so.)
Of course, it’ll never happen. All that will become of life will be the fact that I become renowned for keeping track of my slutty neighbor, whom I suspect of being a suburban hooker.
Hmm. Maybe I’ll write that. “Divine Secrets of the Who's Your Daddy Sisterhood or Twenty Minutes in the Dark for a Small Fee.”
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Posts for the date of Thursday, June 06, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 6:46 AM |
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Blog later. I have the kidoos this morning for a photo shoot. Then I keep Matilda while I try to work all day. Then I pick up Gertrude, feed and hose down the kids, put them to bed and maybe get a chance to blog.
My lovely wife is going out for dinner and her final water color class.
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Posts for the date of Wednesday, June 05, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 7:30 AM |
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Over the past few days, Matilda and I watched “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.” It’s a kid’s movie but . . . it was longer than hell. This is the “Dances With Wolves” of Children’s films. Add to that the fact that it’s a two DVD set, which contains 84 hours of outtakes, bloopers and publicity reels then you have a tome that’s nearly as large as the original source material.
I don’t find anything wrong with Harry Potter. In fact, I enjoyed the film and I look forward to reading the book with Matilida when she’s ready to tackle it.
But the author, JK Rowling has Steven King syndrome. What can be done in an easy 300 pages takes 800. Why? Who the hell knows? Perhaps she needed an editor. Someone to say, “Hey JK, why don’t we split this sucker up into two books?”
But, hell, this thing made a buttload of money and that’s all that matters, right? It doesn’t matter that there was a quality story that captured the imaginations of children. It doesn’t matter that kids who may have never read a book in their lives were clamoring to read these books. And it certainly doesn’t matter that, instead of focusing on who has the best Pokemon card, kids were competing to see who could read the most pages.
Back to the movie. Matilida and I enjoyed it. It was scary at times, but she closed her eyes and clutched my arms until it was over.
When it was over she told me that she would have nightmares. “Don’t worry, sweetie,” I said. “Everything on the screen was fake. It was imagined by someone else. There’s no trolls or evil wizards around.”
She went to be and slept soundly.
I didn’t, though. Because I know there really are monsters out there. But they look just like us. The bastards who don’t care if kids go to sleep feeling safe at night. Neighbors who take kids from their house in the middle of the night and do horrific things to them.
Those monsters won’t go away with a push of the stop button. Sadly, this world isn’t a safe place. But, I suppose, the best we can do is love our kids and make them feel safe. It’s their world soon. Perhaps they’ll do a little better with it.
But, then, that’s the battle cry of every generation, isn’t it? “Kids, just don’t fuck up like we did, okay? Find a way to stop blowing each other up and focus on the real problems, okay?”
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Posts for the date of Tuesday, June 04, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 10:03 AM |
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Note to sisters: I’m not intending to make you cry, but please get tissues ready. I promised I’d warn you.
"A purpose of human life, no matter who is controlling it, is to love whoever is around to be loved." – Kurt Vonnegut
Yesterday was my mother’s birthday. She would have been 72. It’s hard to think of your mother as a 72-year-old. In your mind she’s always the youthful woman of your childhood, stirring a giant pot of soup while keeping a thousand kids at bay.
I’m sure everyone who is familiar with me, my relationship with my mother and the trouble I had with her death was wondering why I didn’t post about it yesterday. And there was a good reason.
I decided to do what my mom would have done. I spent the day with my kids. Princess Matilda had an event at school in the evening and the whole family went to partake in the festivities. Matilda buzzed around like a socialite and baby Gertrude melted in the summer heat into a lump of chubby, sweaty flesh. When we got home, they were both bouncing off the walls and had to be tranquilized with blowguns to get them in bed. The wife and I then collapsed in bed, dehydrated and exhausted.
But I thought about my mom all day. I thought about all the things I haven’t been able to share with her, all the thing she missed. I don’t think a day goes by that I don’t say, “If only my mom was around . . .”
I had an odd relationship with my mother. When my father died I was five. My siblings had already begun leaving home, going to college, getting married . . . I was the baby. But our relationship blossomed into a deep friendship that went beyond your traditional mother-son relationship. Sure, as a teen I didn’t show the respect I should have, but she expected it. She let me make, and learn from, my own mistakes.
She was the best critic I’ve ever had. The comments she made on my short stories and other writings were so insightful and well thought out that sometimes I wonder if the accolades I garnered for their creation were due to her comments. She was my “audience of one.” I wrote for her. As long as she was pleased, I felt I had succeeded.
I didn’t do any creative writing for nearly five years after her death. It was when I discovered my new audience of one that I started again. It wasn’t until last August that I really began in earnest, thanks to my new audience. But, mom’s opinion still matters and I often wonder how she would react to what I’m writing. Her influence is still pervasive in my work. I rarely use profanity. That’s because of her. She always told me that it was a cheap way of expressing myself and that I could find a much better way of saying what I wanted to say without using expletives.
But, most of all, we talked. I always had an outlet and a sympathetic ear. She’d tell me when I was wrong. She’d tell me my options. And, I hope at least, I was able to provide her with the same comfort.
When she came home and told us she had cancer . . . I was numb. I remember clearly that I was standing at the kitchen sink cleaning out the filter for my fish tank. She told us, with an odd smile. Inside, I felt as if the foundation of a building had just collapsed. On the outside I just went back to cleaning the filter. I went down to my room and just sat on the steps, deflated. There was nothing else I could do. My best friend just told me that she had cancer. What could I do?
My brother-in-law came over, as he did every afternoon because my mom watched his kids. I’ll never forget the look on his face when he found out. He was able to display the emotion that I had bottled up inside. I envy that.
We went through a series of surgeries, treatments, alternatives and drugs. To no avail. When our biggest hope, major surgery, failed . . . my heart sunk. When we saw my mother being wheeled from recovery to her room she looked small and frail. The woman who, in my mind, was an indestructible giant looked fragile. It was more than I could take. I immediately burst into tears.
Had it not been for my brother, who took my by the shoulders and walked me away so we could cry alone . . . I’m not sure what would have happened.
When I finally went home, the rage that I had bottled in me since that first announcement just boiled over.
Each of the siblings had a little lucky charm that we had found in my mother’s belongings. I had been carrying it in my jeans ever since we found it. That day I took it down to the basement, placed it on the floor and smashed the hell out of it. Whatever faith I had, everything I had believed in had been torn apart. I felt more alone at that moment than I have ever felt before, or since. To this day I fear experiencing that sort of pain again.
I then smashed everything I could find (that wouldn’t be missed). Hockey sticks were reduced to splinters. The day’s mail was torn to shreds. Walls were punched.
And none of it made me feel any better. I had learned nothing except that it is impossible to “rage against the dying of the night.” Darkness always comes.
The next few months were tough, but mom and I slowly got used to her prognosis together. I spent as much time with her as possible, and what I spent away was riddled with guilt. I had a deadline.
Mom and I spoke about her impending death. To my surprise she wasn’t scared for herself. She was worried about her single, twenty-two-year-old diabetic son being alone. Even in her time of need, she thought of others. That’s the way she was. There wasn’t a selfish bone in her body. Even when she should have been crying “Why? WHY!” she was making plans for me.
She died on December 5, 1995. Less than three weeks after I had started an internship, thrusting myself into the “real world.” I was there when she died. When I saw it coming, I left the room. She and I had started my life together. I had no interest in ending hers together. I knew it was happening. I could feel it, but I didn’t want to participate. I couldn’t. I watched a hockey game in the waiting room instead.
She had done all my Christmas shopping prior to her death. What she hadn’t gotten for me, she sent people out to buy. I don’t remember what was in many of those packages. The one thing I do remember was a wide screen set of the original Star Wars films. My last gift from my mother proved how well she knew me. She knew me well enough to get the letterbox versions. Stupidly, I lent them to my (now) ex-girlfriend’s brother. I haven’t seen them since. Every Christmas I kick myself for doing that.
I think of my mom constantly. But I no longer mourn her loss. I miss her. A lot. She was an incredible woman. I wish she had been around to meet my wife and stepdaughter. I think she’d like them a lot. I wish she’d been around to meet my baby. But, part of me thinks she already has. But I would have liked to share that moment in my life with her.
I think she’d be proud of me, though. I think she’d be proud of this little family I’ve built. I think she would be proud of the fact that I turned my back on the work-a-day lifestyle to carve out my own path as a writer and editor. I think she’d smile if she knew that I was going to drop everything this afternoon and go to Matilda’s school to see the end of the year assembly. Because I was invited. I think she’d smile when I go have lunch with Matilda at school. And she’d love the fact that this summer I’m working my schedule so that I can have Fridays off to spend with the girls doing “daddy” things, like riding merry-go-rounds and playing in the dirt while watching the trains in Kirkwood.
As I said, I often say “if only my mom were still around . . .” but she is. I owe her everything. She taught me everything that I know. My values and my priorities are hers. My talents and interests were nurtured by her. Both my cautiousness and my yearning to grasp life by the short hairs and live it to it’s fullest are hers.
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Posts for the date of Monday, June 03, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 7:36 AM |
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This weekend was hot. Damn hot. Too friggin’ hot.
We’ve had this set of furniture sitting at my sister’s house, that she so graciously donated to my daughter. We’ve been trying to pick it up since April 21. The world has conspired against us every weekend until finally, on a horrid, still, sticky, painfully hot day we were able to go pick it up.
This should have been a ten-minute job. Throw everything in the truck. Go home. Put everything in the room. Done. Enjoy the day.
Not so. Geekfriend arrived at 2:30 with his truck and we went to my sisters to get the furniture. By 2:31 the temperature outside was somewhere around the same temperature as the core of the sun. Except with 300% humidity. Simply opening the door of the truck exhausted me.
This will take an hour, I said. Ten minutes to pick up, twenty of driving, ten of moving upstairs and then set up. No biggie.
Wrong. It took us an hour to load the truck because we had to keep stopping. It was hot! Then my sister took pity upon us and gave us a drink. God love her. She didn’t want dead geeks in the driveway. It would bring down property values.
For the record, Diet Dr. Pepper does taste like real Dr. Pepper. Damn fine stuff. There should be more of it.
Then we dragged all this stuff up to the girls’ room. And put it together. And went to the grocery store to replenish bodily fluids with specially engineered sports drinks.
But it didn’t end there. We had to drive out to the in-laws to pick up a new crib. You see, I had been trying to lower the bed in the previous crib and . . . broke one of the rails.
It wasn’t my fault. Granted, I was cussing and yelling because this piece of junk wouldn’t cooperate. But, it was a cheap piece of plastic that snapped because of poor design. For the record, I did want to throw it out the window, but I didn’t. I feel I deserve credit for that.
More importantly, the girls now have bedroom sets that make them look like proper princesses. Matilda’s daybed provides her with plenty of options. So far, she has yet to pick a direction in which to sleep.
Baby Gertrude’s new crib is cavernous. And she loves it. When I last saw her, she was doing laps around the edges, giggling happily.
I’m hooked up to IVs, hoping that this whole summer isn’t like this. Damn heat and humidity.
Worse, Geekfriend is going on vacation for three weeks to parts of the US that aren’t crushed by heat and humidity. And he’s considering remaining in these parts.
Alas, I suppose if it makes him happy. But, the wife and I so rarely make friends . . . I guess we can hope against hope that he’ll remain in town and pursue his artistic endeavors with us as his cheering section. If not . . .
It was probably this weekend that caused him to go . . .
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