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Posts for the date of Friday, September 13, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 3:39 PM |
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If you’re looking for the story that was referenced on Four Aunties please scroll down to the previous post.
Pat Leahy has officially gone insane. Perhaps last year’s letter that reportedly contained Anthrax contained something else and Senator Leahy has been sniffing the hell out of it.
Wait a second. Maybe he’s not insane. This document was just found.
Memo
Date: August 1, 1999
To: Sheik Osama Bin Laden
From: Those Who Wish To Remain Anonymous So That We May Perpetrate More Cowardly Acts
Re: West Nile Virus and The Death of The American Infidel Pig Dog Bastards
Sheik Osama,
We have been studying very hard this “West Nile Virus” you have asked us to investigate. We’ve discovered that most people who contract the illness exhibit fever, headache, and body aches. In some cases we can even get them to get a rash. However, we’ve found that when the infirm are exposed, they also get symptoms of encephalitis, which include severe headache, high fever, stiff neck, confusion, loss of consciousness, muscle weakness and brain swelling. In extreme cases, this results in the death of the Infidel American Pig Dog Bastard.
We have discovered, however, that this only happens in the elderly, transplant patients and people with an otherwise compromised immune systems.
Delivery is also an issue. We cannot get an airborne strain. However, we can deliver it by injection by mosquito. Yes, this sounds like a radical idea. However, we’ve hired a group of out of work minstrels to inject several million of what the Pig Dogs refer to as “Skeeters” with the virus.
We will then release the bugs in New York and allow their natural mating habits (they copulate like Saddam on Viagra and whiskey!) to spread the disease throughout the Pig Dog’s nation.
Our only set back at this point is finding needles small enough to inject the bugs. Also, our workers keep missing the bugs and injecting themselves. They are all complaining of muscle aches, fever and headaches. But they have not taken the day off to recover! Right now there are fourteen miserable minstrels injecting mosquitoes!
I know what you are thinking, Sheik Osama. What good does it do us to kill the elderly and infirm?
I’m here to tell you, my Sheik, that it would cripple their economy. Right now, as we speak, millions of elderly American Pig Dogs are sitting down at an Infidel establishment known as Denny’s to eat the Super Bird at wildly discount prices because of Super Senior Savings Saturday. Not only do they eat the Super Bird, but also Grand Slam Breakfasts, Denny Burgers and Ice Cream Sundaes. Symbols of American Pig Dog excess!
But if we were to eliminate the main consumers on Super Senior Saving Saturday, we would cripple the Denny’s monopoly, thereby creating a domino effect. First, Denny’s would fold because of the lack of senior citizens. The Egg Council, who is inexorably tied to the Omelet Cartel, would shortly follow this. Of course, this would cripple the all-powerful American Pig Dog Chicken farmer. Additionally, Major League Baseball would lose a huge purveyor of their “Flip Action Sluggers Coin Cards”. By losing this outlet for their merchandise, Major League Baseball would then fall. Without baseball, men across America would fall into a deep depression, thereby compromising their immune system making them susceptible to the West Nile Virus.
The American Pig Dog would therefore be wiped off the Earth.
I will continue my research, Sheik Osama, with your blessing.
I look forward to seeing you this weekend at our 401(K) planning retreat.
Also, I need next Thursday off to wait for the cable guy.
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 8:18 AM |
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Wow. I just noticed how heavy and depressing I’ve been lately. Sorry about that. Sometimes you get introspective. For me, I write it. So, I suppose that it becomes extrospective.
The good news is that I’m not depressed. In fact, I’m very happy. Tired and busy, longing for a real house to own, but happy nonetheless.
I still am listening to a lot of Nick Cave though.
But there are more important things going on these days. For instance, the invasion of the Lizard People. When I say Lizard People I, of course, mean one lizard that is not really a person or humanoid but, rather, a very small, cute little salamander about the size of my pinky.
Yes cute. He’s a cute little bugger. I wonder how he got in? Maybe . . . due to the fact that the kid-cattle that runs in and out of my house all day leaves the door open constantly?
So, it’s Monday morning and I’m getting my Cheerios for breakfast. (Now known as Ochee-O’s in our house. The ones that Gertrude finds on the floor, the ones she saves for moments when she gets hungry, are called “Icky O’s”. ) There on the door jam of the pantry is a tiny lizard. I go to get our humane trap (a big cup and a file folder) to release him back to the wild, but he jumps into the pantry and hides amongst our bulk items on the bottom. Crap. We have a lizard in the pantry.
I get my breakfast and sit down with Matilda.
“There’s a lizard in the pantry,” I say calmly.
“WHAT? Will you put my bowl in the sink for me? I’m afraid now.”
“It’s only a small one. It’s not like there’s Kimodo Dragon in there. He won’t hurt you. In fact, he only eats bugs and is probably terrified of your giant feet.”
“But. Gross!”
“Honey, Herbert can’t hurt you.”
“Herbert? YOU NAMED THE LIZARD?”
Of course I named the lizard. This isn’t Planet of the Apes. I have compassion for the little guy. He doesn’t want to be here any more than we want him here. He’d prefer to be on a big, warm rock, sunning himself before heading south for the winter. (Lizards head south for the winter, right?)
I saw him a few times since. But he always moved too quickly. The little bastard thought I was going to hurt him.
But today. Today I saw him by Matilda’s shoes. The kind that light up when she steps. So, I ran to get my humane trap and . . . I tapped the shoe. The lights dazed him and I put the cup over him and slid the folder underneath. Walking to the door, I said good-bye, and I set him down outside and he scampered off.
At least now I know he’s safe in his own world again. And not eating my Ochee-O’s. That little lizard bastard.
Heard somewhere deep within a lizard home:
“Herbert! You’re home! I was so worried.”
“I’m okay Mom. Gary caught me and set me free. He’s really nice.”
”YOU NAMED THE HUMAN????”
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Posts for the date of Thursday, September 12, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 11:17 AM |
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There are times in your life where you sit down and look at yourself and those around you and wonder how much you really know. How much do I know about me? How much do I know about my friends? How much do they know about me?
I’ve been trying to figure myself out, but I can’t. Most people see me as the goofy, fun-loving Mickey Mouse fan. An overly sentimental father who weeps at the sight of his children, who checks to make sure they are breathing at night. That’s true. I am those men. And yet, there’s the part of me who loves the darkness of a David Lynch film. I hide my politics from others, for my own reasons, and yet I get so angry when I see something the world does that is supremely stupid.
Lately, though, I’ve been analyzing myself through the music I listen to on a daily basis. I’ve found that, in one respect I’m a romantic. I love songs of beautiful simplicity about love. Songs that notice minor details about life. On the other hand, I like boldly experimental music that breaks all the boundaries of conventional music. And on my third hand, grown from exposure to radioactive waste, I like a dark brooding music that destroys any sense of hope you have. All of these songs, I think, describe me by the images and emotions that are associated with them.
Take for instance the music of Ben Folds, who can really span all three. In one instance, he writes a song that’s so brutally honest about a love that it is heart breaking:
i don't get
many things right the first time
in fact, i am told that a lot
now i know all the wrong turns,
the stumbles and falls brought me here
and where was i before the day
that i first saw your lovely face
now i see it everyday
and i know
that i am, i am
i am the luckiest
what if i'd been born
fifty years before you
in a house
on the street where you live
maybe i'd be outside
as you passed on your bike
would i know?
in a wide sea of eyes
i see one pair that i recognize
and i know
that i am, i am
i am the luckiest
i love you more than i have
ever found a way to say to you
next door
there's an old man
who lived into his nineties
and one day passed away in his sleep
and his wife, she stayed
for a couple of days and passed away
i'm sorry i know that's a
strange way to tell you that i know
we belong
that i know
that i am, i am
i am the luckiest
It’s the image of the old couple that gets me. I think that’s me in that song. Singing about my wife. In fact, if I had the talent for piano and singing, I’d sing this song to my wife every morning when she woke up. Because, it’s true. I love her more than I have ever found a way to say. But, with this song, I can say it. Through a proxy.
Again, on that honest love front is Stephin Merritt of Magnetic Fields (and fifty other bands, really).
Dance with me my old friend
once before we go
Let's pretend this song won't end
and we never have to go home
and we'll dance among the chandeliers
And nothing matters when we're dancing
In tat or tatters you're entrancing
Be we in Paris or in Lansing
nothing matters when we're dancing
You've never been more beautiful
your eyes like two full moons
than here in this poor old dancehall
among the dreadful tunes
the awful songs we don't even hear...
Again, it’s my wife and my inability to communicate my hopes and dreams to her. That song is us. I picture the two of us, dressed in all the trappings of a Busby Berkley musical, floating in the air among a gaudy chandelier. Waltzing through the air in each other’s arms.
Sometimes I feel the love so strongly it over takes me. I don’t know what to do with the extra emotions. “But you’re so beautiful that you make me want to cry.”
I don’t feel lightly. I don’t feel in grays. I emote with a primitive ferocity that is betrayed by my wont for the sentimental. It’s all black and white. Either I feel it or I don’t. But when I feel it, I feel it with the power of a Super Nova ready to burst.
In a way, it’s a shame that others can’t feel with such ferocity. It’s a shame that they can’t walk out their door and be so taken with the beauty of a sunset that they need to sit down. Or that they can’t feel what I feel when I watch my wife sleep at night, her chest rising and falling with her rhythmic breathing. It’s almost as if I can’t breathe, I’m so overtaken with emotion and gratitude.
But, for each wonderful emotion I feel with strength, there is a darkness. Yes, I check my kids when they sleep. The fear and need to protect them is overwhelming, especially at night. The fear that death is a step away for one, or all, of us. Sometimes I feel like I should stay awake all night, to guard the ones I love from anything that can harm them. It’s my prime directive.
But, those dark feelings extend further. To the darkness that I don’t understand. Probably never will. I suppose it’s born out of the feeling of loss I still feel over the loss of my parents, the loss of friends, the death and holes that life has left behind me. After all, as Wayne Coyne says:
Love is the greatest thing a heart can know
but the hole that it leaves in its absence
can make you feel so low
But the darkness goes further, to areas I can’t describe. And that’s where Nick Cave comes in. I view Nick Cave as a traveling Medieval Troubadour who comes to your town to tell the sordid tales of the wicked and despicable. They’re irresistible songs. So pained, so literate, so raw.
And so I've left my home
I drift from land to land
I am upon your step and you are a family man
Outside the vultures wheel
The wolves howl, the serpents hiss
And to extend this small favour, friend
Would be the sum of earthly bliss
Do you reckon me a friend?
The sun to me is dark
And silent as the moon
Do you, sir, have a room?
Are you beckoning me in?
The words contain a darkness that feels like an exposed nerve. Dripping Milton references, darkness, coldness, anger . . . Who doesn’t feel this way? Or:
As I sat sadly by her side
The kitten she did gently pass
Over to me and again we pressed
Our different faces to the glass
"That may be very well", I said
"But watch the one falling in the street
See him gesture to his neighbours
See him trampled beneath their feet
All outward motion connects to nothing
For each is concerned with their immediate need
Witness the man reaching up from the gutter
See the other one stumbling on who can not see"
With trembling hand I turned toward her
And pushed the hair out of her eyes
The kitten jumped back to her lap
As I sat sadly by her side
Then she drew the curtains down
And said, "When will you ever learn
That what happens there beyond the glass
Is simply none of your concern?
God has given you but one heart
You are not a home for the hearts of your brothers
And God does not care for your benevolence
Anymore than he cares for the lack of it in others
Nor does he care for you to sit
At windows in judgment of the world He created
While sorrows pile up around you
Ugly, useless and over-inflated"
Again, so inextricably my wife and me. Our arguments of optimism versus pessimism. We switch sides periodically, but this is us. Utterly us.
But, Nick can represent both sides of us. The darkness and . . . The better stuff of love:
I don't believe in an interventionist God
But I know, darling, that you do
But if I did I would kneel down and ask Him
Not to intervene when it came to you
Not to touch a hair on your head
To leave you as you are
And if He felt He had to direct you
Then direct you into my arms
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms
The thing about Nick Cave is that you don’t know who he is. What he represents. Is he outside petting the kitten, or holding it under the water. It’s his enigma that entrances me. I don’t know who he is. But then, who am I? Who are you?
Finally, I leave you again with Wayne Coyne. He bridges the goofiness, the emotion the darkness with this wonderful little bit that sums up what is probably my own world view. The dreadful and the hope rolled into one:
Do You Realize - that you have the most beautiful face
Do You Realize - we're floating in space -
Do You Realize - that happiness makes you cry
Do You Realize - that everyone you know someday will die
And instead of saying all of your goodbyes - let them know
You realize that life goes fast
It's hard to make the good things last
You realize the sun doesn't go down
It's just an illusion caused by the world spinning round
So. Who am I, really? Hell if I know. If I had that figured out I’d probably be the sanest man on Earth.
And we all know that’s not true, don’t we?
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Posts for the date of Wednesday, September 11, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 8:22 AM |
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I know some of my regular readers will be looking for a post today. However, I have nothing to say. Joking around about things today seems disrespectful.
Someone may expect me to write about September 11, but I won’t do that either. There is nothing I can say that hasn’t been said a thousand times over. I could put my own spin on it, but my personal feelings about the events of one year ago, and what has happened to me in the time in between are my personal feelings.
Rather, I sit here remembering how I felt one year ago. When this whole thing began. Oddly, I do not remember the mixture of fear and insanity I felt. The sorrow. I don’t remember how when I was listening to the news via the Internet I desperately wanted to go home.
Instead, I remember the reaction of my employer at the time. My coworkers and I rushed into the President’s office to watch the news coverage. As the first tower collapsed, we were shooed out of the room so they could hold their manager’s meeting.
The company itself did nothing. Said nothing until nearly 4 p.m. It was as if nothing was happening. No information was disseminated. No one set up radios, televisions. No one provided reports. No one passed along a message.
Silence. Complete silence. We sat in our offices, scanning over our lists of friends, trying to remember if we knew someone who worked in the area. One coworker sat in his office, trembling, waiting for the phone to ring. His girlfriend was on a business trip in New York. He knew she was physically okay. But he knew about the fear and chaos in New York. He just wanted to hold her.
So, to my former employer I firmly extend my middle finger on this one year anniversary of their indifference and selfishness. I exult in your failure because of your stupidity and arrogance. I am happy that my friends were able to move on to bigger and better things.
And for the rest of my life, when I mark this anniversary, I will remember how callous and stupid you were on this day.
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Posts for the date of Tuesday, September 10, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 8:12 AM |
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Why do we do it? Why do we continue to pursue relationships, despite what we know? Despite all we learn. We continue to follow along to find the next relationship, or we keep going back to the one we already have.
Why do love and the need for companionship do this to us?
If you stick your hand in a fire, you get burned. Odds are, unless you are very dense and have a sick enjoyment of blisters, you won’t do it again. But, the first time you are burned by love, you go back. And the second, third, fourth . . .
What is it about love and friendship that causes us to repeat the pain? Is it that rewarding? What does it provide us? For every high, there’s an equal low. For every moment you look into her eyes and see the world, you look into her eyes and see a wall.
When love ends, you feel a hole. A great, gaping hole that causes you to lay there and do nothing. Usually in the dark. This hole inside you is like a black hole. It sucks light and happiness in and only emits low-range bitterness. You lock yourself inside and do nothing but watch bad television and eat cheese fries. Yes, heart clogging cheese fries.
The lack of love is the greatest humiliation. You look at the world with rose-colored glasses when you are in love. When it’s over . . . you look at the world as your enemy.
We’ve all known the sweet pain of losing someone. Laying on your bed, feeling as though the world is closing in on you.
Love causes us endless pain. Even in the midst of the greatest love, you feel pain. She walks away from you. You look into her eyes, searching, but find nothing. You do all the wrong things. She hurts and you can’t help.
Love is a constant opening and closing of a wound. Healing, injuring, healing.
So why? Why do we do it?
Humans are one of the few animals that believe in monogamy. We’re one of the few that tries (many fail) to mate for life. But it’s hard. Damn hard. There’s hurt feelings, lost dreams, failed hopes.
Why?
I don’t know. I can’t say. But I know that some day I’ll see my little girls face down on a bed, sobbing over what a boy has done to them. And I’ll resist the urge to order a hit. I know that sometimes I do something profoundly stupid and hurt my wife, so that it’s her face down on the bed sobbing. And sometimes it’s my heart that is broken. Sometimes you have to watch your friends go through it. Sometimes even your parents.
Love, for all its grandeur and its pain is the one common denominator humans have. We may believe in different gods, live within a different moral framework, like different music, follow different political trails. But, if you sit down with your bitterest enemy, you’ll be able to commiserate about the pain of love. The sting.
So why do we do it? Because, in the end, the ecstasy outweighs the existential torment. The black hole eventually shrinks to the point where you’re able to function. The bitterness fades and suddenly, you forget the pain and seek the pleasure.
For there’s nothing in the world like a burgeoning love. The moment where two would-be lovers accidentally touch skin. Her hand falls on yours. You bump into one another while walking down the hall. The smell of her hair, or the look of that one pair of jeans she wears. The way her nose crinkles when she laughs or the way she hiccups.
The important thing is to not lose these things, no matter what is going on. Listen to the way she walks and watch the way she reads. Enjoy her faults, for they are what make her who she is. They make her interesting.
And don’t forget your own. You snore. You have gas too much. You’re quick to anger. You pout when you’re hurt.
Sometimes, we just need to go into the arms of the person we love and tell them, “Loving you was the smartest thing I’ve ever done.” Or, “Thank you.”
Maybe we don’t do that enough. Maybe we are too obsessed by the agony vs. ecstasy of love.
But we can’t miss the small things, or we’re sunk. Brush her hair behind her ear. Put your hand on his five o’clock shadow. Feel how your hand fits into the small of her back. Or how strong his arms are when they are around you.
It’s the small things we miss. Don’t let them pile up. Look at them, appreciate them. Marvel at them.
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Posts for the date of Monday, September 09, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 8:07 AM |
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Young Gertrude has learned how to wave. She was crawling up the stairs to take a bath, her mother acting as safety net. The whole way up the stairs she waved to me, giggling.
If you heard the shattering of glass, that would be my heart breaking. As you know, this happens to me periodically. The girls will do something that fills my heart with such love and happiness that it feels as though it will burst.
And, of course, at other times they do things that show me how much they have grown and my heart breaks. It’s a difficult emotion to bear. The world falls away and you sit there staring at one person who, in that single moment, represents the entire world to you.
There is a simple test of this moment, especially if you have kids (girls work best). There is a moment where a child threads her little hands around your neck, buries her face in your chest, squeezing tight and says, “I love you daddy.” In that moment wild marmosets could descend from the ceiling and start clawing your eyes out. You wouldn’t feel it because you’d be walking on air, trying to keep your heart bursting out of your chest.
It’s an odd feeling, it’s true. This feeling that you love someone so much that you can’t possibly put it into words or actions. That this little being sitting before you, be she seven or ten months, represents something you love beyond the mere power of mortal men’s descriptions. This love is Epic. This love is heroic. This love is something you can barely contain and yet you must learn how, lest you smother this little child.
Parenting is a series of hellos and goodbyes. I no longer get a goodbye hug at the bus stop. It would betray Matilda’s grown-up nature. After all, how would it look for a second grader to show her emotions in front of her friends? In that moment I have to say goodbye and suppress the urge to run after the bus in a desperate attempt to protect her from the harsh realities of the world. I had to do the same thing when she played soccer. I had to let go and let her do her thing. And Brownies, and birthday parties, and more . . . Already the baby is making us say goodbye. She’s an independent little bugger.
But those goodbyes are balanced out with the hellos. Matilida will come home upset over something that happened and she’ll search out my counsel and comfort. Or, she’ll need to figure something out. So she’ll ask. Or, better yet, she’ll need the answer to a scientific question (how long will the world last?).
But the best hellos are the ones that come unexpectedly. You’re just sitting there, minding your own business and you’ll be attacked with a random act of affection. Those are the best. Yesterday the baby saw me walking up her grandma’s driveway from a window. Her arms started flapping and she was shrieking with joy to see her daddy. The daddy who had walked to the car exactly thirty seconds ago. It made me feel like the most important man on earth.
You never know when that moment will hit you. You just never know. Several years ago, not long after I had met my wife and her lovely two-year-old daughter, I was moving into a new apartment. I had sent my future wife and daughter out to get us all some dinner while my friend and I continued to move all my junk into the new place.
She was gone 30 minutes. Then an hour. Then almost two. No call. No answer at her apartment. I began to worry, I began to fret. We didn’t have the phone turned on at the new place yet and all we had was the friend’s cell phone. I called, frantic, every five seconds, thinking the worst. Finally I got an answer.
And my (future) wife promptly burst into tears. They had been in an accident.I felt that feeling. It was the first time I had felt it. That my entire world was built upon toothpicks and someone had just kicked it. Had anything happened to her . . .
They were fine. But that didn’t make me feel better. I saw the car weeks later and that feeling came back. It was a mangled mess of metal. How both my wife and her daughter had come out of this unscathed . . . I have no idea.
It was that moment that I decided that I’d never be apart from them. That if anything ever happened again, I could be there to make it right.
Sure, the truth of the matter is, I couldn’t make it right all the time. But, I would try. I would give my life trying. Because at that moment I realized that there was nothing in this world more important to me than the two people who had been in that car. And now that car was destroyed. How close had they come?
Thankfully those to people were okay.
But, to this day, if they’re even a second late I break out into a cold sweat.
There are three of them now. My girls. And I will do anything in my power to assure they live a safe and happy life. I know I can’t control the world, but I will fight to the end to ensure their safety and happiness.
Because when a baby stands at your feet with her arms raised, eyes pleading or that little girl wraps her hands around your neck, you sign a contract. A binding, life-long contract.
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