Personal:
Home
Blog
Archives
CD Projects
FAQ
Last.FM
Radio SFT
Creative:
The
Truth
Audio Biography
Contact:
Mail
Roll Call:
Weasel
Trust But Verify
Astral Base
Cartoon Colin
Remmev
Pampered Queer
Fluid Pudding
Daddy, Poppa & Me
Extrasuperfantastic
Geek Press
Boing Boing
Goldenfiddle
Wilco Base
Be My Demon
Podcasts:
The TWIT Network
The Fredcast
The Spokesmen
|
|
Posts for the date of Friday, July 19, 2002
|
posted by Gary O'Brien at 8:03 AM |
permalink |
(0) comments
We’re being invaded. Gone are the days of the economy car. Today we are faced with the specters of the SUV, casting its long shadow across the highways and byways of the US like a convoy of tanks that come with factory installed portable DVD players.
I won’t go into one of the main reasons why I don’t like SUVs. Which, of course, is the fact that they eat gasoline like a bulimic eats chocolate cake only to expel its noxious fumes into the air making our air quality disgusting.
I won’t even discuss the fact that most of the people who own SUVs don’t actually need its specific abilities. My neighbor, whom we refer to as icehole, uses his to drive to his job and intimidate people into giving him a better parking spot. The closest he’s ever come to off-roading is parking in our grass because he can’t be bothered with finding pavement to park on. He hauls exactly nothing. He’s never hooked up a trailer nor has the damn thing ever even been dirty.
What exactly do some of these people need this much car for? Going to church? Sure, if Jesus was preaching the Sermon on the Mount and there were no paved roads, I understand. But I live in an affluent area. Most of our churches have paved roads. Hell, most of them have valet parking and complimentary washing and buffing of the sins.
It has nothing to do with utility, which is the whole point of an SUV. Sport (An active pastime; recreation) Utility (Designed for various often heavy-duty practical uses: a utility knife; a utility vehicle) Vehicle (A self-propelled conveyance that runs on tires). Not using the utility portion makes it a pointless endeavor. Rather than taking something that hogs up resources and doesn’t actually fit on the road and making it useful, my neighbors have turned it into a status symbol. It’s an SSV. Status Symbol Vehicle. It’s a pissing contest.
Here’s how it works. Neighbor A buys an Explorer making Neighbor B feel impotent. Neighbor B trades in his mini-van for an Expedition, making the Explorer look like a Passat. Neighbor A, undaunted, scraps his Explorer and buys a Land Rover, complete with mountings for a gun turret. Neighbor B, buys a Hummer, keeps the Expedition and leaves it running on the driveway 24 hours a day, to prove that he needs not worry about gas! Neighbor A builds his own SUV out of the discarded shell of a 747 and a decommissioned nuclear reactor.
Meanwhile, the cloud of fumes blocks out the sun and our non-renewable resources expire. My neighbors are left in their driveways scratching their heads while I drive by on my Segway, mooning them (which is hard considering I need both hands to drive the thing).
But I digress.
What I find deplorable about these machines (which do have a use, I do not deny) is the fact that the people driving them do not, in fact, know how to drive a car of unusual size. They are rocketing down the highway in a two-ton death machine while reading the paper or applying make up. Parallel parking? Impossible, unless it’s on the tarmac of the local airport. Parking in a parking lot? No way. In fact, you can see a segregation going on at the local mall. Up front are the economy cars, in the middle are the luxury sedans and WAY in the back, with three spots between each are the SUVs, usually straddling two are three spots.
Worse, they can barely keep themselves in their lanes. The highway has become the adult version of dodge ball. I feel like I’ve come to the game armed with a kooshball. My little economy car is no match for their steel tanks. I’m dead meat.
Two weeks ago I was driving in a construction zone. The lanes were haphazard and almost non-existent. I hit an SUV. We pulled over and inspected our cars for damage. I had a dent on my door. The SUV had nothing.
The owner comes out and exclaims, “This thing can survive anything!” Giggle, giggle, giggle.
I’ll try harder next time.
|
|
|
Posts for the date of Thursday, July 18, 2002
|
posted by Gary O'Brien at 1:10 PM |
permalink |
(0) comments
Why am I not the subject of a reality television show? I think it would be rather interesting. You’ve already had “The Osbournes” which show a family at home (albeit a really odd one), “The Mole” where people try to figure out who’s screwing who, “Survivor” an ode to greed, deception and poor eating habits and, of course, “Big Brother” where people are trapped in a house with people that drive them nuts.
I propose they film my life and call it “The Freelancer.” You can see my odd family, watch me try and figure out which client is trying to screw me over rates, see me jump up and down when I get a check, run the clock while I’m surfing the net and eat Cheetos all the while being trapped in one room. My living room.
Oh, but you think it would be boring? That’s where you are wrong.
1. I have no one to talk to all day long, except for the cat and occasionally a group of seven-year-olds who wander in and out of the house. Often, I don’t know which one is mine. In fact, I once gave the wrong kid dinner. Now that’s funny! Watch me go nuts!
2. I get bored easily. Therefore, to burn off excess energy I feel the urge to dance. If you’ve ever seen me dance then, well . . . your problem not mine.
3. Ever watched someone cut paper up and paste it to other paper? It’s riveting, I tell you.
4. I have a theory that the long hours alone are sending me down the path of insanity. Wouldn’t you like to watch?
5. My pants, shirt and socks rarely match. And when they do, I’m not wearing them.
6. Find out exactly how a freelancer spends his day!
For example, one would expect my day to be rather boring, right? I had my to do list today and I was prepared to get my hours in, feed my family and buy our mansion on the hill next door to that creepy guy who smells funny but has a nice garden.
Well, it started out that way. Then I set Matilda on the task of cleaning her room. Which, of course, took supervision. I then was able to sit down and get some work done.
However, we needed to go to Mickey G’s to mail some materials to one of my author teams. Once we got there, we realized that we needed items for Target. On the two-minute drive from Mickey G’s to Target, we realized that we should add a car cup holder to the list.
So, we picked up the following: 1 universal remote for the broken TV that I have sitting above my computer; 1 black plastic cup holder; 1 safety gate; 1 Pepsi One, to test out the cup holder; 1 Go Pack of Doritos 3-Ds, nacho cheese flavor to combine with the enjoyment of the Pepsi One.
Now, of course, we couldn’t get out of the store without wandering. We looked at Harry Potter action figures and 20-inch bicycles.
Not content with the amount of choice we then went to Toys R Us to investigate further. We discovered that Toys R Us had a dismal selection as well. And their prices are higher (obviously to feed the heroin addiction of Geoffrey the Giraffe).
Of course, we couldn’t leave until we looked at baby toys. Natch. That’s when I saw it. It called me quietly. When I arrived, the heavenly choir sang and a single shaft of sunlight hit it. Swiss Family Robinson, fully restored, anamorphic, two full discs. For a reasonable price.
Then we had to go home and try out all of our toys, including the gate. Then I got some work done. Now I’m not getting work done.
But it all balances out. Because some day I’ll live the life of leisure and I’ll suddenly be distracted by work.
It’s called Karma Stank.
So, who wants to invest in “The Freelancer”? Guaranteed Emmy nomination! I’ll give you producer credit, but no merchandising cut.
|
|
|
Posts for the date of Wednesday, July 17, 2002
|
posted by Gary O'Brien at 12:26 PM |
permalink |
(0) comments
This morning I was wakened by fat little baby hands beating on my arms to a resounding chant of “Da da da da da.” It was such a wonderful moment that I didn’t want to open my eyes. It’s one of those you wish you can bottle and keep forever, to be used when the going is rough.
When I rolled over, the baby promptly ruined it by reaching into my mouth and trying to pull out my tongue. This is why I had wanted to bottle the previous moment.
This got me thinking, as did watching the wonderful film Amelie last night. There are hundreds of tiny moments day to day that we take for granted and forget, choosing to focus on the dank and dreary, hum-drum moments that seem to depress us so.
It’s the little things in life that bring us joy. Not an anamorphic 16X9 television, though it would help.
What little things do you cherish, without realizing it?
When I crawl into bed, next to my sleeping wife, she instinctively snuggles up to me.
The baby often kisses my chin, very sloppily.
The opening moments of a movie in a silent, dark theater.
Walking out of a summer matinee into the bright, warm sunlight.
Matilda telling me a wild story that may or may not be true. In fact, at that moment she may or may not be Matilda.
The hazy fog of a summer morning.
The way the sheets feel when you first wake up.
Those moments right before sleep when reality and dream have no boundaries.
A sleepy baby cuddled up on my shoulder, eyes drooping.
The feeling of cool grass on bare feet.
The smell of a freshly opened book.
Opening the shrink-wrap on a new CD.
The smell of a wood fire.
Reading one of the books Matilda has written on her own.
The smell of the baby’s hair buds after a bath.
Pool chlorine on a hot summer’s day.
The first taste of a Guinness after a long wait.
The anticipation when the house lights go out at a concert, moments before the band hits the stage.
Pushing a stroller through the park while Matilda regales me with her tales of wizarding at the tender age of seven.
Telling Matilda that the Who’s “The Seeker” is about Quiddich. And her believing me.
Family hugs.
Popsicles dripping down your hand.
Reading a book for the fifth time and feeling as if you’ve gone home.
Those first few moments when you see a friend after a long absence.
Finding a letter addressed to you in the mailbox.
Being greeted with a cheerful, “Daddy!”
Chubby baby legs.
It doesn’t matter what they are. These are the tiny things that bring you joy. Don’t forget them. Take a moment to notice. Forget the fact that your boss is about to be a huge jerk in the meeting you’re entering. Instead, notice the hiss of air escaping from the padded chair.
Our time with each other is much too short. People float in and out of our lives faster than we can ever imagine. One moment we’re 12 and playing in a creek, the next we’re pushing 30 and staring at our kids as they sleep.
Life isn’t what you make of it. Life just is. Life is all that goes on around you. Everything else is just an ancillary.
Enjoy those little moments. Because when you’re 90, sitting in wheel chair, someone will ask you what the best day of your life was. You’ll think a moment and smile as memories come flooding back. Sights, smells, tastes emotions.
“It was a Thursday,” you’ll say. “Definitely a Thursday.”
|
|
|
Posts for the date of Tuesday, July 16, 2002
|
posted by Gary O'Brien at 10:08 AM |
permalink |
(0) comments
It recently occurred to me that many retail choices make no sense whatsoever. For example, the most common place to buy cigarettes is at a gas station. A gas station is the last place on earth where you’d want to light a match, much less walk around with a burning ember in your mouth.
Liquor stores are often located next door to tanning salons. To me, this suggests that you take the edge of your radiation burn by downing a fifth of Southern Comfort.
It’s all relative, I tell you.
However, what bothers me the most is the local butcher. Yes, that harmless man who carves cow and poultry corpses for our amusement and enjoyment. The man whom we trust with the job, which we fear the most: connecting our food with dead animals.
If you walk into any grocery store you’ll find the butcher standing behind his glass case, proudly surveying his flayed meat, glistening in the cool, harsh light of the fluorescent bulbs. He knows what part of the animal each cut of meat came from. He knows, so that we don’t have to. He does the dirty work and we’re willing to pay him a premium for derumping a heifer for our roast. We trust that “tender loins” is just a phrase, and are happy that they aren’t named “tender crotch.” He calls it “milk-fed veal” so that we don’t have to call it “imprisoned, crippled, force-fed, tortured baby steer.” It’s “sausage” not “scraped from the floor leftovers stuffed into intestines, flavored for ripeness.”
But, the only thing that bothers me about the butcher is their uniform. Their job is to carve meat. A bloody, gross job. Why do they wear white coats? They emerge from the fright-inducing back room splattered in blood, looking like a back-alley plastic surgeon who has lost his license and performs nose jobs for a rock of crack and sexual favors. Blood stained, pristine white coats and goggles to protect their eyes from flying meat debris that is deflected off their gleaming sharp instruments.
Why white coats, which soak up and display the remnants of their gruesome task so well? White coats. Like doctors. People, whom we are supposed to respect, admire and trust.
Who do we see more of? The doctor? No, we like to avoid him because he has odd, cold, clammy hands that massage and prod our bodies looking for what may possibly a life-threatening tumor lodged deep inside our soft parts. No, we see the butcher who gives us lovely, red, beautiful meat. Meat we will gather around as a family and admire as it is screaming and searing on the grill.
We associate the doctor with sickness and life saving work. We associate the butcher with cold beer, picnics and tangy sauces. And, bloody clothes.
I think we should allow the butcher to wear multi-colored clothes that befits his industry. Giving him a white coat makes him look like a screaming, insane scientist performing horrible experiments in the backroom. We envision the Island of Dr. Moreau, not Fun Time With Meats and Sauces.
I propose that we provide our butchers with a nice burgundy outfit, with coordinated, comfortable shoes. We should call him Mister and never, ever mention what he does for a living. We should thank him, but look blankly at the ground so as to not make eye contact.
And let’s change his title to “Meat Artiste.” Butcher just sounds udderly barbaric.
|
|
|
Posts for the date of Monday, July 15, 2002
|
posted by Gary O'Brien at 3:58 PM |
permalink |
(0) comments
My, it’s been a long time since I’ve updated here, much less posted a rant. And I’ve never done much with my fiction section, have I? That will change, I swear. I have something to post there, but it isn’t ready yet. Soon. Very soon.
Well, I’ve been busy with work and, well . . . hanging out with my family. Been a little depressed for unknown reasons, can’t find any good music to listen to and am bored with most of the movies I’ve been watching. I hate the book I’m reading and I think there may be a conspiracy against me getting good coffee.
GeekFriend has decided to move and, though I will miss him terribly, I laud him for the decision. The move will be good for him, especially if it gets him to produce some creative work again. In the very least, I’ll have an excuse to visit my beloved (because of Twin Peaks) Pacific Northwest. I just hope that when the day comes, he’ll understand why I’m wearing a dark blue suit, slicked back hair and keep yelling, “Damn good coffee. And HOT!”
Side note. Never wash down Tylenol with hot coffee as I just did. Ow.
My lovely wife has a new haircut. She’s swears it’s the last one for a while. It looks good. She has this sexy, avant garde artiste thing going for her. Very swanky. I just hope that no one else thinks so. It’s my sexy, avant garde wife, damn it.
However, things are actually going really well, despite my general funk. The kids are amazing. Fantastic. Wonderful. The best.
Baby Gertrude is crawling like a maniac. And teething. Which, of course, means that I’m ready for a disaster at any minute, with very little sleep. The poor kid just can’t sleep. She only wants her mother for comfort in the middle of the night, which means mom can’t sleep. I try to help, but Gertrude just won’t have me in the middle of the night. Poor kid. She’s still cute though.
She’s also trying to walk a little. She mastered crawling. The challenge just isn’t there anymore. So, walking is the next logical step. We have this little rolling play . . . um . . . thing that she motors around with, looking like a mini-bag lady. Periodically she’ll stand there without holding on to anything. Of course, she falls down because everyone starts screaming, “OH MY GOD! YOU’RE STANDING! LOOK AT YOU!” She gets a startled look on her face and falls down.
Matilda, who now knows her screen name, is growing smarter and smarter everyday. On Saturday, we were driving along, going to the park and she asked her mother how the world will end. Mom valiantly launched into an explanation of how stars die, etc. After explaining supernovas and large explosions, Matilda says, matter-of-factly, “Well, that will be an experience.” Startling.
She’s so wise beyond her years, it’s scary. She took a summer school class that involved making books. One of the stories she wrote was about a turtle that didn’t have any friends. No fish wanted him. No snail, no whale. He was all alone.
As I read it, I expected the turtle to meet another turtle, or have some sort of revelation on what it means to have friends. Matilda’s ending? “That’s okay. The turtle liked being alone.” Wonder where she gets that?
Since I’ve been working freelance, I feel as though I know this kid better than I ever had. I didn’t meet her until she was two, so our history doesn’t involve her infancy. However, to us, we’ve been together forever.
Her latest interest, and therefore mine too, is Harry Potter. We burned through the first book and are nearly finished with the second. We hope to have the third completed before school starts. I can’t explain how much I look forward to our hour of reading together at night. Maybe it’s the knowledge that she can read it herself, albeit belabored, and knowing that she’s doing it to share an experience with me.
We discuss the books over breakfast, float theories together and mine the Internet for new things. We have an elaborate fantasy life in which she is Harry’s main nemesis Draco Malfoy (her favorite character) and I am his evil father Lucious. It’s wonderful.
The books really are wonderful and I find myself enjoying them much more than my other diversions these days. I look forward to that hour a day like no other hour I’ve ever had.
It’s odd. Matilda and I have always been close. When we went to Disney World, mom felt left out. As if we had our won two-person club and we allowed her access periodically. We conspire together all the time and hatch plans to get the things we deeply desire (usually a movie or some sort of food). We’re partners in crime.
Plus, we talk all the time. About feelings, her friends, etc. Every Friday it’s just the two of us wandering around the city. We fight, we make up, we laugh, we cry. We talk about our feelings.
But this one hour a day is different. We’re sharing something in a way that we haven’t been able to before. On an intellectual level of sorts. We’ve always enjoyed movies and books together, but Harry Potter is different. Perhaps it’s that we have discovered a fantasy world in which we both enjoy finding relief from the usual grind. We do it together, and that’s pretty special in and of itself.
When we look back on our childhood, we have these warm and fuzzy memories of our parents. Special things we used to do together. Camping, vacations, going to theme parks. Little did I know that parents look back at their children’s childhood with the same warm fuzzy feelings.
On Matlida’s wedding day, as I’m holstering my shotgun, I’ll look at this beautiful young woman embarking on her adulthood and I’ll see this little blonde girl, wearing the T-Shirt I got for Father’s Day that says “Too Blessed To Be Stressed” as jammies (I get misty every time she says, “I’m sleeping in Daddy’s shirt!”) and carrying a Harry Potter book.
Everyone else will be hearing “I do” but all I’ll hear is, “Come on Daddy! Just one more chapter tonight.”
Damn it. I made myself all misty.
|
|
posted by Gary O'Brien at 9:40 AM |
permalink |
(0) comments
Confessions of a Geek will return to its regular schedule this week. I shall post something later today. Sorry for the delay. Much going on behind the scenes here at Geek Central. Some good, some not. But, so is life, I suppose. Much back room dealings. Some if it makes you feel good. Some of it makes you feel like a prison bitch wearing a head scarf and calling yourself Edith.
|
|
|
|
|
