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Posts for the date of Friday, September 20, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 12:26 PM |
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I was watching Sesame Street today at lunch. (Yes, I am a grown man watching Sesame Street at lunch. What’s it to you? I happen to like letters, numbers and Muppets.) I noticed something disturbing that I hadn’t noticed before. More disturbing than the theories that Bert and Ernie are gay (they’re not . . . they were found naked together once, but it was hot and the building doesn’t have air) or the fact that Mr. Hooper was actually a CIA hit man.
No, the truth is that Sesame Street seems to have taken a turn into the erotic. You don’t believe me?
First, Big Bird and Snuffy were having a genial conversation out on the street. Now, disregarding the fact that everyone can now see Snuffy has destroyed the mental stability of children ‘round the world (think about it . . . when the regular inhabitants of Sesame Street started seeing Snuffy, it proved to children that their imaginary friends were real and it was EVERYONE ELSE that had the problem . . . of course everyone else on Sesame Street talks to a giant bird) something truly disturbing happened.
While strolling down the street, Big Bird gently asked Snuffy if he’d “like to play a game of In and Out.”
The world stopped at that moment. I’ve seen A Clockwork Orange. I’m up on my double entendres. I know what that meant. Big Bird just asked Snuffy to have sex with him. Snuffy’s response, “I’d love to Bird!”
“Great,” said Big Bird. “Oscar can help!”
Dear God. What did I do to deserve this? What has happened to children’s television when you can turn it on to see a giant yellow bird ask a once imaginary wooly mammoth thing to have sex. I mean, I always knew. I just didn’t . . . know.
By the way, I’m not making this up.
So, I’m getting over my trauma when they cut away to the next scene. There’s Elmo walking down the street in his usual moronic self-imposed stupidity based on his frozen development at the age of six. I know monsters are different than humans but, for crying out loud, get the fuzzy little kid some help! He’s a moron! Despite all the touting of education and knowledge on the show, Elmo hasn’t learned squat. What sort of sign is this of the effectiveness of this program? Deaf, dumb and blind kids sure can play pinball, but Elmo the monster is a diploid that can’t seem to remember a simple sequence of twenty-six letters.
Anyway, Elmo’s walking down the street and then starts jumping up and down. I can only say that he was emotionally erect. He was excited because his friend Edie Falco was coming down the street. Yes, Edie Falco. Carmella Soprano herself. Mob boss’ wife.
They greet and exchange pleasantries. Suddenly, Elmo gets sullen. When pressed, he reveals that his hand hurts. Edie kisses it. Elmo then states his arm hurts. Edie kisses it. Elmo states that his cheek hurts. Edie kisses it. Elmo says his leg hurts. Edie suggests that she just hug him (oh, we’ve all been there, haven’t we?). Again, this all really did happen and I’m not making it up.
Then it hit me. That little furry runt isn’t a kid at all. Not in the true sense of the word. He’s pretending to be a child to gain the sympathy of beautiful women so that he can nuzzle in their buxom areas. He’s a scam artist! My god, the women he’s probably groped over the years. He’s a furry pervie.
I’m traumatized. Truly. Now I have to decide whether or not I should expose Baby Gertrude to this or . . . Let her watch David Lynch movies. Which one will give her the truer picture of the real word? Midgets that talk backwards or furry monsters trying to pick up the ladies?
I do know one thing for sure. I’m going to hell for what I’ve written
This post brought to you by the letter X.
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Posts for the date of Thursday, September 19, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 3:47 PM |
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I’m back. An addendum to the post below. (For those of us who are a little slow today, that means “The post directly underneath this one. That is to say, the post that was posted before this post. The pre post.”)
All I know is that my anger is betraying the new persona I have created for myself. What new persona you ask? Why I’m glad you ask.
Because I no longer work in an office, I feel as though it is my duty to portray the relaxed guy who works at home. You know the guy. He comes in the office in jeans to pick up work. He’s happy, chats with everyone and you think, “Wow, what a great guy. I wish he were my friend. I think I’ll give him money!” And then you give him money!
But I’ve further refined that image. Yes. I’m laid back freelance guy. I walk into the office, crack some jokes, make people smile and wish they had my job. We all gain something out of this. They gain a good memory of the day. Maybe it’s a horrible day. Could be. Most of them are. But at least Gary came in and made you smile with that joke about the Cuban monkey dancer, right? And I get the lone social interaction of my day outside of my family (and they are required to pay attention to me).
I’ve taken it further. I’m now “Ugly Shirt Guy.”
I didn’t feel that it was enough just being visibly laid back. I need to project laid back in the most obnoxious way possible. And what better way than with outrageously colored and patterned shirts, indiscreetly untucked. They’re loose, they’re comfortable and they annoy people.
Oh, one other minor point. I actually look good in them.
So, I went into Mickey G’s yesterday wearing my favorite Ugly Shirt. It is technically white. At least that’s the base. But it’s the scene of a Woody (it’s a car, pervert) sitting on the beach under a lightly cloudy sky. My shoulders and chest are the sky and my stomach sports the Woody (stop thinking dirty thoughts!). It’s lovely. It’s loud. It screams, “I work at home and fashion means nothing to me! Be happy I’m wearing pants!”
I always wear pants, by the way.
So, I’m riding the elevator with a Mickey G’s employee. She says, “Is that a jeep on your shirt?”
“No, it’s a Woody. Very popular part of the surf culture of the early sixties.”
“Oh. You and your damn shirts.”
Me and my damn shirts. Finally. I get recognition. I am officially ugly shirt guy! Even better, the UPS guy, Dan, was riding back down with me. “You know, I wish I had a job where I could wear a Hawaiian shirt like that.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Ugly shirts are the way to go.”
“It’s not ugly! It’s a status symbol. That shirt signifies that you have what we all want. Freedom and happiness. Enjoy it!”
And so I shall.
And history supports me. Many great men have worn ugly shirts. They’ve been highly creative men who over come great problems and revolutionize the world, as we know it.
Who is it you ask?
For one, Brian Wilson. Despite his paranoid schizophrenia, heavy drug use, massive weight gain and nearly debilitating depression of decades past, he revolutionized music as we know it.
Another? John Lasseter. One of the coolest men on Earth. Head of Pixar, Super Genius. Plus, his entire staff wears ugly shirts. Hats off to you boys!
So I accept this responsibility. As Ugly Shirt Guy, I will exude my own version of cool, not bending to the rules of society at large. I will ooze laidback happiness. I will show the world what it means to be an Ugly Shirt Guy. I will urge people to add some music to their day. I will skip and sing and say weird things.
I am Ugly Shirt Guy. See me roar.
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 3:44 PM |
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I’m late today. Why? Because I’m in a big, hairy rotten mood. That’s why.
Maybe it’s the weather. Maybe it’s China’s fault. I don’t know. Maybe you should just blame Walter Knoll for failing to deliver my wife’s anniversary flowers yesterday. Those bastards. I hope they get pricked by a rose and get a really nasty infection that smells bad.
Plus, I encountered a serious problem on the elevator today. It smelled like Body Odor of Biblical proportions. The entire defensive squad of the Rams doesn’t smell this bad after playing a day game in New Orleans in August.
Look, if you have body odor that’s so bad it LINGERS behind you, you have a problem. How in the hell could you not notice that you smell so bad that you leave vapor trails that peel paint off the walls? I know people want to leave their mark but, my God. This could cause brain damage.
I rode the elevator, trying to hold my breath (I don’t want pit stank in my blood system! It might seep into my body and start oozing out of me!). I said a silent prayer to the God of Embarassment. “Dear God, whose name I do not know, though I suspect it may be Bob, please don’t let anyone get on this elevator, lest they think it is me that smells like the rotting floor of a boys locker room.”
Friggin’ thing stopped at the next floor. I guess there is no Bob. I decided to head off his thoughts at the pass.
“This isn’t me,” I said to the very tall man who entered the elevator. “There must have been someone who boarded the elevator before me who has a glandular problem.”
His response, “Yeah, that happens.” I could see that he didn’t believe me.
Jerk. I was reaching out to him. Trying to connect on a level that few people ever connect on. And he rejected me.
And you wonder why I don’t like people.
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Posts for the date of Wednesday, September 18, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 8:01 AM |
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I clearly remember the first time I saw her. It was five years ago. She was standing at a copier. She had on gray pants and a long sleeve silky white shirt. She had the longest brown hair I had ever seen in my life.
I was instantly transfixed. I wanted to meet her, but I had to be sure that the conditions were right. So, I called in the CIA of my office, Angie, Carol and Kim. First step was I had some freelance work. I notified everyone and asked Kim to tell the new girl, so that she could have an opportunity for extra money. She emailed me. Bingo. I had her name and other pertinent information.
Next, the CIA and I staked out her cube. She had a picture of a little girl holding a cucumber. Okay, could be a niece. But could be a daughter. Alarms started sounding. The covert operatives did some checking and discovered that it was a daughter.
Damn! Where there are children there are usually significant others. I was ready to abort the mission.
Then I got a call from Agent Angie, “She is unattached. Repeat. She is unattached. Proceed with project Happy Hour.”
We set up a happy hour that Wednesday. She was able to come. In my nervousness I drank too much too quickly. I made a total ass of myself by talking too loudly. She left. DAMN.
What followed was a group lunch that led me to request a personal meeting in the form of a date. I asked in an email. IDIOT. No one accepts a date over email.
But it was the only way I could do it. I was nervous. I was out of practice. Plus, what were the odds that a woman as beautiful as her would ever consider going out on a date with me. I’m a geek for crying out loud!
She said yes. I’m not sure if she saw it from her cube, but I launched head first into the ceiling out of excitement.
The next few months were a whirlwind. I fell in love. I fell hard and fast. And over coffee in Denny’s (Literally, the coffee was all over the table and my arm because she spilled it) I realized that I would do anything to spend the rest of my life with her.
Months later I picked a ring, with ample advice from my big brother. I didn’t ask any of my family to join me, except for that one bit of advice. This was something I was doing on my own. For the first time in my life, this was mine.
I had this elaborate plan. We’d go to the scene of our first date. I’d have the ring in my pocket and we’d chat over coffee for a while. And then I’d pop out the ring and ask her.
It was a great plan. Such a great plan that I emailed Angie to tell her all about it. She still has the email somewhere in her vast archives.
I picked up the ring and hid it in my brief case. The plan was to ask her that weekend and it was only Tuesday. I went to her place for dinner after work, as usual. We put her daughter to bed and settled down to watch TV for the evening. I lasted exactly one minute.
It wasn’t exactly romantic. Not like I had planned. But it was certainly from the heart.
You see, when you realize that you want to spend the rest of your life with someone, you don’t want to wait for the rest of your life to start. You want it to begin right at that moment.
I didn’t want to wait. I knew then, as I know now. We were meant to be together. Not exactly like Romeo and Juliet, mind you. But, more like the couples in those goofy Sixties pop songs.
And so here we find ourselves. Three years ago today, I did the smartest thing I’ve done. I married the woman of my dreams. I’ve loved every single moment.
Each morning I wake up and I see her and I smile. That’s my wife. When she was showing off her truly unique watercolors to our friends I thought, “That’s my wife.” When she was holding our daughter for the first time, tears streaming down her face I thought, “That’s my wife.” When I make her cry by saying something insanely stupid, tears well up in my eyes and I think, “That’s my wife.”
Three wonderful years have gone past. In one sense they feel like only a moment. In another sense, they feel like a lifetime.
Ours is a relationship that feels more mature than it is. It’s a three-year-old marriage, but I feel as though I’ve known her all my life. As if, when each of us were conceived our hearts were automatically destined for one another.
And after three years I can still get lost in those eyes.
Happy anniversary honey! I love you more than I can possibly ever find the words to express.
If I haven’t said it enough . . . Thank you for marrying me.
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Posts for the date of Tuesday, September 17, 2002
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Posts for the date of Monday, September 16, 2002
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 8:38 AM |
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Ever since Geek Friend left, my wife keeps telling me that I need some sort of social interaction outside of seven-year-olds after school and the fleeting moments that I spend with Mickey G’s people at the office when I drop things off.
I agree except, the only things I’m interested in doing are listening to music, watching movies and reading. Those are my favorite relaxing moments and they aren’t exactly social, you know? You talk to me during a movie and I’ll punch you.
She suggested taking a class. Which is a good idea but, all the classes I want to take would involve people I really wouldn’t want to hang out with. Astronomy students would be fun, but I’m not sure they relax by watching surreal French films. Do they? I don’t know. Physics students would all be smarter than me. Plus, I’m not sure I’m prepared to head back to college life without committing to an overall goal. Maybe I’ll go get my PhD in English or something.
I have a ton of projects to keep my busy. I’m writing two books of my own, John and I have a ton of irons in the fire, I’m working on a play that I hope my brother-in-law will find a way to perform and I’m writing a short film. All in addition to writing for this website and doing my daily work. It’s hectic.
If I had any “buddies” that had time or lived near by, we’d go get beer periodically. But my old beer buddies are working on getting their lives set up with new wives, new kids, etc. Just like me.
So, I have no social interaction or outlets at all. I sit in the same room all day. I work here. I play here. I eat here. I’m surprised I don’t sleep here. I need a change of scenery.
So, I’m considering taking up a new hobby. First I considered quilting. I hear it’s a great social event and a good place to meet ladies of a certain age and experience. But, I’m not sure my wife would like that. I also considered starting a writer’s group, where we could share our writing and talk about it. But, most writers are insecure. Yet they have a feeling of superiority over other writers. So, most of the time no one would talk. We’d all brood and think how horrible our own work is while secretly feeling that Joanie’s poem was complete tripe and how we could all write a sonnet better than that with our eyes closed and both muses tied behind our backs.
I’ve also ruled out scuba diving, sky diving, swan diving, cliff diving, boat racing, car racing, pig racing, cock fighting, autophillia, ballroom dancing, fashion design, softball, basketball, lacrosse, floor hockey, air hockey, ski ball, skeet shooting and multi-level checkers.
What to do?
Then it dawned on me. I’m too sedentary. I need to find a hobby that I not only enjoy, get social interaction out of AND that provides me with physical exertion. I ruled out my first instinct, which was calling large men unseemly names and then running like hell. So, I searched my entire life trying to remember what I was good at that brought me joy and endorphins.
Then it hit me. Semi-professional kickball. As far as I know there isn’t a currently existing league. I’ll call all my old beer buddies and grant each one a team. We’ll work out a schedule and start league play in the spring. We hope to expand by next fall into new markets.
Let’s look at the plusses:
1. Good sport.
2. Great sound when a ball is kicked.
3. Who doesn’t love the smell of a good kickball?
4. We could sell tickets.
5. We could still drink beer.
6. Skinned knees.
The minuses:
1. Salary caps.
2. Arbitration.
3. Fitting in luxury boxes at the local playground.
The rules will remain the same. Only now, tagging someone out will happen with a certain ferocity that wasn’t there before. Plus, the more beer that is consumed, the better the game gets.
Besides, softball is for wimps. Kickball ’03 is on its way!
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