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Posts for the date of Friday, June 21, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 7:34 AM |
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I am not cool. Never was, never will be. In fact, I am patently uncool. No one who wears surfer shorts and Mickey Mouse t-shirts will ever risk being invited into the fold by the chosen ones. It has been my distinct honor to be giggled at by the Starbucks neo-hip.
But I’m okay with this. In order to accept hipness, to take on a hiptitude, I would have to give up what I personally feel is my greatest attribute. The mere fact that I simply do not care what other people think of me. You think I’m uncool? That’s fine with me. You know why? Because you measure your sense of coolness by what your magazines tell you, or by what Entertainment Tonight sets as criteria.
That’s not for me.
I listen to music with bands that have fruit names. I think that’s cool. Apples in Stereo, Orange Peels, Strawberry Design, Outrageous Cherry, Three Apples High. Never heard of them? Of course not, HOT 97 doesn’t play them. But it’s okay that you’ve never heard of them. You should like what strikes you.
It so happens that I enjoy what’s considered “Children’s” television. Blues Clues, Bear in the Big Blue House, Powerpuff Girls. And so on. I can use my kids as an excuse to watch them now but when I lived alone I still woke up every Saturday morning to watch cartoons. Why? Because I enjoyed it.
I don’t fear my emotions. I blatantly love my wife and take every moment I can to sing her praises. She’s a good woman and I’m lucky to have her as my spouse. I don’t hide my feelings about my kids. They are the center of my life, not career, not entertainment. I’m not afraid to admit that I’m feeling maudlin over the prospect of Geek Friend moving. He may not, but I don’t want him to. His friendship makes life more enjoyable. He’ll still be my friend whether he lives in Colorado or Budapest. But not having him around will fill me with a feeling of sadness.
I like what I like. If that includes ugly Hawaiian shirts, so be it. They make me happy. So do The Beach Boys and The Beatles. I like Talking Heads, Science Fiction and Scratch-n-Sniff Stickers. I enjoy good beer, better coffee and bad movies. I like to stay home on Friday nights and go out on Wednesdays. I like to stay up all night reading and spend the day playing. I like bike riding and running away from bugs. I like good sixties pop, and corny fifties pop. Animated movies and puppet shows. I like the zoo because I like weird animals. I like the way ice cream melts, runs down the cone and gets on my hand on a hot summer day. I may even be tempted to lick it off.
In fact, I may be so uncool that I’ve become cool by being different. I don’t think I’m a cookie cutter mold. I don’t follow any political party, as I make choices on the issues based on my own beliefs. Sometimes those stances change, based on my emotional state. My life isn’t defined by black and white. Nor grays. Sometimes I like a few reds, purples and a polka dot thrown in there.
And I seem to have lost focus of this lately. I needed to write this for myself to remind me that I’m not who I am based on what responsibilities I have. I am who I am because that’s just the way it is. The freelance work I have was given to me because of who I am. They like that I can identify movies by the font on their opening credits. My wife enjoys the fact that I can name a song within the first second or identify a movie on television within three. My kids like me because I can make monkey noises.
I have to remember what I’m good at. I have to remember what I am and be that.
And so should you. Don’t let others define you; define yourself. Don’t give up things you love just because the rest of the world doesn’t appreciate them. If that were the case with everyone, Van Gough would have opened a store and become “The Painter of Light.” Beethoven would have written elevator music and Hitchcock would have made musicals. Kermit the Frog would have married Piggy and spent the rest of his life miserable, because it was expected.
Don’t do the expected. The unexpected is so much more fun.
Just do me a favor . . . keep your clothes on in public. You still have to be mindful of public decency laws.
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Posts for the date of Thursday, June 20, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 10:15 AM |
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I'm currently the number two result on Yahoo for "ugliest geek photos." I'm ranked right up there with Tech TV, so that ain't bad.
However, I'm not sure how I feel about this. I mean . . . am I an ugly geek? I've always figured I was a snobby geek. An elitist, in a sense.
Oh well, sorry to whomever searched for ugly geeks. We don't have any here. Just plain old me.
I leave you with this thought:
If a server crashes in the forest and there's no geek around, will the DNS be rerouted?
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Posts for the date of Wednesday, June 19, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 1:03 PM |
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Congratulations Chris O'Brien! (She's my wife) She now adds "Award-Winning Writer" to her impressive list of qualifications.
From the Elsevier Science publishing company's internal Website:
LATEST NEWS
Fontella Bradford and Chris O'Brien, ES employees in St. Louis, USA received International Association of Business Communicators 2002 Bronze Quill Awards. Further information on ES Today.
St. Louis staff win writing awardsTwo Elsevier Science employees in St. Louis, USA, received International Association of Business Communicators 2002 Bronze Quill Awards this year in the Writing - Sales Promotion and Marketing category. Fontella Bradford, Senior Copywriter/Project Leader, received an Award of Merit; and Chris O'Brien, Copywriter/ Project Coordinator, was given an Honourable Mention. The Bronze Quill Awards recognise outstanding efforts in business communications in the St. Louis metropolitan area. Entries were evaluated on several levels of effectiveness including addressing communications issues or problems, meeting project objectives, and overall project success. For more information go to http://www.iabc.com.
Yay Lovely Wife!
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 12:33 PM |
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Note: Honey, I love you! You are a wonderful wife, a great mother and a fantastic companion. You are everything I’ve ever wanted out of life and I look forward to spending the next sixty some odd years with you. That being said, I apologize for the following post. I’d also like to point out that putting arsenic in someone’s soup is illegal, not matter what he or she posts on their blog.
I have successfully survived seven months of breastfeeding a child. Not me personally, of course. My wife is doing all the work. I stand beside her and yell encouragement, do cheers, that kind of stuff. Such as:
Lactate! Lactate!
It’s the food the baby ate!
Goooooooooooo mammary!
Currently I’m not allowed in the house when the family is there. But my fingers are crossed that I’ll be allowed back after weaning. My wife says it has something to do with a loud bass hole that is near her when she’s feeding the baby. I don’t know what a bass hole is, but I hope it goes away soon because I don’t have any clean clothes.
Of course, there are amazing health benefits to breastfeeding. I learned about them in our labor classes. Things about health that I don’t remember because I was trying to tie my shoes in a Celtic knot. However, I hear they are many. I also understand that breastfed children are genetically predisposed to beating the crap out of formula babies in a bizarre class war that adults will never understand.
Plus, there’s no bottle heating. The baby’s food is on tap, which is a boon. What’s amazing is what a mother can accomplish while the baby is eating. She can run on the treadmill, read a book, cook dinner and feed the baby all at once. I have a hard enough time keeping my zipper from falling down throughout the day.
Men are ill prepared to handle the requirements of breastfeeding. Their requirement, of course, is to shut the hell up and go away until their wife is done. For some reason, tickling the baby while she’s eating is “distracting” and making jokes about Bessie the Cow are “insulting” and “annoying.” Whatever. I just know that breastfeeding includes a lot more than I ever expected.
First of all (my wife is going to kill me) are the maternity bras. They have flaps that allow easy access for the baby. If teen boys knew these existed, there would be a glut on the market.
There is also a need for a “spot” that is quiet and comfortable for her to nurse the baby. I understand this because, well, she has another human being attached to her for the time being and, well . . . that’s odd.
One thing that isn’t mentioned is the machinery that accompanies breast-feeding. Apparently, and men have no concept of this, when the baby hasn’t fed for a while (makes her sound like the undead feasting upon souls of virgins) the breasts hurt. Not just, “Ow my breast hurts” but pain that will actually cause the woman to consider hooking a vacuum cleaner up to her body and milk herself. Again, didn’t know about this.
Men would never be able to handle this. First of all, when their chest began to grow, they’d think it was cancer and try to have them removed. Secondly, they’d never put up with the pain associated with “engorgement”, a word that would frighten them to no end. No, as soon as the pain hit, they’d dump the tanks no matter where they were.
We’re talking about a gender that has no problem with public urination. Do you seriously doubt that men would dump the milk behind a tree in their neighbor’s yard?
If men breastfed, the taboo of breastfeeding in public would end. Again, I play the public urination card. They wouldn’t care. They’d whip them out right in the middle of dinner. Hell, they’d do it at church. Wouldn’t bother them a bit.
However, there is some sort of bizarre taboo against women feeding their children in public. Why? It’s quite natural. We watch our dog poop in the lawn and laugh. See a woman discretely feeding a baby in public, a blanket covering all the naughty bits, and she’s infringing on your rights. For some reason it’s okay for teen girls to walk around showing ass crack and baring cleavage that would make Lonnie Anderson faint, but breastfeeding moms have to hide.
The world makes little sense to me. But that’s okay. I don’t think it’s supposed to. If it did, then I’d probably be a woman. And I think I just made it pretty clear why I can’t be . . .
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Posts for the date of Tuesday, June 18, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 9:50 PM |
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Yeah . . . remember how I was going to write something today? Well, I didn't, so get over it.
However, I leave you with this ad I came across today.
Yep, you guessed it . . . It was a pop up.
The irony is almost too much to bear. Just wait for it . . . wait for it . . . and it is now officially too ironic to bear.
Thank you ladies and gentlemen.
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 9:58 AM |
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Random note before full blog:
I was notified that I was the 98,678,959th visitor to a website today and I won a glorious prize. Two problems. It was at a website that I run and I know for a fact that I've never had more than 11 visitors. All me. Two: why the hell would anyone celebrate this number? It's like getting excited over having worked at the same company for 37 days. It makes no sense.
Stupid ad companies. I woldn't mind pop up ads so much, were it not for the fact that most of them are STUPID. You are stupid! Stupid! Stupid!
Great, now I have a vein throbbing in my temple. I need to find my center.
Ohm. Ohm. Hey look, there it is, just below my chest. Whew!
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Posts for the date of Monday, June 17, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 3:03 PM |
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My first “official” Father’s Day has come and gone. We’ve always celebrated it in the past, but this year was different. Perhaps it’s because I have a biological child now. Or, it may be that now that there are two children, our family feels more like the traditional American ideal of . . . something.
I woke and came down to find some brightly colored wrapping paper and cards awaiting me. I grabbed a cup of coffee and some donuts (my family knows my weaknesses) and I got ready to revel in my fatherhood. Then Intercot went down. So I had to investigate that because John is out of town.
When I diagnosed the problem and decided there was nothing I could do, I went back to the festivities.
The girls gave me some CDs. The best one was Brian Wilson’s Pet Sounds Live, wrapped in a real Hawaiian shirt, complete with a picture of a Woody on it. I think they thought this was a great joke, giving me the traditional ugly shirt. However, it backfired when I immediately put it on and wore it the rest of the day.
I think my lovely wife had a sudden glimpse of our retirement. Me in an ugly shirt, red shorts, sandals with sunglasses berating the kids at the local coffee shop (in Florida, of course). I really do like this ugly shirt and it will become a classic member of my wardrobe. When I get depressed, I can wear the shirt and lay in bed . . . just like Brian Wilson did.
Matilda made me a book called “Fun Stuff You Want!” It’s quite cute, filled with pictures of computers, TVs, Refrigerators(?), comfortable pants and a section in which I can add my own wants and desires. However, the best part of the book is something that betrays her wry sense of humor (something most kids her age don’t have). There is a dedication page with my name in a drawing of a computer. On the opposite page is, and I’m not kidding, “A Fun Picture Book For Children”. I love that kid. I rolled on the floor when I saw that. She has a bright future.
Baby Gertrude made me a book as well. Her mom helped. It contained pictures of herself (she’s so vain she probably thinks this blog is about her) and a cute narrative about how much she loves me. For example, under a picture of her eating the Sunday paper is this:
“Every morning I see my Daddy rustle around with this neat, brightly colored stuff. It makes really great noise, and I promised myself that as soon as I was big enough to pull up on the table, I’d rustle this stuff around just like my daddy.
“Sure enough, I got it! Daddy grinned at me and let me taste the printer ink.”
She’s a smart kid. Her Mom’s no slouch either. And all three of them are such pretty girls. I think I managed to luck out in this situation. How did I end up with such a great family?
Also, the voting came down to the last minute, but I managed to win the “Father of the Year” award from the girls. I have a signed certificate and everything. I’ll have to check into possible prize money. After all, the Nobel comes with cash. Why shouldn’t this?
I have to admit that I did lobby quite a bit for this award. I’ve stepped up my campaign with trips to the birdie hospital, shopping sprees, surprise ice cream runs, trips to the park and nightly readings of the first Harry Potter novel, complete with distinct character voices.
Since I can’t let any thing go by without reflecting over the over all significance of the day. Really, I thought about the role of a father and what that means.
We can’t really depend upon the media to show us what a father is. Turn on any television set and you’ll find a befuddled moron, mildly interested in his children and hell-bent on finding his next beer. Can’t trust magazines either. Most parenting magazines focus on the point of view of the mother, only mentioning fathers when they invariably screw up.
I don’t think I’m alone in this. I know there are plenty of involved, participating fathers who are huge parts of their children’s lives. However, there is no role model for us. We can’t look to anyone or any resource as inspiration other than our own fathers.
I am a proud father. I want to watch my kids do everything. I know my brothers are the same way. We are all more involved today than many men were in the past. We split the duties of raising the children. “Split” isn’t the right word. We share the job, work as a team with our spouses.
My wife and I are certainly a team. We work together to ensure that our children are safe, happy and living in an environment as free from hardship as possible (it’s impossible, and not recommended, to avoid).
Being a father isn’t difficult; it just takes time and dedication. And being a father is so much more than a nine to five job. Sometimes you have to act as a surrogate to other children who may find it easier to come to you for advice than their own parents. Sometimes you have to be an objective observer for the young ones.
In some ways, I’ve become the neighborhood dad. Kids come over to play not just with my daughter, but also with me. Even if I’m just sitting at the computer, they want to see what silly things I’ll say. They want me to make the baby talk. They get excited when GeekFriend (who will one day make a great father himself, even if he never has kids) arrives because he has such wonderful toys in his truck. We play together outside, go for bike rides. When the kids are at the bus stop, it’s me they come to for help with conflict resolution.
One of the local kids is a “trouble maker”, except when I’m around. He doesn’t want to disappoint me. Even his parents somehow deign to what I say, in some bizarre way. I once saw him riding his bike recklessly through the neighborhood. I asked him if he had a helmet. He said no. “Well,” I said, “You should really get one. It could save your life. And it’s local law that everyone riding a bike wears a helmet.” The very next day he came back to show me his new bike helmet.
Fathers deserve better. We’re not all bumbling morons. Just as all moms don’t leave their infants in trashcans. The bottom line is that we love just as well as we are loved. We give all we can and ask for nothing in return.
When you get the chance, take a look at your dad and think about what he’s done for you. How many dads out there never cease to surprise? How many times has a little girl wished she could learn to play piano, lamenting the fact that she didn’t have one to play, only to find a Kimball upright in the living room the next day. No explanation, no conditions.
That’s what we dads do. We usually do it quietly, without question.
Besides, we have remote controls now. It frees up time.
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 10:32 AM |
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Hey kids. I'm late today, and probably will be switching to night posting for a while. Matilda started summer school today (this is a good thing . . . summer school is no longer for thugs and morons) which creates a really bizarre driving schedule that will remove a couple of available hours from my day.
So, until I get a chance to talk about Father's Day, I thought I'd leave you with the Google searches that have hit my page. It's odd to think that I should be careful about what I say, and it explains why the kids are no longer named by their real names. I'm actually surprised about some of the words I've used and in what context. I certainly hope I haven't upset some of the dopes who were looking for the more lacivious stuff below:
geek feces
Secret Confessions
"have to ask you to strip"
stock analyst monkey
splodeydope
chronosynclastic
fargo snow globe
tickle torture
huffing Vicks Vapo Rub
Bet your bippee
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