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Posts for the date of Friday, March 07, 2003
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 2:36 PM |
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Are we at war yet? What time is it scheduled because I’m tired of ducking every time a goose flies over, thinking it’s a nuclear bomb laden drone.
The more I think about this war, the more I think we need to schedule these things better. I keep checking the TV Guide to see when it starts, but it isn’t listed. I could have sworn that the last war over there was listed. Right? It had its own timeslot, as I recall. What was it called again?
I’ve been following the coverage of the impending war with some disgust as of late. Every damn station has their own graphic, their own title their own theme music. As if they are all competing to come up with the very best version of the story. “You know, FoxNews’ war is good and everything, but it lacks the great underscoring that CNN has. Plus, they had that one scene with the panty raid and everything.”
It irritates me because who knows what implications this war will have on the world. Who knows what its outcome will be. And yet, there are some slimy bastards sitting in a backroom somewhere titling the damn thing. “Showdown Iraq”, “Saddam’s Last Day”, “Death, Violence and Destruction: Iraq”. These sniveling bastards are milking this for ratings, just as they did after the terrorist attacks.
Think back. Imagine if the news media that’s around today had covered World War II. Or should I call it: “March on Berlin” or “Showdown: Hitler”. Oh, but we can’t forget the other theater of war. “Die Yellow People” or “Face Off: South Pacific.”
No, back then we actually had writers covering the war from the inside. And I’m not talking about these people they have out there now. I mean REAL writers, who observed what went on around them and wrote from the soldier’s point of view. Real, honest, raw emotion.
Speaking of great writing, where are the novels that came out of the Gulf War Era? Where are the James Joneses and the Kurt Vonneguts and Joseph Hellers? Where are the Norman Mailers? Hell, we don’t even have a Tim O’Brien.
We’re losing out here. Our media saturation has caused the level of writing to decrease. I don’t mean from reporters. I’m talking about the people who were there. People who looked fear in the eye and confronted it. People who actually, believe it or not, had less information about what was going on that we did. Where are the writers? Have they been scared off by the Dateline profiles? Do they figure we don’t want to hear what they have to say? Do they think we’re tired of hearing?
Will war writing die with the men I mentioned above? War certainly won’t. But we’re losing a valuable perspective.
We’re losing the perspective of the men and women who saw what Fox and CNN can’t show us. They felt what we can’t feel on television.
Maybe they felt morally justified to be there. Maybe they didn’t. Maybe it destroyed their life. Maybe they lost everything. Maybe it gave them a greater respect for the military. Maybe it gave them less respect for the military.
We won’t know. Because the writers of this and the Gulf War generation aren’t writing. They aren’t telling us anything.
And if we can’t stand on the reports of those who experienced an event first hand, then we are doomed to repeat that event. Because, without those experiences we have learned nothing.
Discuss
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Posts for the date of Thursday, March 06, 2003
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 8:54 PM |
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My archives are all messed up. I know this. All I have to say is, "oy".
I've been working on it all night long. I can't figure it out. In theory the template should be there. But it's not. So you get a white page. Why? Because te Gods of Blogger are all on heroin I guess.
Perhaps it will work itself out. Perhaps not. But in the meantime I go sleepy time now.
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 6:58 PM |
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Had the baby home again today and meetings all day long yesterday.
So, no time to post, really. Sorry.
I've been messing with things today, trying to make the site a little leaner and the communication between the blogger code and the asp page. I hope it works.
My blonde, blue-eyed daughter is currently singing a Negro spiritual that was popular during the Civil Rights Movement. I have no problem with that. It's her lack of soul that is bothering me. I think I'll start playing Otis Redding while she sleeps and see if she picks up a little of his mojo.
Fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa!
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Posts for the date of Tuesday, March 04, 2003
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posted by Gary O'Brien at 4:56 PM |
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Some days are just good. You can’t deny their goodness. Every single moment is enjoyable. You feel at peace with yourself and everyone around you. Everything that occurs just adds to your sense of wonder in the world and you feel absolutely, unequivocally happy.
I had one of those days yesterday.
Keep in mind that I’ve been in pure stress mode since October. I’ve been working nearly non-stop. Now, that’s great news for my freelance business. However, it’s terrible news for my ability to relax. What’s worse, is one of the reasons I started freelancing was to allow myself the ability to be more available for parenting duties. But since October, a sick child or lack of a sitter sent me into convulsions of stress.
It’s been so bad at times that I’ve had nightmares where I see people who owe me material sitting around a pool, taking naps while I sip a champagne glass filled with my own stomach acid. However, to my credit, I’ve been handling the stress far better than I have in the past. When the statute of limitations runs out, I’ll explain what I’ve done in the past.
But yesterday. Yesterday was wonderful. My sitter was unable to watch the baby and I spent the entire day with her. Alone. Both of us healthy. It was fantastic.
We spent the morning watching The Wiggles. We danced and sang and wiggled till we could wiggle no more. After The Wiggles were over, we played Wiggles related games on the computer. She’d hear a snippet of one of their songs and she’d squeal with glee, shouting, “Mo’! Mo’! Mo’!” her finger pounding into her open palm, the sign for “more.”
We then went downstairs and I introduced her to the play kitchen and play food. She ate it up! We spent a full hour making donut-strawberry-potato-ice cream-brownie-chicken-stew and feeding it to her baby. She’d stand at the plastic stove, stirring her concoction. If you asked her about it, she’d put out her hand out in a cautionary gesture and say, “Ha! Ha!” This is the sign for “hot.” I was astounded at her ability to pick this up.
Later that morning we went to Target and picked up a new doll. She managed to find the only doll that seemed to be wearing the same outfit as her. Walking out of the store she smothered her new baby in kisses, with loud “Mwahs”. To say that she was the cutest damn being in the store is an understatement.
I was worried about naptime. She’s never been one who enjoyed being put down for a nap without a fight. Normally I have to chase her down with a blowgun and a tranquilizer dart. Or, I just wait until she keels over from exhaustion.
But yesterday after lunch, we sat in her rocking chair for a while, cuddling. After a few minutes I asked her, “Are you ready for your nap?” She hopped down from my lap, walked over to the crib and waited. I put her in and she handed me her cup of milk and gave me a hug. I told her I loved her and gave her a big kiss.
“Sweet,” I thought. “This is going to be a breeze!”
I started to walk out of the room and she let out a mournful wail so loud and piercing that a pod of humpback whales were set off course in the Pacific and accidentally beached themselves. She fell to her knees and looked at me pleadingly. I have to admit, we had such a fantastic morning that I wanted to scoop her up and head back out the door to play some more. But I steeled myself and left. I sat on my bed for ten minutes while she cried. And then . . . nothing.
Positive that she had somehow choked to death on her own, lonely, mournful tears, I went to check on her. There she was, sound asleep. Face down, with her little diapered butt sticking straight up in the air.
It’s strange, but it’s moments like that when you’re filled with this amazing love that washes over you.
When she woke up, we cuddled for a little bit until she saw the cat. She then picked hair out of the cat’s tail until the cat kindly asked her to stop.
We just had a wonderful, relaxing day. I was constantly amazed at how smart she’s getting. Her vocabulary seemed to increase three-fold yesterday (up to nine words now). At any given moment I would look at her sweet, cherubic (albeit slightly mischievous) face and feel an overwhelming desire to shout, “Damn it I love you you little weasel!”
Later in the evening the family did our evening Yoga ritual (which we’ve done three times now . . . three times I’ve done very poorly at). Gertrude would roll around on the floor with the rest of us; trying to mimic the poses we would contort ourselves into. To be honest, she did much better at it than I did.
And then it was bedtime. She gave me a hug and a great big “Mwah!” and was off to bed. Our perfect day seemingly over.
Until 11:30. When she woke up and was calling “Mama! Mama!” Normally she falls right back asleep. But tonight she was really upset about something. Mom said, “She’ll go back to sleep. Don’t worry.”
Then little Gertrude cheated. She broke the patterns, broke the rules and just plain damn got her way. In her litany of cries for “mama” she threw in one “Daadee!” She was in my arms in less than a second. I think I broke a land speed record in getting there. There was a sonic boom from the gap in the air I created when I bolted out of bed to get her.
And I gave her one last hug for the day. Knowing full well that she will never remember what a great day it was. How happy she made me during every moment. That I was filled with pride each and every second because this little, amazing being is MY daughter. Mine! How did I do that?
If someone asked me today, “What was the best day of your life” I would respond:
It was a Monday. Definitely a Monday.
Discuss
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