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Posts for the date of Friday, August 23, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 8:06 AM |
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By the way, it’s the episode where Albert is addicted to morphine and they have to send him up the river for drug possession. Then he becomes Willie Olson’s prison bitch named Beatrice.
I may not be remembering it correctly, so don’t quote me on that.
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 8:02 AM |
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Baby is home with me this morning as we wait to take her to a doctor’s appointment. We’re watching Little House on the Prairie. She wants to know why I don’t cry like Pa.
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Posts for the date of Thursday, August 22, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 7:58 AM |
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We have survived the first day of school (at least getting on the morning bus). There was much wringing of hands, nervous pacing, worried looks and a few tears. But mom’s fine now. We gave her a Zoloft and sent her to work.
Matilda was chomping at the bit, ready for second grade. Hell, I think she’s ready for fifth grade. I was standing in the classroom with Matilda’s Bio-Dad yesterday looking at the books the teacher had set out for the kids.
“She’s way past these,” he said.
“I know. What if she gets bored?”
“Well,” he wondered, “should we send her to school with her own copies of Proust? Or would that be too presumptuous?”
“Maybe we should go for Faulkner. I think the kids won’t tease her as much if she’s carrying a book called ‘As I Lay Dying.’”
Now I wait for the burly men to come and pick up my old Corolla, which we’ve donated to “Cars For Hope” which is a children’s cancer charity.
Goodbye old friend. You served me well. Remember all those times I called you a worthless piece of crap? I meant every single one.
But in a good way.
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Posts for the date of Wednesday, August 21, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 8:00 AM |
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Every man has his limits and I have reached mine. I’ve discovered my breaking point and it was delivered by Maxtor, the evil bastards who design, build and sell really terrible hard drives that die and die and die.
I’m on my third Maxtor hard drive on the current machine on which I am currently typing. The machine that works sometimes, and doesn’t other times. And, finally, yesterday, I had enough.
My computer delivered a digital suicide note in the form of “Bad Sector”. I’ve fixed it and the thing is sort of working for the time being, but the time has come to retire this piece o’digital junk and replace it with something more . . . appropriate.
I had originally planned on building my own. But time is of the essence and, I do not have the time. I’d have to compile the components, get it all installed, format, load and do a lot of crying. Unfortunately, I have to work as well and . . . I just don’t have the time to go through that.
So I interviewed potential computing mates yesterday. People who could build my dream machine in a custom manner and still respect me in the morning. I was surprised by my findings. Going to a local store will get you a better machine, cheaper, and probably more reliable, than going to any of the national chains and asking them to do the same.
The eventual winner was Jacob at Computer Renaissance. I walked in, showed him my requirements and he started to smile. “Ah,” he said. “You want a high performance machine.” Why yes. Yes I do Jacob.
“Have you ever thought much about computers Mr. O’Brien? It’s the central preoccupation of my life.”
He pulled out a motherboard that made me cry. It was beautiful. Full of slots and chips and circuits. They shone like digital diamonds. I imagined all the beautiful data that would be shooting across those circuits and diodes. I looked at the slots and the ports and cried. Jacob held me, told me he understood.
We worked out what I wanted. Made sure that I could upgrade everything. This is the Mother Board.
It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I’ll be able to set up RAID in a few months, when I’m ready. I’ll be starting out with 512 MB of RAM and will eventually add another 512MB. If I want, I can go up to 3 gigs of ram. I’m drooling just thinking about it.
And, I’ll be putting an AMD Anthalon XP 2000+ processor on there. This puppy is going to fly.
Jacob will be taking my old machine and trying to give it a new life for another person. He said that it is like donating organs. They’ll gut it, ditch all the crappy pieces and give it to a worthy person.
And so, there goes my dream of upgrading it with a sledgehammer. But I’ll have a new computer and I’ll be happy.
And I’ll be able to watch DVDs on it. Which means now I’ll have three DVD players in my house. The power. Insane power? Can you feel it?
Oh yeah. I can feel it.
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Posts for the date of Tuesday, August 20, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 8:28 AM |
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Blogging will be sparse the next few days. I have much work to do, both paid and unpaid.
Right now I have to figure out what form factor I need for my new processor, buy some RAM, hard drives, video cards, audio cards, heat sinks, cooling units, and on and on and on. Sigh.
Plus, Matilda starts school Thursday, so I have to prepare for that too.
And, I’m involved in an exciting new project that I may tell you about someday.
And the fanged squirrels are out to get you.
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Posts for the date of Monday, August 19, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 11:36 AM |
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It occurred to me that while others are afraid of war, more terror attacks, sickness, death and pestilence, I actually fear mutant animals.
No, not frogs with three eyes or the occasional two-headed snakes. But actual, frightening genetic aberrations that strike fear into the hearts of men.
Giant lizards with wet forked tongues that hiss at you would be frightening. One that could swallow your leg if you’re not careful. If it was breathing fire, that would be worse.
Dogs with no eyes that can sense the darkness in your soul. Their wet noses sniffing and pulsating in the air smelling your secret desires.
Winged Wombats with learning disorders. They swoop down to eat you and bring you to Sylvain Learning Center.
But most of all I fear squirrels with fangs. That would be really scary. Those suckers are mean little animals, bent only on satisfying their own hunger. They don’t give a damn about you.
Have you ever seen a squirrel up close? They are frightening. When you get past their cute little fluffy tail, you’ll see that they are muscular. Lithe little machines of death.
Oh goody, the nice lady in white is here with my afternoon meds.
Thorozine take me away!
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 9:57 AM |
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There should be a special store that sells only embarrassing items (no, not the kind that you hide in your suitcase and get embarrassed about when the security agent pulls it out and questions you about its use). I’m talking about those things that deal with the biological necessities that you don’t really want anyone to know about.
Have you ever walked into a store to buy one item, say something for flatulence, toilet paper or . . . worse . . . something for your wife that you would never use.
There should be a special lane in the store that is completely enclosed, totally dark that hides your voice and face. That way no one will ever know.
These items range from Preparation H to toilet paper to feminine hygiene products to Nair for Men (yep, it exists).
Why must we confront the bitter, stupid teen behind the counter with our most embarrassing items? If we need Imodium, odds are we REALLY need it at the moment and the last face we want to see is one with a tongue stud who chuckles at you as he rings up your item.
Don’t worry pal, your day will come.
I thought of this recently for some reason. I was taken back to my days in college when a friend of mine was having a little problem with, uh, itching. So we went to the local grocery store to pick up a remedy. We specifically waited until 1 a.m. to ensure the fewest people around. We figured that, if anyone were shopping at 1 a.m. they’d have far bigger problems than his. We found the section of the store and he started browsing. He started reading the back of one of the items when, who should show up but perhaps the two most beautiful women awake at that time of day.
These weren’t just good looking women. They had fallen off the pages of a magazine. Perfectly put together, as if Nature was trying to top herself.
It really didn’t matter if he had a hygiene product in his hand. He could have been holding a stack of one hundred dollar bills. These girls never would have paid attention to us. But, when he’s holding up an unmistakable box that essentially takes him out of the realm of potential mate and they glance over, I had to laugh. Naturally, as soon as they walked in I scooted down the aisle to the vitamins. But I laughed. They couldn’t see me. All they saw was my friend, holding one of the most embarrassing items in the store, looking as though he were a deer facing down a Mack truck. All the color left his face, as he stood there frozen, the girls staring at him wondering where this hysterical laughter was coming from.
I laughed so hard that I was doubled over on the floor, as if I were having a seizure. And I couldn’t stop. I was gasping for air.
My friend ducked out of site and the girls disappeared. He came over and started kicking me, “Get up you ass! As if it wasn’t embarrassing enough!” It was too late though. He could have shaved my head and I wouldn’t have been able to stop laughing.
We waited enough time to make sure the girls were out of the store to check out. With his product in hand, we went to the late-night checker who clearly could care less what we were buying. She just didn’t care. Who walks in behind us? The girls. I lost composure again.
At least they didn’t have to do a price check.
My point is if there were a special store, he wouldn’t have had this issue. No questions asked. No one would ever know what his discomfort was, they wouldn’t care. Of course, only cash would be an option. Otherwise the clerk would know who he was and his credit card company would know what he was doing and why.
I’m not immune to this, of course. I’m married and, periodically, I have to go pick up things for my wife. Things that I would never use. COULD never use. Everyone who sees me carrying them should know that I’m there out of my undying love for my mate. Yet, as soon as I check out I start making excuses.
“Uh. My dogs drool a lot so we put these under their chins. That’s why they have wings and stuff. Because it’s really hard to get a St. Bernard to wear this because they are big and stuff and I have to sedate them. Can I have a Playboy too? Yeah, thanks. You know, I am manly. Really manly. I look at naked chicks all the time because I’m really manly and stuff. You have a good night Sven! We should hang some time and go to a strip club or something!”
Then I punch him and run away, my masculinity secure.
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