One of the most important rules of writing deals with the ever-elusive, and oft-irritating exclamation point. From the first time I wrote my first sentence (which was, “Please stop Henry Winkler!”), teachers have told me that I should use the exclamation point sparingly. After all, how often am I so excited that I! Must! Yell! About! It!?

Not often. Recently, on someone else’s blog (who it was, I cannot remember, sorry whoever it was), I read that we’re all allowed three exclamation points in our life. To me, this is a good rule. After you use more than three you should be thrown in prison for three years and forced to listen to Barry Manilow.

(Right now someone is probably going through this blog counting the exclamation points. To that person I say, “Stop. They have medication for your disorder.”)

Why am I discussing this? Because a site that I once enjoyed has gone completely out of control. That site is Ain't It Cool News, run by the hirsute, self-obsessed Harry Knolwes. This site was once a great read with wonderful news and information about movies and television. Now, it’s a self-pleasuring of a man who is part of the pseudo-media.

My thoughts about Knowles and his writing style and self-adulation aside, the site still has some interesting tidbits. But only rarely. Were I to choose a movie news site I would have to vote for Dark Horizons . Garth Franklin gives me the news I need in a succinct and interesting manner. And, quite often, he does so with a flair that only an intelligent, movie-obsessed geek can bring to the table. Garth doesn’t do his site to make money or garner a fan base. Rather, he does so because if he didn’t, he’d be looking for this information himself.

So, why am I ragging on Harry and what does it have to do with exclamation points? Because Harry’s site currently contains no less than fifty-six exclamation points on various headlines. Fifty-six. Come on Harry. Let’s get serious here, can you not write a headline that doesn’t contain an exclamation point?

For that matter, why not write a headline that contains some sort of information? Maybe even writing craft? Read what you’ve written and write the headline based on the content, not the other way around.

Words, Harry, are able to convey emotion and have weight based purely on their combination. For example, you currently state “Ian McKellen will not be playing Dumbledore!!” Okay, first of all, use capitalization properly. But that’s beside the point.

Your headline actually contains information, but it does not require two exclamation points. In fact, it does not even need one. You could have said, “Rumor Denied: McKellen Will Not Play Dubmledore” or “McKellen Denies Accepting Role of Dumbledore.”

Rather than giving us a succinct headline, it’s buried in eighteen layers of tripe fit for a fourteen-year-old girl’s love note. Stop it. Damn it, stop it now.

I love movies too. But I can’t read your site anymore. It’s more like reading your diary. Or worse, what you consider your memoirs. Just stop. Now. Save us all the trouble.

Or let me put it in terms you can understand. Stop!! No More Exclamation Points!! They’re Annoying!!

We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.

Can I tell you how damn tired I am? I’m exhausted. Really damn tired. I’ve been working like mad to get everything done and it feels like nothing ever does get done. Sigh. I should be almost done. Right? Right? Someone please tell me I’m almost done.

My time needs have been compounded by the holidays and the fact that I have a kid home with me all day long. I’m pulling double duty during the day and working through the night. And damn it if I’m not too damn honest about my billable hours. I’ve been told that I’m overly generous. But, I’m working for people I consider friends, so I bill what I feel is appropriate.

So, Christmas was good. Matilda seems to have loved all of her gifts. Especially Tony Hawk 4. She’s a skate hound. Gertrude really dug the idea of Christmas. She’d open a gift and exclaim, “Wow! Wow!” It didn’t matter what it was, she just was amazed by the fact something was hidden behind those colorful pieces of paper.

Her favorite gift, I think, is the series of Wiggles tapes she was given. She stared at the boxes lovingly, as if the photos of The Wiggles were actually family portraits. When she saw them, she wiggled appropriately. And, of course, we’ve watched them all repeatedly.

My lovely wife loved the gift I gave her, which was a replica of the Evenstar pendant Arwen gives Aragorn in The Lord of the Rings. She’s worn it constantly since she opened it. I suppose that’s a good sign. However, she truly believes that she’s now and elf and refuses to trade her immortality for a time-expired mortal life with me.

Sigh.

My gifts? Well, I got a real Pendleton shirt. Like the Beach Boys used to wear. I think I may be the only person on Earth who thinks it’s cool. But it is. I also got a groovy Guinness t-shirt, bongos (so I can be like Richard Feynman) and a bumper sticker that says “Feynman Lives!”. Can’t wait to put that one up.

Add to that a bunch of DVDs, CDs, gift certificates and it all adds up to one hell of a haul. I don’t know what I did to deserve it, but I’ll try to repeat it.

Finally, to round out the season, I picked up something for myself that should make my working life easier. The Sidekick is a combination phone and personal organizer. I’ll be able to get my calls and pick up my email on the same device. How is this good? I’ll be able to get my email anywhere. I won’t be tied to this damn computer anymore. Plus, it has a full keyboard so I’ll be able to respond.

You have no idea how freeing it’ll be to be able to sit outside and answer my email without worry. Or in front of the TV. Or at someone else’s house. I’ll be able to do portions of my job while hanging out with my family SOME WHERE OTHER THAN MY OFFICE. Do you have any idea what that means?
____________________________________________________________

It’s funny, but the more I work, the more I get stressed, the more I look at my kids in wonder. I get overwhelmed with love.

We spend so much time worrying about what people will think, how this deadline is looming, how much money we’re making and so much more, but sometimes we just forget what’s really important.

I have no idea what’s important to you. But what’s important to me are these two little girls for whom my life exists. Sure, the seven-year-old and I are constantly squabbling over silly things these days and the baby seems to prefer her mother over me, but still . . . this is why I’m here.

Everyone is told that they have a purpose in life. As you grow, you assume that yours will be lofty. You’ll cure cancer. You’ll invent something that will make life easier. You’ll write the Great American Novel.

My purpose in life is to make these two girls smile. Because when they smile nothing else matters. Not my stupid deadlines, not the burning acid in my stomach. Nothing.

Because when they smile I look at that little electric face and say to myself, “I did that. I created a pure emotion in someone else. And damn it, I’m proud.”

If my life is to be measured by giggles and smirks, then so be it. Because when I look back on my life I’ll be able to say I truly accomplished something. I made two (hopefully happy) human beings.

And that beats the hell out of the Great American Novel.

Have a very Gary Christmas! (It's Christmas with Theremins!)

(Go here if you're on a dial-up.)

I'll be out for the next week or so. I may pop in periodically, but I'm going to take advantage of the time home with my family. Even if I am working.

Enjoy whatever holiday it is that you celebrate, be it Christmas, Kwanza or Greek Orthodox Buddy Holly Day.

Starting after Christmas Science Fiction Twin will be doing an interesting experiment.

I, Gary O’Brien, will be going through my entire CD collection (minus Elvis Costello). I plan on listening to three CDs a day, in alphabetical order.

Which means, of course, that my first day will include:

John Adams (classical), Admiral Twin and Air.

Not a bad first day.

Here’s my theory. By me reminiscing about these CDs, you’ll be able to learn about my life in unexpected ways. After all, my CD collection is not just a bunch of plastic encoded with 0s and 1s.

It’s a time capsule that captured particular moments of my life in crystalline. Each CD has a story and each story is very uninteresting.

Of course, there will be spots where it won’t say much. Such as, the Beatles. There’s an obvious reason why I own a lot of Beatles CDs.

So, join me in my journey through myself. I’ll call it, “The Gary O’Brien Audio Biograpy.”

I’d like to take this moment to welcome little Juliet to the world. She was born this morning to my dear friends Ryan and Aixa.

Welcome Juliet! You have some really great parents.

I’d also like to apologize for my ramblings about The Two Towers yesterday. Fatigue and excitement made it difficult to write.

Sorry.

Hell is nearly over. I should be back to my normal ramblings within the next month.

And hey, let’s be careful out there. Or something.

How Geek are you?

Probably not as Geek as I am. Nor my wife.

What did you do yesterday? What did I do? Well, the wife and I took the day off to . . . no, not go Christmas shopping . . . to see The Two Towers.

And, it was awe-inspiring. Amazing. Simply amazing. We had an incredible time and couldn’t imagine a better way to spend an unseasonably warm, rainy as hell, December day.

We’re both very big Lord of the Rings fans. I’ve been one since I was 12 when my brother Marty handed me a copy of the Hobbit and said, “Read this.” I did and fell in love with the world of Middle-Earth. After devouring the entire series, I went back to Middle-Earth as often as I could. I dreamed about it, I thought about it. I considered it and I wondered if I would ever get to see it.

I even watched the incomplete Ralph Bashki versions and they bored me to tears.

I remember last year when I watched The Fellowship of the Ring and I was just amazed at the terrifying and beautiful images that I was being fed. For the first time in my life I felt as if I was in a world I had been imagining all my life. It had come alive. The wife and I have watched many, many times the new extended version of the Fellowship and have loved every single minute of it.

After a long, long year we finally got to see The Two Towers and we were amazed.

From beginning to end, the film is a feast, both visually and emotionally. Huge battles, internal conflict shown externally, humor, pathos and more. There’s not much character development here, but that was true of the books as well. We were in pursuit and battle mode.

At the end of the film, the official War of the Ring has not begun yet. We’re still dealing with Isengard posturing itself as a new land of darkness. But Sauron and his minions are moving toward an all out war and the time of Men could be coming to an end. There is a huge, desperate battle by a race of people who see this as possibly their final moment. There is a sadness here that is deeper than almost any that we have seen. This battle, the Battles of Helm’s Deep, is perhaps one of the most amazing cinematic battle ever filmed.

Once again, Legolas proves himself as the Elf with the Mostest. He kicks some major, major ass. He’s pristine, agile and amazing. If I were an otherworldly warrior, I would be Legolas.

The time is right for these stories to be told again. The world is constantly looking for a hero and Lord of the Rings offers us heroes of almost every type. There is the noble, the reluctant, the giving, the sacrifice. And, if anyone ever thought war of any sort was glorious, The Two Towers proves them wrong. No matter what the reason for war in The Lord of the Rings, the battle is always fought with a heavy heart. “Too much blood has already been shed this day.”

And now the wait for next year begins . . .

All I want for Christmas this year is my very own sword. I’d like a replica of Narsil from Lord of the Rings (after it’s been reforged, of course) but I’d settle for any old sword.

Now, before you think I’ve become one of those crazy guys who dress up in tights and go to Renaissance Fairs to pretend that I’m some glory hound from the days of yesteryear, I should clarify. My sword would be a practical device.

I’m not one for guns, but I want to protect my family. So, I’d keep the sword sheathed under my bed and if anyone broke in I’d come charging down the stairs, sword drawn, yelling, “Back ye forces of darkness lest I send your souls to the gates of Hell!”

The criminal element would then flee, despite the fact that they are better armed. After all, could they match a guy bearing a sword and wearing Mickey Mouse slippers? No.

And then, when they met up at their yearly convention they’d attend a round-table discussion on defense against homeowners. They’d say, “Stay away from this O’Brien guy. He’s nuts. He has a sword.”

Ooh. Maybe I’ll douse it in lighter fluid and set it ablaze. They’d think I was the Arch Angel Michael come to take their souls.

This has definite potential.

I know I shouldn’t be writing right now, considering my workload. However, it’s been so long since I’ve really updated this page that I feel as if I’m getting out of practice with writing. I fear that my writing skills have deteriorated to such a level that I won’t be able to string together a coherent thought to save my life. And, let’s face it, it’s quite possible that terrorists could come bursting through my door at any moment and demand that, “For the good of all mankind, you must string together a coherent thought.”

With that sort of pressure I’d probably say, “Purple monkeys driving Segways!” Boom! World War III is started. And it’s all my fault.

So, I must blog for the good of all mankind. Our very lives depend upon it.

Things I will not discuss: Trent Lott (what he did was dumb), Iraq (there’s dumb stuff there), Al Gore (he’s not running), Christmas shopping (it sucks, but I purchased a killer present for my wife this year), viruses (I hate them too).

Instead, I’ll bore you with a recounting of my life, such as it is.

Matilida came home with a stunning still life she painted in art class. This painting shows some real talent on her part. She had shading, perspective and color use down pat.

This kid is destined for something great. She has so much talent and intelligence that, when she grows up, she’ll just be able to select something to do and be successful. With the way her interests run, she may very well be the first dancer/scientist/teacher/painter/singer in the planet. And, I must ask, why not? Why not have a Renaissance Woman in the house?

She’s a lucky girl. She has so much going for her. There’s not a day that goes by that I’m not astounded, and filled with pride, by her accomplishments. Watch for her one of these days. She’s bound to do something that will change your life for the better.

Her sister, Gertrude, is another story. Oh, it’s true that she possesses the same stunning intellect as her sister. This kid is whip smart. She can pick up a new skill with the greatest of ease. I fully expect to walk up to her and say, “Gertrude! Don’t put your fingers in that light socket” only to have her answer, “But father, I was merely trying to discover when the circuit is open or closed and, if it is open, if a full electric current can change the development of my DNA on a fundamental level, thereby allowing me to become a genetic mutant bent on conquering the world.” My only response could be, “You’re only one! No world conquering until you’re out of college.”

Still, despite her current state of intelligence . . . on that dwarves many world leaders, she’s just . . . weird. Yesterday I found her collecting her socks and throwing them away. When I explained to her that we don’t throw away socks because they are multi-use, she looked at me, her eyes lighting up and said, “Da da!” She reached up for a hug. I was powerless.

On Saturday, Matilida and I watched “Ice Age” which we truly enjoyed. After the movie was over, I put a CD in the tray that contained one of the songs that was in the movie. The first song on this CD is just three minutes of tribal drums. Gertrude cavorted and pranced in a primitive way that showed me there is some sort of primal urge to dance in all human beings (though it is damaged in my case). Her sister did an interpretive dance about the demise and abuse of aboriginal people from all around the world. It was sad and mournful.

We also have a Chieftains Christmas CD. When we play one of the jigs, Gertrude puts her hands to her sides and does some sort of step dance that would make Michael Flatly weep. She’s the little lordette of the dance.

I’m not making that up. She has an innate sense of rhythm that fills me with joy. Where her sister can immediately pick up on the emotional tenor of a song, Gertrude can pick up on its rhythmic styling and adapt her movements accordingly. She’s’ one!

I’m in big trouble. My girls have much more talent than I do and it frightens me. I mean, do I get them an agent now or should I wait? As a stage-parent, how much money do I get to skim off the top?

These are important considerations!

Random Thought(s) of the Day:

Who was trying to open my front door last night at midnight? Scared the crap out of me. Naturally I leapt out of bed and stood there in a combative stance until my heart started beating again. As if I could do any thing in a pair of sweatpants and barefoot. As if I’m John McClane.

Why do I have to wait for The Two Towers? You would assume that they would let me, in all my power and glory, to see the film ahead of time. Right?

RIGHT?

Random Thought(s) for the day:

Why is cheese edible? Milk goes bad after a few days but cheese is good for a long, long time. What is it doing to our insides?

Why would anyone get someone else’s name tattooed on their ass? Doesn’t that doom the relationship from the start?

If Mariah Carey made an album and no one bought it, would we still have to put up with her whiney talent less shrieking?

Why is it that if you watch a mere twenty minutes of MTV do you have dreams that Sammy Hagar is showing you his bathroom and why do you start using words like badonkadonk? I don’t even know what a badonkadonk is.

Random thought(s) of the day:

1. Working in publishing wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for all the paper involved. These people are obsessed with paper. Paper print outs. Forms. Pictures pasted on paper. Paper pasted on paper. Paper in envelopes. Copies of everything on . . . you guessed it, paper. And before you even get the project, they've discussed what kind of paper to use. And, when it's all said and done, the book is printed on paper. Theory: The publishing cartel is in bed with the lumber and paper industry.

2. Why don't you ever see a car hit a fire hydrant and the resulting geyser like in the movies? I think it would make life a hell of a lot more exciting every day.

3. Should I worry that I encourage my children to watch television shows that tell them the world is populated by foam-injected furry creatures?

I'm not dead. Just busy. And tired. Looks like we'll be this way until after the first of the year. Just hang with me.

Someone tells me that there is a holiday coming up that I also have to deal with. It's called Christmas. Apparently I have to buy people presents. I'll do that eventually.

Cheese logs for everyone!

Ah. So we’re here. A full week without writing anything and I’m afraid that everything that I have to say has evaporated into smoke. Gone forever out of the transom of my mind like so many thoughts we have throughout any given day.

Such as, why do they call it a refrigerator? By putting “re” in front of it we assume that it is the second time that we are putting it into the mechanism. But, often that’s not true. When I open mustard, it’s the first time I put it into the refrigerator. So, in essence, I’m “frigerating” it.

But that’s neither here nor there.

Thanksgiving was nice. We spent the early part of the day at my in-laws and the evening at my sister’s. Usually my family Thanksgiving is a loud, raucous celebration of over-indulgence and reminiscing. Not this year, as everyone else had other obligations. So it was my little family and my sister’s. It was rather nice. We talked, we ate, we danced, we giggled. Fun was had by all.

Thanksgiving is a weird time for my family, as it has been traditionally beset by tragedy. When I was five, my father died a few days before Thanksgiving. Suddenly and without warning. When I was eight, I was diagnosed with diabetes. And when I was 22, my mother went into the hospital early Thanksgiving morning, for the very last time. My last memory of her at home was her sleeping on the couch while my brother and I watched “The Beatles Anthology” documentary. As she was being loaded into the ambulance the next morning she wanted to make sure I had my insulin. Damn her. Even at her worst moment she was still thinking of my welfare.

As of yesterday, she’s been gone for seven years now. In some ways it feels like a century and in others, only moments. The wound is still raw for me, for some reason. I didn’t get enough time with my parents. I’m not bitter about it. Just a little disappointed.

But, oh the places I’ve gone since then. I’ve graduated from college, gotten to work at some amazing jobs, gotten married, had work published, had children and more. But as wonderful as those moments were, I wish I could have shared it with mom. It seems there isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t want her advice on something. Be it house buying, running a home business or raising children. I just want to have her input.

In a way I still do. I often ask myself, “What would Mom do?” That seems to work very well. The wisdom that she shared with me in our too short time together has never left me.

For years after she died, I was a miserable wreck. I was completely lost. My girlfriend at the time tried to help. And so did my friends. But, they were doomed relationships from the start. There was a huge gaping hole that I couldn’t fill. I needed a change.

I wallowed in misery. Sometimes I think that I enjoyed it, because I never did anything to get out of it. Then I went to Disney World for the first time at the ripe age of 23. I have to admit that it saved me. Here I was, looking for an escape from the real world and in the middle of the Central Florida wetlands, I found the perfect fantasy. This place could be anything I wanted it to be.

I had a wonderful time. And I cried when I had to pack up and go home. I’ve never been the toughest guy in the world, and it was never more evident than when my inner-six-year-old came out and sobbed, “I don’t wanna go home.”

The whole time I was there, I kept thinking about how much my mom would have loved this place. How I wanted to share so many of these things with her. I could imagine standing in line for Space Mountain with her and saying, “Mom, are you sure you should ride this? There are a lot of warnings about people who shouldn’t ride it and you haven’t ridden a roller coaster in years.”

“Yeah,” I imagined her saying, “but what a way to go.”

I went back two more times within the next nine months. It was like a spiritual salve that I couldn’t find anywhere else. When mom died I felt like my childhood had as well. And here was this place telling me, “No! You can still have your childhood right here. At 24, 64 or 104. When you walk through these gates, we’re all six.”

In the meantime, relationships died, new ones formed and I sought to find myself. I still wallowed at home; felt my life had no direction. I had stopped writing, stopped enjoying most things. Wished I could go back to Disney World. Day dreamed constantly.

Then, one month after returning from a trip that probably broke me financially, I met my wife. I found that puzzle piece that fit the gaping hole.

She doesn’t realize it, but my wife possesses many of the same qualities that made my mother a unique individual. She’s an amazing mother, who would do anything for her children. She loves to cook. I often have to add extra spice to her chili. She rarely thinks about herself and is always looking for a way to make someone else’s life a little bit better. And I’m thankful for every single second I get to spend with her.

Case in point. Last night she was telling me about a gift certificate she won at work. “Maybe I’ll buy something nice for you,” she said.

“No,” I said. “You won that. You should buy something for yourself. Something that would make you happy.”

“But,” she replied, “getting you something would make me happy.”

And she always makes sure that I have my insulin.

Sorry for the lack of updates these days. I’ve been busy, busy, busy. Work is piled up and dying to get off my desk. And, I’ve been sitterless for the better part of three weeks, so my wife and I have been splitting days with the baby and working until all hours of the night. We’re tired, we’re crabby and we’re stressed. And we’re calling each other names because it makes us feel better.

The baby and I are no longer on speaking terms. It snowed yesterday and we only played in it once, so she’s giving me the cold shoulder. She just doesn’t understand what it means that it was too cold outside for her little baby skin.

Today I worry about references and copyright issues. Yay!

Perhaps one of these days I’ll get back to being funny. Of course, that’s assuming I was ever funny at all.

And I probably haven’t been . . .

Yes, well, um . . . Happy Thanksgiving. I’ve been working my ass off this week and have had nary a moment to write for the website. Again, not that you should care. You see, that would assume that people are reading this drivel.

You weren’t actually reading it were you? Oh, I’m sorry. I guess you haven’t discovered where I keep the nude pictures of Margaret Thatcher yet.

Anyway, I should be back to my regular posting schedule by . . . March. Of 2009.

With great power comes great responsibility. So I’ve learned from the very wise and world-weary Uncle Ben Parker. You may not know Uncle Ben, but he is primarily responsible for the moral development of Spider-Man. Funny that I should learn lessons from fictional characters. Comic book characters, no less.

But he was a father. Not in the biological sense, but in the nurturing sense. A father whose primary responsibility was to shape and guide the future of a young child. And that he did, in all his ink and paint glory, until his untimely death.

I suppose you’re trying to figure out what I’m talking about, huh? It’s the concept of fatherhood and where it comes from. What does it mean to be a father?

I’m the father of two lovely, wonderful girls. One biologically, one in the nurturing sense. But I’m a father nonetheless. My primary role is to shape and guide these two children into good human beings. I often lay awake at night wondering what my girls will be when they grow up. Their futures are boundless. They can be singers, dancers, scientists, doctors, actors, writers, artists, accountants, astronauts or carnies. As long as they stay out of prison I don’t think I would love them anymore if they scrubbed deep fryers for a living or if they discovered a new law of the physical world. As long as they take pride in their work and are happy, I’m happy.

As a father, I want to be present for every moment. Every moment of glory and pain, for they come in equal doses, though sometimes the pain seems to outweigh the glory.

I often wonder if I am alone in this outlook. Every morning I wait at the bus stop with Matilda. I’ve done so since the first day she went to kindergarten and hope to do so with Gertrude and any of their subsequent siblings. The first concept a child usually learns is “bye bye”. We’re forever saying goodbye to people and I want to instill in them that most goodbyes are only fleeting. That they only last for a short period of time. Don’t fear the goodbyes, but rejoice in the embraces.

But I look at the bus stop and see so many children who are shuffled off into their days alone. Most of the time, it’s no big deal to them. They are happy to run and play with their friends. But sometimes, something happens. And where do they turn if their parent isn’t within reach? Is it not our jobs to help explain to them that, sometimes, the universe bites back?

Ever since Matilda was in kindergarten, the neighborhood children, and usually the bullies, come to me for guidance in these situations. And increasingly so.

It started with explaining to a group of nascent ruffians why they shouldn’t throw rocks at passing cars. Now, in your adult mind it makes perfect sense to you NOT to do this. But children, in their often wonderful and sometimes dangerous curiosity, have to find out for themselves what the consequences are. They just have to know what will happen if they hit a Honda Accord with a rock.

Unfortunately, this practice can hurt someone. And the kids understood this after a nice talk. These morning discourses continued over the course of a year. Don’t put rocks under people’s tires, don’t knock on people’s doors or play on their porch, don’t hit each other with sticks. Again, common sense to us, but not to a kid.

Slowly but surely, these kids saw that they could trust me. And they started coming to me to solve their morning problems. Broken parts of assignments that are due that morning are routinely fixed on my kitchen table with whatever materials we have on hand. Collections of things that are brought for show and tell are often touted on my doorstep. I’m introduced to relatives, and I often stave off tears of lonely kids seeking their parents.

Increasingly, moments of fate crashing down upon a young child’s psyche are causing my doorbell to ring before the bus comes. So and so called me a name. This kid kicked me. That one stole my backpack. No one likes me.

We have the safe house. All the kids at the bus stop know me and can call me by name. I say hello to fourteen kids separately every morning and sometimes explain things like stars and space travel to an interested fourth grader as we all stand stomping our feet in the cold.

I’ve played rock, paper, and scissors with most of the first graders and have protected more than my fair share of misfits from ridicule. And, more than once, I’ve heard tidbits of my own wisdom about name-calling and bullying shot back at the perpetrators of the pain.

I dispense band-aids, ice and advice at the bus stop. I’m friend to all and trusted by everyone.

It’s because of my wife that I’ve realized that I’m a surrogate father to many of these kids. Outside of the bus stop, I don’t know much about them. For all I know, they could have a great family at home. Or their dad could be an alcoholic. Or they could live with their grandparents. I just don’t know. Not that it matters.

But it’s a staggering thought when you open the door to realize that the neighborhood depends upon you to be there, just in case they need you. For twenty minutes a day I inherit an extra twenty kids. It’s an awesome responsibility, but a welcome one.

Fathers just do things, without being asked. You want a piano? We’ll get you one. Puppies appear as if by will and we make great horses. We can explain physics and art. It’s just some of the things that dads know. And when you need us, we’re there.

Whether or not you’re our kid, we’re there to pick you up and help you brush off and set you out on your way.

Maybe someday I’ll meet these kids’ parents. Maybe not. But hopefully, when they are in the same position, they’ll do the same thing.

As we speak right now, a friend of mine knows exactly what the gender of her child is. Three people in the world know this information right now. She and her husband and the technician that worked the sonogram.

Now the time starts ticking down. How long before they break and tell people? It’s only a matter of time. No one can hold this sort of information for too long.

Pregnancy does weird things to you. Not me personally, of course. But to women (though husbands are somewhat affected). Secrets are no longer a matter of, well, secrecy. Delicate subjects are no longer delicate.

It starts out in hushed tones among the women of your family. They begin discussing things that you don’t want to know about. Nausea. Spotting. Blood. Clots. Smells. Fluids. It’s not something any man wants a part of and you stick your fingers in your ears and say, “lalalalalala.”

That’s because at that point the pregnancy is still an abstract. Your wife still looks normal, she’s not showing yet. Her complexion hasn’t changed. Her hair isn’t different. She’s a little tired, sure, and she pees a lot, but nothing too out of the ordinary.

Then, around five months . . . everything changes. She starts to feel big and uncomfortable and the baby is doing bizarre things to her internal organs. Suddenly these hushed conversations make their way to the public. Nausea turns into vomiting, with explicit descriptions of the retching, the environment. She no longer discretely exits to go to the bathroom. She announces that she “has to piss like a Russian race horse in August.” You don’t know what it means, but you are fearful of it. (By month nine she says things like, “I have to take a leak so bad I can taste it.”)

Of course, once you have the ultrasound, there’s no going back. You’ve seen your wife’s insides. There’s her kidney, there’s her bladder, and I think that’s her liver. My god I hope so. It changes your relationship to have intimate knowledge of your wife’s endocrine and renal systems. It’s weird, especially considering the fact that you know that she’ll never see yours without a Ginsu knife, a fifth of Southern Comfort and comments on how hot her sister looked in that nun outfit at the Halloween party.

But it doesn’t end. The baby keeps growing. And so does the discomfort. By the ninth month the baby is nearly full term and her lungs are sticking out of her ears. And every little bit of discretion your family once had is now gone. You’re discussing things like hemorrhoids with the checker at the supermarket. Suddenly it’s okay to listen to stories about mucus plugs from the Kindergarten teacher and your grandma is talking about burying placenta in the back yard for good luck.

None of this seems to bother the woman because, well, she’s just focused on getting the baby out. (And let’s not fool ourselves guys, as excited and impatient as she is, she’s also terrified. There are so many questions . . . will there be pain? Will the baby be okay? Will there be complications? What if I have to go into surgery? What if I hemorrhage? What if? What if? What if? They don’t know. Even if this is their fourth child, so many things are different and she’s terrified that something will go wrong. It’s a natural fear because, even though you can’t understand this, she already knows the baby. They already have a connection.)

So, prepare yourselves guys. Keeping the gender a secret is just one thing. There are so many other things that will come to light. But once you start talking about massaging the perineum, I’m outta here.

Friends, neighbors and the weird guy standing in the corner. I come today not to update this page, but to pretend it doesn’t exist.

Yeah, going on a 24-hour hiatus again. Work. It’s a terrible curse, I tell you. But a necessary one. After all, they actually give me money to do things. I haven’t had that sort of arrangement since the time when I was twelve and I ate a spoonful of dirt for a dollar.

So, today I will be freaking out, realizing that all of my deadlines are coming up and I have a million things to do. Help!!!

What I didn’t tell you was that Monday and Tuesday’s entries were pre-written. Yep, I wrote them over the weekend. Shhh. Don’t tell anyone.

So, for the time being you can sit here and wonder why people like Fatty Arbuckle had careers destroyed for incidents in which they were exonerated and Michael Jackson can perform genetic experiments on himself, play the racial victim, diddle little boys AND swing babies over a balcony and still have a career.

There is no karmic justice in this world. If there were, Jackson would be sexually assaulted by an elephant and then fall into a vat of skin dissolving lotion.

A few weeks ago James Lileks brought up the new Christina Aguilera song and video “Dirty”. He spoke of how she had managed to take all the pleasure that one could derive out of the carnal acts and made them feel grimy, dirty and something akin to human plumbing. At the time I had only heard snippets of the song and hadn’t seen the video. Now that I have, I realize that Lileks was dead on. This young girl, in trying to break the taboos of society and destroy her pop princess persona has managed to take all the fun out of sex.

She dresses in chaps and a thong. An outfit the Village People would kill for. She gyrates mechanically talking about sweat and licking and lap dances. Most of what she discusses has nothing to do with erotica or pleasure but, rather, of a sexual release that many men feel they need to attain anonymously from crab-infested professionals with self-esteem issues.

But that’s beside the point. Christina is doing her job and doing it well. She has destroyed whatever image she thinks she once had and replaced it with a finely tuned persona of a town whore. I’ve never found her attractive. She’s far too skinny. But I never actually thought I’d see her ass cheeks. I have now. I’m not a better man for it.

But Christina understands how to attract a teen audience. She’s doing what she needs to do by horrifying the parents and portraying the most extreme version of sex that she can. Her video will be forbidden by parents and decried by feminists. Though she will say that her music is dealing with a sexual awakening of a female, one can’t help but think that she’s exploiting herself to sell more records. She looks like some gay cowboy’s fantasy of what a heterosexual male thinks is attractive.

In reality, she’s wrong, of course. Granted, to attract a teen boy or a pervert, the fewer clothes she wears, the better. But to attract a mass audience, she’s going about it the wrong way.

I liken it to the mating call of the teen male that you hear blaring through your neighborhood at night. The thick, distorted ba doom boom of the thumping bass that comes out of the hatchback of some stupid, souped up Honda. The boy bobs his head, drives with one hand and tries his best to attract the female of the species who, apparently, can only hear the lowest range of sounds.

He does get attention. But when I see him, I just think about how much money he spent on that sound system and how poorly he’s using it. I desperately want to sit down with him and reset his levels so that you can actually hear the whole song. Not that he cares. But, sonically speaking, he’s going about this music all wrong. Crystal clear audio is a beauty to behold.

In a way, this is what Christina is doing. She’s trying to attract by extremes. She doesn’t realize that history shows that suggestion works far better than beating someone over the head with your point. Betty Page is still considered a sex goddess because she was able to suggest sex without getting naked. The same can be said of many of the screen sirens of long ago. If you want to talk about a long-standing sexual fantasy, ask any grown male about Emma Peel and her cat suit. Or Julie Newmar. It’s the suggestion of sex that gets men riled up, not the blatant flaunting of it.

But it will take a long, long time for someone like Christina to realize this. Let’s face it, she ain’t exactly the smartest orange at the produce stand. If she wants to learn how to market herself, she should talk to Eminem. The man is a brilliant marketer. He set up a persona and does nothing to break it down. He doesn’t even talk much about it outside his music. He remains an enigma. Nothing about Christina Aguilera is an enigma anymore. I know what her butt cheeks look like. There’s no mystery.

We try to stop kids from doing things that we find pleasurable. Not because we don’t want them to experience them, but because we want them to learn control. It doesn’t just apply to sex, but also drinking, smoking, breaking things, over-eating. Teaching kids to control their impulses allows them to grow up with a good balance between what is fun and what is appropriate. There is a time and place for just about everything and a good rule of thumb is to always do whatever it is in moderation. Too much of anything, good or bad, serves no purpose.

So, Christina, I know that your new album and image is “all about the stank.” But, my dear, no one wants stank. Those that do are not the people you want to attract.

When it comes to sex, my young friend, simmering works better than boiling over. You catch more flies with honey, as they say, than with something that looks like it needs to be washed, disinfected and tested for communicable diseases.

We survived our very first party hosted in our tiny little home. Hopefully, we won’t have to do this again because we should be in a house within the next year. And we’ll never have to see this dump again.

Though it was hot and crowded, it looked like everyone had a good time. Food was eaten, balloons were batted about and no one above the age of five cried (much). Outside of the fact that my mother-in-law was nearly arrested for bag piping in public, everything went off without a hitch.

The baby, of course, was cute as can be. She had a great time and I was very proud of the way she behaved. Normally, a one-year-old facing 30 people poking and prodding her, trying to get her to be cute, would be a little overwhelming. But, she was a gracious little host and even allowed herself to be held periodically by her aunts and uncles.

Overall I think she had a really good time. Once we started handing out the presents and giving her cake, she really got into the whole process. She started dancing and waving and having a great time. And it was good.

She was giving all sorts of cute clothes that make her appear to be the cutest baby on the planet (though, perhaps, I am biased). The cutest may be her fuzzy pink vest that her aunt and cousin picked out for her. Or, maybe, the PJs and purple robe that another aunt gave her. She walked around in that last night, looking cuter than can be.

The problem is that she knows that she’s cute and uses it as a weapon.

Right now, as I’m typing this, I have no Internet access. Now, for someone who runs a home business, this isn’t a good thing . . . We’re rather dead in the water at the moment. I have work that has to be done, but the only place to do it is in a place in the house that is isolated. I can’t hear the doorbell. So, if I do that, Mr. Broadband Repairman may show up and I won’t hear him.

Naturally, I had a ton of work on the Internet to do yesterday. But I couldn’t. I’m incommunicado (which is the song I’m listening to right now). To make matters worse, I had a bunch of stuff to do because John is at COMDEX and may not get Net access. I still don’t know at this point whether or not he has it. So, it’s quite possible that the pages I was supposed to do for the contest yesterday didn’t get done and we have a bunch of angry people beating down the doors of the website as we speak.

And, just before I went down, a member of the INTERCOT staff had emailed me to let me know something was wrong. I haven’t been able to reply yet. (Though by the time this is published, I’ll be able to let him know.)

So, the waiting game begins. Shortly I will begin writing a detailed table of contents for a drugs book I’m working on. Yay. My excitement is about to overwhelm me. I feel sick with it.

I’ve been gone for the last few days. Have you noticed? Of course not. Why would the absence of my mindless ramblings cause you dismay? The presence of them should cause you dismay.

To put it bluntly, I haven’t had a sitter for the past few days, so I’ve been home with the baby having fun. We’ve done all sorts of things. We’ve played with new toys, watched the wiggles, growled at each other, wrestled and spun around until we were dizzy. A glorious time was had by all, I assure you.

I would then work at night, as late as I could and then actually not sleep due to the bulbous, painful tennis balls shoved in my nose. Some people might call them infected sinuses. Natures cruel revenge for nothing.

We celebrated Gertrude’s birthday on Wednesday with a nice dinner (which she devoured) and cupcakes (which she devoured). We think she may have been trying to blow out her candle but it appeared more like she was panting like a puppy. We gave her a variety of toys, one of which was a rocking baby piano with four settings. Annoying, Really Annoying, Pretty Damn Annoying and Supremely Annoying. But, the kid loves it. She played on it for hours on end yesterday. In the current setting, if she makes it rock the piano plays and lights up. She spent most of the day rocking like Elton John on Crystal Meth. It was really quite cute. Especially when she tried to play the piano with her butt. She’s really quite responsive to music, which makes me very happy since it is a rare occasion when music isn’t playing in our house.

This weekend is our big family party. I have no idea how Gertrude will react to this. We don’t go out much and we usually stay home and play as a family. So . . . my entire family in one house (especially our small house) may scare the living crap out of her for a few hours. And when I say living crap, I mean it. I don’t know what’s wrong with this kid’s digestive tract but it is heinous and vile.

I’m working again today, as best I can. My lovely wife is staying home with Gertrude and Matilda has the day off from school. Though, to be honest, she is going on a Brownie field trip to an adult contemporary radio station. I can see it now.

“You mean, it’s in this very studio that they play Dave Matthews over and over and over until all the adults become mollified and bland just like his music? Cool.”

It may just be me, but I can’t see how a group of seven-year-old girls can get excited about touring a radio station. It doesn’t mean anything to them. If they were to identify with any station it would be Radio Disney or some Top Forty station that plays the latest tuneless Brittney warbling.

But, who am I to argue with the brownie leader who sends out permission slips on the day they are due back? Or who calls at 9 o’clock the night before the field trip begging for drivers? Who actually failed to put the date of the field trip on the forms? Who am I to argue with such an intellectual power? I should be bowing down to her greatness.

This morning I awoke to a child running in the room and growling at me. I’m not quite sure why. She just ran into the room, looked at me and said, “Grrrrrr” and then ran out. Strange child.

At 4:45 young Matilda and I will be departing for the movie theater to take in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. It looks scary, but we’ve already read the book and I can’t imagine that what Chris Columbus has designed can be any worse than what we’ve imagined already. Unless, of course, the third reel of the film is replaced by Bicentennial Man. Then, maybe, we’ll have nightmares.

Happy birthday Gertrude Agatha O’Brien!

It’s hard to believe that it’s already been a whole year that you’ve been with us! I’ve enjoyed every single second of it and can’t wait for the next year.

Happy birthday little nugget!

I am not one who is renowned for his patience. In fact, just the other day someone came to me and said, “You know Gary, you are just not renowned for your patience.” If patience is a virtue then my lack of patience makes me rather iniquitous. I can find any situation in which patience is required so vexing that I either need to destroy that which is causing my anger or I have to walk away completely, scorning the subject of my hatred.

This was the case with my study of ballet. Ballet takes patience that is beyond my reason. Just using the words needed to describe the positions in which my body was twisted would send a rising bubble of hatred toward my dance master, Jean-Claude DesCretin. Master DesCretin would tell me, “Garee! Zhu must do ze plié wiz more of ze, how do you say? Talent?” No, I couldn’t plié. I couldn’t pirouette nor pas de chat. Once, Master DesCretin said to me that I move like a horse, which is true because my art needed to be destroyed much like a racehorse with testicular cramps. So, of course, I quit ballet. It was too hard and I wasn’t good at it fast enough. Anything worth doing is worth being good at without any talent, practice or diligence whatsoever.

So I switched to music. What I wanted to do was form a sixties-style Rock/Pop quartet like the Dave Clarke Five, except with four people. I find that the dynamic of a quintet is quite exhausting. Quartets work better because there’s a better chance that I’ll be considered the cute one instead of the simmering, angry one. So, I analyzed the music and discovered that the Harpsichord was utilized quite heavily and decided that it was the instrument for me. Besides, how many harpsichordists are there out there? 90 professionally? Tops? With that kind of ratio I figured I had a distinct chance of becoming one of the top 100 harpsichord players around.

So I bought a Harpsichord. It wasn’t easy to come by. I had to kidnap a Hungarian orchestra master in order to get one. But, once I had my harpsichord I felt my dream of being a retro-sixties rock star were close at hand. The next difficulty I had to overcome was finding an instructor who was well versed in the musical harpsichord styles of the 1960s. There were none. So I settled for a local piano teacher named Francesca Brannigan. Now, normally, I wouldn’t work with someone named Francesca. But I was desperate.

This woman was a taskmaster! When I sat down, I tried to hammer out the melody to “Fixing A Hole” by the Beatles. However, Ms. Brannigan (who did not think it was funny when I called her Laura) had different ideas. She insisted that I learn this antiquated dreck by Handel and Bach. Screw that! I had groupies to score. Half way through playing some awful music accompanied by an Oboe I just lost it and ended up tying Ms. Brannigan to the piano bench using the strings that comprised a D Chord.

With those hopes dashed, I turned to the other artistic love of my life, Yiddish theater. Now, being raised Irish Catholic might be considered a draw back, I marketed myself as a Goy actor. I figured that, in the very least, I could be cast as the token gentile. I auditioned for many roles with the Jewish Community Center Players but was told that I didn’t have what it took to play the lead role of Reuven Malther in their Yiddish adaptation of Chiam Potok’s The Chosen. I felt that, with my lack of background in the Jewish religion, Jewish intellectualism and Zionism that I would be the perfect person to play the confused son of an intellectual, Zionist father who befriends a Hassidic boy.

The director, Rachel Cohen, thought differently. In fact, she kept reminding me when I showed up for rehearsals that I a) was not cast in the play and b) the casting was only open to members of the center. Now, I admit that I was not a member of their community center, though I had gone swimming there many times with my friend Michael Rubinowitz when we were young. Rachel saw things differently. So, I decided to no longer try my hand at Yiddish acting and never set foot in the theater again. Now, for the record, I want to state that I had made my decision long before they issued the restraining order and am sticking to my story that the reason I was standing on their stage wearing only Mickey Mouse boxer shorts and carrying a Kielbasa was a simple misunderstanding of whether or not I was invited to the cast pajama party grill out.

My point is, I do not do very well with the concept of waiting. Benjamin Disraeli once said, “Patience is a necessary ingredient of genius.” I agree with Disraeli’s comments, though I enjoy his album with Cream much better. But, if this is the case then I am a babbling idiot.

I bring all this up because this morning I purchased the Super-Duper-Platinum-Jewel Encrusted Edition of The Fellowship of the Ring. True, we do currently own the film already; we needed to get this copy for several reasons. First, it has a higher bit rate on the digital transfer. My wife was adamant that she must have a completely clean version of the film. Second, it’s loaded with amazing commentaries, features, extras and charismatic trolls. Third, it contains thirty minutes of extra footage, which is supposed to flesh out the story a bit more, just like the books. Fourth, Tom Bombadil is still not in the film. Fifth, it comes with these extra groovy bookends designed by the FX team from the film.

Why did I buy the other version of the disc if I knew this one was coming out? Well, because I’m not patient, as mentioned earlier. Plus, the first disc contained the original cut of the film and this new version is a “director’s cut”. I need to have both.

So how does patience come into play here? Well, the damn thing has been sitting on my desk all day long and I’ve been dying to open it. I want to feel the full weighted glory that is the Argonath bookends. I want to watch all the extras and cavort in the wonder and mystery of Middle Earth, a world in which I spent much time as a child.

But I can’t. Because over time my wife has proven that she is the Lord of the Rings Fan. She deserves to be the one to open this DVD and it’s her one obsession and it’s only fair, blah blah blah.

It’s taunting me. It’s begging me to open it. Maybe if I steamed open the plastic and just stuck it in the player a little bit she wouldn’t mind . . .

Right. And I have a death wish.

Updating will be infrequent in the coming months. I am a tad busy. I have a ton of books to turn over, Gertrude’s first birthday party to prepare for, a week off to take care of the little one, Thanksgiving, Christmas and Orthodox Reflux day to contend with.

When you become a parent it’s like accepting thirteen new jobs. You think to yourself, “Oh, this won’t be bad. There are two of us to split the work.”

You’d be wrong to think that. One child, in ten minutes of play, can create three hours of work to clean up. It defies all laws of science and rationality, but it happens. Reality bends into a new continuum that is not governed by normal laws.

For example. The capacity of one diaper is directly proportional to your location. If you are at home, one diaper can hold the entire contents of a child’s digestive system. If you are out, say at Target, the diaper’s containment system is reduced by three and you are left with a battle with time as you rush to the bathroom, praying that there is a changing table in there.

Now, a child’s waste product is akin to radioactive material. Though you can see where it is, its lingering effects are unseen. History states that you will not be able to keep that crap, no pun intended, in its intended receptacle. It goes everywhere. On its own. It’s a horrible process and you have to fight every instinct to run. Run far away and don a HAZMAT suit.

Kids get better as they grow, but they still remain gross. No matter how much you teach your children, they still have no concept of what is appropriate and what is not.

For example, walking down the stairs with your pants and underwear around your ankles to show that you need a belt? Appropriate to a child, signs of dementia in adults. Sneezing in my cereal? Just an accident to a child, grounds for divorce in an adult. And, to a child, the sneeze cereal is still edible, despite the fact that the force of the nasal expectorant has sent your food flying in all directions.

There is some sort of filter that we gain, as we grow older. I don’t know where it comes from, but I’m glad it develops. For example, I wouldn’t want to sit with my friends at a nice dinner party and have someone leave for several minutes and come back to say, “I made a good poopie!” If he were two years old, I’d be proud of him. Why? I don’t know. But as an adult, I think that sort of biological talent is expected.

What is a parent’s obsession with poopie? Why do we have to rename it anyway? As Billy Shakespeare once said, “A rose by any other name still smells as sweet.” Well, crap by any other name still smells like . . . crap. So why do we insist on giving it such nice little names like poopie, caca, and what not. When the baby lets one go, we say, “Oh! Did you poopie? Oh that’s a good poopie! Look at that. What a good baby!”

Why do we sugar coat it? Why not do what we are thinking inside? “Sweet mother of GOD! What did you eat? That crap is almost purple. Oh my god. I need eight more wipes. I’m feeling dizzy. Stop moving! You’re going to let it loose. Oh my. God, I’m sorry for whatever I’ve done. Please get me through this. Gag. These wipes are supposed to wipe, not spread! I need gloves. HOLY . . . what is THAT? That’s not healthy!”

Domestic bliss is so domestically blissful, ain’t it? My wife was talking about the chaos that is mornings recently and I suddenly realized that I have no idea what she’s talking about. It’s not that I don’t pay attention to my family. I do. But, I think that I’m not an active participant in the morning chaos. True, I may be a contributor, but I don’t realize it.

I am not a morning person. Waking up, to me, is a mental battle akin to a cold reboot of a huge database. All my systems are not fully online for roughly two hours.

Each system kicks in one by one. When I first get up, I’m not sure that anything is online. Sight is partially active, but not fully. It can’t be. I’ve walked into far too many walls for my eyes to be fully functioning at 6:30 am. By the time I exit the shower, I am able to see again, but my hearing is still not active. Apparently, my wife has told me some key information early in the morning and I simply do not hear it. For example, the socks that I folded are downstairs. Okay. Seems easy enough. Here’s a sample of an actual conversation.

Wife: Your socks are downstairs.

Me: Okay.

(Two minutes pass)

Me: Honey, where are my socks? I can’t find them.

Wife: They’re down stairs!

Me: Oh, okay.

(Two minutes pass)

Me: Honey? Have you seen my socks? I thought they were up here.

Wife: THEY ARE DOWN STAIRS!

Me: Oh. Okey dokey.

(Two minutes pass)

Me: Honey? Where—

Wife: DOWNSTAIRS YOU IDIOT.

Twenty minutes later after I’ve eaten my Lucky Charms I will realize that I still don’t have socks on. I ask again and find them shoved into my mouth.

Thankfully, taste kicks in right around the time I brush my teeth. I think it’s more shock though. Smell then quickly follows as I go to kiss the baby in her crib. Sometimes I wish that would be the last thing to kick in.

Actual consciousness does not hit for me until I’m outside waiting for the bus. Usually, while everyone is getting ready I sit and read the paper or work on the computer. My family usually keeps its distance from me until about the time The Wiggles comes on. I’m not sure if it’s out of respect for my sheer hatred of the first two hours of the morning or out of fear. Once, and I remember this clearly, Matilda said, “Good morning Daddy! Your hair looks cool today.” I immediately retorted, “What’s that mean? That my hair is uncool on every other day? AH! AH! AH! Purple gophers are singing Justin Timberlake songs, let me die! Let me die!”

Matilda no longer speaks to me until she says goodbye.

Memory is also slow each day. I think I have consistently stated every morning for the last three months, “Hey! Henry the Octopus has a garden! That’s an Octopus’ Garden under the sea. Ha!” I then launch into my deep analysis of The Wiggles and their deep sociological ramifications on children’s abilities to deal with Australians who wear primary colors later in life.

In the next twenty minutes all systems kick in and I’m ready to wait for the bus with Matilda. I can almost engage the other parents at the bus stop. An example:

Parent: Morning.

Me: FORsznck. Potet.

Parent: Um yeah.

Me: Cold, huh?

Parent: It’s 80 degrees.

Me: Fuzzbubble.

Parent: Is that your little girl? The blonde one?

Me: I’m afraid of watermelons.

Parent: I feel very sorry for her.

I’m usually pretty happy by the time everyone gets home. They still don’t pay attention to me. Sigh.

Maybe I should stop greeting them at the door by giving them wet willies.

Now that these annoying and stupid mid-term elections are over we as Americans can finally focus on what’s truly important to us. We can move on and better our lives in the best way we know how. By mocking the misery of celebrities and watching every move they make.

While I could be talking about the self-congratulatory, semi-ego-masturbatory interview the Osbornes had on 20/20 last night, I’m actually referring to the most heinous crime of the century. I am, of course, referring to Winona Ryder’s conviction on charges of theft.

Now, it is my personal opinion that Winona should have been charged with public indecency years ago for making that awful film with Cher. But, the authorities chose not to pursue her, despite the lives she ruined.

Before we look at Winona as a criminal, we must first uncover the unvarnished truth about her name. Winona. Who in the hell would name their child Winona unless they were one of the Judds? Trust me, it’s a mistake and I hope that the Ryders feel truly horrible about this. What’s worse is they appeared to name her after the town in which her essential life force was issued forth from the womb (some people call it being born). Thank god she wasn’t born in Schenectady.

Yesterday, when the verdict came down, I happened to be watching CNN. A whole slew of political annalists (which is to say a bunch of people who have no real job) were discussing the ramifications of the change in the balance of power in Washington. It was a fascinating discussion that left me tingling. Not with excitement, mind you. But, rather, with what I think may have been a boredom-induced stroke.

They actually stopped that discussion, something with national ramifications, to cover the Winona verdict live. LIVE. This is what is considered news. An actress who once had promise but is now starring in Adam Sandler movies warrants BREAKING NEWS. Oh boy! I hope next they tell me whether or not Corey Haim has been on a bender of self-abuse tomorrow!

Somehow I think we’ve lost track of what’s important. Our nation’s political future and the horrid divisions of ideology that are permeating our governing body in such a way that we look like a stupid attempt at recreating the pathetic Israeli government? No, Winona Ryder’s criminal record.

Oy.

But that’s not what I found disturbing, to be honest. As I was watching Winona receive her verdict without emotion (what did I expect?) I realized something. I have a crush on her.

I never had a crush on her before she became a felon. Her pixie-cuteness never did anything for me. I figured she was the poster-girl for the Gen X slackers that I, even though I fit the demographic, have no desire to be a part of. She starred in one of the most abhorrent movies of the nineties, “Reality Bites”, a poor excuse of a film designed to “capture the essence of Gen X.” Ack. The only redeeming quality was the fact that Ben Stiller was involved.

Winona never held much appeal for me. She was great in Edward Scissorhands and several other films, I won’t deny. But she just wasn’t the type of actress I would get a crush on. Jodie Foster? Sure. Audrey Hepburn? Grace Kelley? Oh yeah. Winona Ryder? Not so much.

But yesterday, as she was confirmed a convicted felon I started thinking how attractive she is. I haven’t enjoyed one of her movies since 1990, but yet, she’s really very cute. Nice skin, great hair, impeccable style (one assumes she bought the clothes).

And she’s a convicted felon. Yes. A bad girl.

Finally, I’ve found the perfect trophy woman. She can support me with her bankable films (if she ever has another one). She can look pretty on my arm. And when times are tough, she can knock over a liquor store to pay for my insatiable appetite for smoked ham.

I read something last night that very well may change my life. No, I’m not going to proselytize to you about the merits of a specific religion, tell you about what Dr. Phil said nor will I spew out Deepak Chorpra crapra.

I’ve been reading books by the Nobel winning physicist Richard P. Feynman. Now, Feynman was an amazing guy. Brilliant scientist, talented actor, wonderful teacher, good musician, etc. He’s one of those guys who loved life so much that he would try anything. Anything at all. He was curious. That was his charm.

He spoke his mind and played with the world. Something I wish I could do.

Last night I was reading about an invitation he had received to work with Einstein and other great minds of the time. Feynman was flabbergasted to be invited. He simply didn’t think he was good enough. Then he had a realization:

“It was a brilliant idea: You have no responsibility to live up to what other people think you ought to accomplish. I have no responsibility to be like they expect me to be. It's their mistake, not my failing.”

That’s when it hit me. This is true! So damn true! I’ve been sitting up nights with my heart jumping out of my chest and rampaging around the room because I’ve been worried about living up to the expectations that others had of me! Not based on my abilities, but what they believe I should be capable of accomplishing.

That’s not my responsibility. I work as hard as I possibly can and do everything I can to accomplish the tasks put before me. But the material I’m provided limits me. If something I write for a client doesn’t say exactly what they want it to there are two possibilities. One, I wrote poorly or two, I wasn’t given enough information.

More often than not, it’s the second option. A client knows in their head what they need, but they do not fully communicate that to me. Being as I am not part of their company and have limited exposure to the development of their product I am, in essence, stupid. I need to be told everything.

So, if I don’t include a particular benefit that I am unaware of, it can’t be helped. On Monday, I would have freaked out and had a heart attack worrying about the fact that I didn’t do it right. Now, I’m learning to accept my fate. I cannot do things that I simply am not capable of doing. Like read minds.

Now, this is not to say that I do not do my very best in the work that I am given. That is far from the truth. I give it all that I have. I’m quite often left exhausted by it.

What I am saying is, if my client expects me to be able to do something that is impossible I am not going to beat myself up for not being able to accomplish it. I will try to accomplish it, but if I can’t it’s okay. It was their expectation of me and I cannot control that. Even if I tell them upfront that I believe this will be impossible, they will still expect it from me.

And that’s okay! It really is. As long as both parties understand that I am not responsible for their expectations. I am what I am. I can accomplish what I can accomplish. I will continually try to better myself, and my performance. However, if I cannot live up to what another person believes I can achieve, I should not beat myself up. It is their expectation, not mine.

Sure, this seems blasé. But I have only one person who I should answer to regarding my accomplishments. And that person is me. If I cheat myself, then I’m screwed. But if Joe Blow believes I can do something that I can’t, it’s not my fault. I will do everything in my power to try and do so but if I do not accomplish it I have not failed. I have just simply proven that I cannot meet his perception of my abilities.

And that’s not my responsibility.

By the way, after Feynman had this realization, he began the work that led to his Nobel Prize. Which is my point. He knew that he would never be able to meet the expectations of Einstein and his crew. Instead he worked on his own material and accomplished something astounding.

Don’t fool yourself. Life is too short to live each moment based on what others expect of us. Live! Go out and play with the world. Who knows what you may discover about yourself.

Well we’re very excited in the O’Brien household because last night saw the return of a particularly fun family dynamic that we haven’t seen in roughly three years. Yes, Daddy had a nice four a.m. panic attack last night!

Oh the joy! Oh the fun! Oh the shallow breathing and fear of death! Oh the constricting chest muscles! Oh the wonder of being convinced that you will not make it beyond that moment! The sheer enjoyment of rolling up in a ball and realizing, “oh crap!”

Panic attacks are a thing of beauty. Think of your computer as a person and suddenly you start getting error messages when the damn thing is supposed to be turned off. But these error messages aren’t for REAL errors. No, it’s better than that. The messages are coming for errors that quite conceivably could occur. Maybe. It could happen! Really!

Essentially the brain starts going over everything. And I mean everything, from planning your daughter’s birthday part to the cut on the bottom of your toe and how it may get infected and lead to your foot’s amputation to worrying about Warren Zevon’s lung cancer.

Your brain short circuits and just starts a full data dump on you at that exact moment. Fear, dread, and panic set in. It becomes clear to you that everything that you are involved in may suddenly come crashing down into a giant crushing pile of lost commitments, missed dates and loss of confidence.

I used to get these all the time. Most frequently when I was single and living alone. I’d start the shallow breathing, heart racing thing and I’d end up sitting on the floor with my back against a wall hugging my knees until it went away.

Unless you’ve had a panic attack, you don’t realize how bad they can be. You figure that you’ll just calm yourself down. But it doesn’t work like that. You TRY to calm yourself, but instead you find yourself panicking because you can’t calm down. It’s a vicious cycle.

The attacks came less frequently once I got married. Perhaps having the calming influence of my wife nearby helped matters a little. Although I rarely wake her up to let her know that my brain is about to explode and that I’m huffing like a whacked out 14 year-old with a vat of model glue. She wants me to, but I don’t see the point. Why ruin her night’s sleep too? If I really felt in danger, I’d let her know.

When I left publishing, the attacks stopped. Now that I’m freelancing for a publisher the attacks are back. Why? I don’t know. I enjoy deadlines and I don’t think I’m going to miss any. And yet, I had that crushing sense of doom.

What’s the connection? I don’t know. Maybe I put too much on myself. Maybe.

Last night I did wake up my wife because I wanted the damn thing to stop. I don’t have the patience for this crap anymore. Sleep is a premium item and nothing should interfere with it. As she hugged me, trying to help me calm down, she asked what was bothering me. “Everything,” I said.

And that’s the logic of a panic attack. Everything in that moment bears a sense of dread. Including the panic attack. Your brain just zoooooms. There’s no stopping it, the dirty son of a bitch. . .

I’m okay now. I’m listing everything that was bothering me last night and trying to pare down my life responsibilities to the essentials. But I don’t think this is the last time the panic attacks will hit.

Stupid brain. Doesn’t it understand that nighttime is when it’s supposed to concoct dreams about purple monsters and giant foam rubber whales? It’s not the time to freak me out.

I’m just pissed because I didn’t get any sleep. Damn it. Now I’m crabby. Maybe that explains why, when I went to vote today, I told the roving pollster to shove his party up his ass and get out of my face. I don’t even know what he was representing, but he probably deserved it.

That jerk.

Sorry for the lack of update on Friday. I spent the day with the baby. Just the two of us. We partied hard and renamed her as a baby rapper. She’s now the Ghost White Dipaa Fillah. As exhausting as the day was, we had a great time. We had snacks at the mall, visited friends and played, played, played. Then, before Matilda came home from school, we took a nap together. All in all it was a really nice day.

Matilda and I watched ET on Friday. She bawled like a little baby. It’s amazing how well the movie holds up after 20 years. To me, it proves that a good story and strong emotional content over rules any need for bombastic explosions and digital effects. ET works because you feel sorry for the little guy. Not because he’s a lifelike alien. You feel for his problem. And when he “dies” you’re heartbroken that he didn’t make it home. On Saturday we watched Max Keeble’s Big Move and had a great time laughing and eating popcorn. Matilda just about had a heart attack three minutes into the movie when Tony Hawk made a cameo appearance. Heh. Hero worship.

I assume everyone will go out and vote tomorrow? To be honest, as much as I enjoy democracy, I can’t wait for this bloodfest to be over. I mean, really, why don’t we just strip down the candidates and let them fight to the death? It’ll be a hell of a lot easier to watch than these campaign commercials and a lot more fun.

What makes me tingle with happiness is how these guys are in a blood battle over one seat in the senate. Yes, if one party gets the majority then they win for the next two years! That’s your vote at work! If your guys win the popularity contest, then you get someone voting party lines for two years, serving the interest of the boys club he is part of rather than doing his job and giving you the representation he’s supposed to give you.

I love that my local candidates and political parties assume that everything is black and white. That if I am anti-gun, then I’ll also be anti-cigarette tax. Or if I agree with a candidate’s stance on education I’ll agree with their beliefs on drilling for oil in ANWAR. I don’t think so.

You see, I’m a full human being who makes decisions based on my personal beliefs and not by some blind system set up by a bunch of crusty old guys in navy suits and red ties who decide what I should think. It’s a “with us or against us” stance and I’m sick of it.

The bottom line is that I’m an independent voter who is not aligned with any party, be it Democrat, Republican, Green, Libertarian or otherwise. I just don’t believe that a group of people can sit down and say, we stand for this that and the other and I can fall in line with that. Group politics don’t work for me.

So tomorrow, I’m going to vote for who I believe will do the best job and represent me to the best of their ability.

But the truth is that, in this government, I don’t feel like I have representation. Because the Republicans with vote for what their party believes in, not their constituents. The Democrats will do the same. Green will always lose and the Libertarians scare the crap out of me. It’s a huge mess.

So, when I go in to punch my card tomorrow I’m going to do just that. Give that friggin’ card a nice, closed-handed punch. Because if I get one more phone call telling me that Candidate X is a jerk because they sling mud, but Candidate Y is good because they kiss puppies I’m going to scream.

Well, today is Halloween. Woo hoo! Except, as a diabetic, it’s the worst holiday in the world for me. There’s candy everywhere. And I look at each delicious Snickers bar and convert it to how bad my blood sugar will be after I eat it.

Sure, I try to will my blood sugar down. “If only I can have an insulin reaction, I can eat that!” Well, if there’s one thing I’ve learned, Insulin isn’t telepathic. It just doesn’t work.

I was diagnosed with diabetes 21 years ago, when I was eight. I got sick over Halloween (still can’t stand the smell of pumpkins) and was in the hospital being treated and learning about the disease over Thanksgiving.

I learned a lot about the disease and realized that my life as a kid was over. Halloween was definitely out. I figured I wouldn’t go trick or treating. Naturally, I had nearly a year to change my mind. And I did. I don’t remember what I was dressed as, but it was probably something stupid. It wasn’t until sixth grade that I went as Eddie Van Halen. So I was probably something simple like a baseball player or a Sandinista Rebel. I do remember that my friend Mike was a cat burglar that year. Dressed in all black with a mask, he was jumping out and scaring the crap out of everyone.

His house was the highlight of the neighborhood. His parents had installed loud speakers on their roof for some reason (we found a good use for them in High School, though the police felt they could be used in a more productive way). Mike’s dad used to play a creepy Halloween sound-effects record, making the whole neighborhood frightening with shrieking, moaning and rattling chains. All the kids loved it. Most of the neighbors loved it. Mr. Perrin hated it and would always call the police. It was tradition.

When I got home with my loot, my mother and I sat there looking at it. We were both pleased that I was able to enjoy this tradition of childhood but . . . what do you do with seventy pounds of pure Diabetic death?

We thought about it for a while and couldn’t come up with anything. So we dumped it in a plastic pumpkin and put it on the table. The next morning when my sister was dropping off her son for my mom to watch, it dawned on me. As she reached for a succulent Snickers bar I blurted out, “It’ll cost you a nickel!” And she paid!

It became a tradition. I’d sell my candy every year. A nickel a piece, a dime a handful. For the next several years, I was able to make all my Christmas money off of Halloween candy. No more shopping at Walgreen’s for me! I was able to pick up some quality gifts from Venture.

Now, of course, I have self-control. Candy isn’t the threat it once was. And now I have kids to live vicariously through. Young Matilda will be Harry Potter this year. She’s got a nice Griffindor Quidditch robe, a wand and is using a pair of my old glasses. For some reason she didn’t want to be Hermione. Odd.

Gertrude, who is celebrating her first Halloween and, no doubt, will find it a surreal experience, is going as a baby gorilla. She’s amazingly cute in her outfit. She wore it over to the sitter’s this morning and as soon as I carried her outside half the neighborhood came out to say how cute she is. (Followed shortly by half the neighborhood dads when my wife came out dressed as Britney Spears. She thought it was funny. I suggested going as a school marm. She still went with Britney. The good news is when she told Matilda she was dressing as Britney, Matilda responded, “Ewww.”) I’m not dressing as anything. My yearly dream of dressing as David Byrne from Stop Making Sense was dashed once again. I still cannot find the perfect suit. Matilda suggested I dress as one of our neighbors. But I think it’s too cold out to go as “Shirtless Guy.”

Can you imagine Halloween from a baby’s perspective? It must be horrifying. All these bizarre creatures running around demanding sweets from unsuspecting old couples who are throwing the treats as far as possible from the door screaming, “Back! Back! Get away from my door!”

Maybe that’s just the neighborhood we live in.

New website feature! The Truth.

Learn things about the world you never knew. And probably didn't want to know.

P.S. Get well Angie! We miss you and want you to feel better!

Whew! I finally have some time to take a break today. Let me tell you, writing summaries of books on drugs and addictions just really make me want to light up a cigarette, down a couple of beers and follow it all up with some espresso chasers. Anyone want to join the party? Imagine the halitosis that would follow that bender. That could knock over an elephant. Plus, I wouldn’t know if I was depressed and in love with everyone or if I should impulsively clean my house.

Lately I’ve been thinking of my adventures in the Dot Com world that I barely survived. I should really document those stories and share them with the world. The inept management, disgusting use of investor money, Play Boy Bunnies and sockless, sweater-vested bastards, is just too juicy to ignore.

For example, early on at one of my Dot Coms, we got the editorial team together with the Business Development team. We sat down to discuss strategy, development of our sections of the site and how we were going to proceed in building an amazing website that had no chance in hell to ever draw revenue without selling organs on the black market. (Conclusion: we were all idiots because we live in the Midwest. They were all superior because they lived on one of two coasts and did not wear socks.)

We decided to discuss our credentials and were introducing ourselves via conference call.

My introduction went something like this: “I’m Gary O’Brien, the ________ Editor. I spent five years in the publishing industry developing the content of college, medical and nursing textbooks. I have a degree in English, with a minor in creative writing. I’m an award-winning short story writer and have written movie reviews for several publications since 1996. As of right now, I’ve had roughly 300 movie reviews published. I’m a Taurus, enjoy long walks on the beach and frequently protest the treatment of midgets in Hollywood movies. Chicks dig me because I rarely wear underwear and, when I do, it’s usually something unusual.”

Most of my colleagues had similar backgrounds. We had writers with experience in magazines, newspapers, people with degrees in film, former radio personalities, etc. One of our editors had an MFA from Iowa University. In the writer’s world that’s akin to having a Nobel Prize in chemistry or being a Rhodes scholar. Most of us had quite a bit of experience in developing content for websites and were all published authors of one sort or another.

Well, our Coastal friends got to speak. One touted the fact that he was “employee number 11” to which my boss replied, “I’m employee number one.” They had all done something with cable stations and various other entertainment industry businesses. At first, we were all impressed until their ringleader spoke.

“I’m Dippy McDipwap. My career has been long and interesting! I started in the business as a break dancer in the 1984 Olympics opening ceremonies.”

At this point there were muffled giggles. But he went on.

“I was a television stunt man for many years. Maybe you’ve seen my work on Hardcastle & McCormick. I have produced several movies, including (a large blockbuster) . . .” (Note: I checked this out. It was true. He had produced one movie. A movie I had reviewed a few years earlier as a direct to video release. It was horrible. Simply horrible. He was not in anyway involved with this blockbuster, that I could see. In short . . . he was bs-ing us.)

Oh but it goes on!

“I founded XY website on deep sea fishing in California. Oh, and I went on tour with Ray Parker Jr. as a back up singer and dancer.”

At this point the speakerphone was on mute. I was on the floor gasping for air I was laughing so hard. If these were all lies, this guy needed to double-check what he considered cool. If it was the truth, well, it was sad. Just plain sad. He admitted to break dancing for a living. Oh my God. This man needs help.

He finally wrapped it up with a few more exaggerations of his career. His boss got on the phone and lauded his brilliance “in the industry” and how he was an asset to the company (number of business deals he closed in his time with the company: zero. Number of knockdown, drag out arguments I had with him: 10. Number he won: 0). And this staff of coastals worshiped this idiot and assumed we would be impressed by his ability to bust a move and the fact that his brother-in-law as a crappy B-Movie actor.

All of these people were VPs of the company. None of them wore socks. I’m serious. For some reason they viewed socklessness as a sign of their superiority. I viewed it as unhealthy and a breeding ground for fungus.

These people had no concept whatsoever of how a website worked. They assumed that when they wanted a change to the entire database, we could send Tinkerbell out to sprinkle her pixie dust on the servers to make the change. They had no idea the amount of work or time it took to make their “necessary” changes. They had no idea of the hours we put into creating the content they didn’t ever look at.

In the end, we were vindicated, however. They became the laughing stock of the company. They worked for stock options, we worked for salary. I had a check; they now have very thick toilet paper. Oh boy!

When we went bankrupt (it was inevitable, but we all had a blast), I was one of six employees retained throughout the sale of the company. They all did such a thorough job of pissing off the entertainment industry with their stupid ideas and brazenness that they had to explain this two-year mar on their resume. I was able to get a higher paying job based on that resume.

Oh, and when they finally sold the company the one asset they could list? The database that my colleagues, our staffs and the tech team built. In the end, we were what were valuable.

And the sockless bastards turned out to be just that. Sockless bastards.

I guess now I can finally give you the weekend wrap up. I’ll go in order of atomic weight.

1. The (almost) All-O’Brien Trivia Team came out triumphant once again at the MQP Trivia Night. We recovered from last year’s late game bad call and have proven that there are few people in the world that can remember useless crap better than the O’Briens. Someday they’ll have a section where you name a movie based on the opening credits and I’ll win it hands down.

I have to admit that I was disappointed in the amount of science questions. There was one. I was ready this year. I was ready!

2. I helped my brother install DSL at my sister’s house. At one point my sister lovingly puts her hand on my shoulder, looks at me seriously as if she’s about to tell my that I have a tumor and says, “Gary . . . don’t grow a goatee.”

I have to admit that I am trying to grow a goatee. It is something I do every couple of months to ensure that I actually have facial hair. I’ve been particularly heartened lately by my attempts because I’m starting to get what looks like real hair! And it’s almost filled in! And yes! I’m almost 30! Woo hoo!

But, of course, she’s right. I shouldn’t grow a goatee. It doesn’t look right on me. I should grow a soul patch.

3. My brother understood. He replied to my sister, “He’s not growing a goatee! He’s an O’Brien male. He’s just seeing if he can grow a goatee.”

Yes, in O’Brien land it is a rite of passage to see if you can grow facial hair.

4. I’ve been giving the baby cookies lately, much to Mom’s chagrin. Granted, they’re really animal crackers, but Mom’s saying I should slow down. But, I can’t help it. She’s so cute! “Want a cookie,” you ask and she runs to the pantry and waits patiently. Well, this morning it backfired. She had eaten her breakfast and was playing quietly on the floor. Mom was doing her hair and I was eating. I heard a rustling in the kitchen, but didn’t think anything of it. Then out comes toddling the baby with an animal cracker in her hand and a smile on her face. I guess I didn’t close the door tightly. What amazes me is that she knew which bag contained the animal crackers. I’m just glad she didn’t get the cat food.

5. Whose idea was it to put marshmallows in cereal? It seems like a really odd idea.

I'd love to tell you all about my weekend and how my family trivia team won the big prize this weekend. And also how I drank a pot of coffee in about an hour. But, I don't have time. Work is crushing me! Woo!

In the meantime, go watch this.

Yesterday I had a nice conversation with fellow tech-geek, Disney park enthusiast and musician Mike of Sparkle*Jets UK. I realized that many of you, sadly, have probably never heard their music. That, I’m afraid, is a shame. Bamboo Lounge is a fine CD that you should check out. One spin of “Sorry” or “So Gone” will each give you at least seventeen reasons why you should listen to this disc. Sparkling (no pun intended) harmonies, killer guitar work, sly lyrics, nice bass and one hell of a female lead vocal on several tracks are just a few of the reasons to check them out. Either visit their website or check out their samples on MP3.com. It’s good stuff. And if you don’t think so, there’s something seriously wrong with you. Really. You should get yourself checked. Maybe even “Consult Your Physician.”

Besides, can you beat a song entitled “Surfing Monkeys”?

On the home front, there isn’t a lot going on. It’s raining. I’m still obsessed with physics and am struggling to pick up some of the math required to understand some of the concepts. I’ve been listening to the Feynman lectures on physics and reading some of his theoretical work. It’s difficult stuff but . . . compelling at the same time. I know I’ll have to move on to other scientists and other work at some time but Feynman’s lust for life and the thrill he gets from discussing the mere interaction between electrons. Amazing. I can’t muster that sort of passion for anything. What a brilliant bastard.

Sorry, I’ve been obsessed. I’ll move on to something eventually. I assume I will, at least. Maybe. We’ll see. I think. How silly it must seem for a man my age to be obsessed with an area of science that takes decades to fully understand. But, as a layperson I have to say, it’s exciting. The universe is beautiful in so many ways that we can’t see. It’s exhilarating to find a new layer to peel away and see something that you couldn’t before.

Well, I don’t have anything profound to say today. Nor anything exciting to talk about. I don’t even have any jokes to crack.

I think it’s too rainy and glum outside to feel like joking. I think I’ll just allow the gray day wrap itself around me and allow me to brood over things. Perhaps.

Gertrude’s first birthday is coming up. Family, be prepared for a party. If Gert isn’t the cutest baby you’ve ever seen, then you haven’t looked very hard.

The kid’s a comedian of the truest form. She’ll do anything for a laugh. Wiggle, giggle and jiggle. She’s a daredevil, an inquisitive little soul. She’s curious, sweet and loving. Everything you could ever want in a child.

Just this morning she ran up behind her nascent skater sister and gave her a big morning hug. It was cute.

And her sister’s no slouch herself. Yesterday her friend was handing out candy. She came inside and said, “I have a surprise for you. Guess which hand its in.” I did. And it was revealed to be in her right hand. It was a package of bottlecaps. I think I mentioned once that as a child these were my favorite candies. And when offered any piece of candy she could choose, this is what she chose.

And she gave it to me.

Yay! I’m all moved in! I can do whatever I want now. I have space, I have the means I have the tools. All I lack are those ever-reclusive ideas. Perhaps I’ll catch a few today. Doubtful, but possible.

I want to thank my personal Yoda for helping me with the web design. He allowed me to make the mistakes I needed to make and helped me when I needed help. The design looks as good as it does because of his help. Thank you Master Yoda! Your Padawan learner is appreciative!

I still have a lot to do. Pages to build, content to write, Meta tags to write, etc. It’ll be a long process but eventually it’ll be worth it. I’d estimate that it is going to be roughly 2005 when I feel it was all worth it.

I’m hitting crunch time with my freelance work. Books are due! I have more manuscript than I know what to do with! It’s exciting and scary at the same time. I may take February to sleep. But by then I’ll be reviewing pages and I’ll be tired, tired, tired.

I’m tired now. I keep having these revelations at four a.m. for some reason. Last night the baby woke up hungry and the wife and I woke with her. As she was snarfing up her food, my mind started to wander. I realized something very important.

We’re all experts in something, right? Whether it’s web design, science or potato peeling, we can all say that we’re good at something. And, quite often we’re in awe of people who can do things that we either can’t or don’t understand.

That’s the way I am with physics. I’m working to understand it as best I can, but it’s a slow process. A fun process, but slow. Most people with English degrees don’t suddenly decide to study physics on their own. Sure I could take a class, but there’s something about suddenly understanding a particular law of physics that enthralls me.

Here’s what I realized. When you look at a scientist you’re amazed and confounded by all they understand. But to them it’s easy because they can see it. Richard Feynman understood QED because he could see the motion and properties of atoms because he studied them. I can’t.

Imagine your house. You can simply say your address and you can visualize your house. You can see the trees, the wood, the doors, the grass. But if you say your address to a stranger, they won’t be able to see it. They haven’t been there. To them, it’s just an address. A concept rather than reality.

The same holds true for science. If you understand physics, it isn’t so difficult to find your way to quantum physics. Because you can see it. You can visualize it. For the layperson, like me, I don’t have the map. I’m still trying to find it.


I’ve been thinking a lot lately about childhood. It could be because of Matilda being a full-fledged child, perhaps. I don’t know. But I’ve been thinking of what I was like in first grade.

I know that I was really, really confused. My dad had died the year before, so I wasn’t exactly a normal kid. I was a little . . . forlorn, I guess. I’m not sure I always showed it outwardly, but I know for a fact that I acted out on it countless times.

How? Because I was a liar. I lied constantly. Not to my mother, but to my friends about my life.

A memory came rushing back to me recently from when I was in first grade. I was standing at the front of Miss Meyer’s class for show and tell. I was holding a Storm Trooper action figure (from Star Wars, not the Third Reich). I spun an elaborate yarn about how my dad, before he died, made the molds for the action figures and that we had thousands of them laying around the house because he made them.

The thing is, I knew this was a lie. My dad worked for a company that distributed bearings. He’d never once carved a mold for a plastic action figure. I sincerely doubt he had the artistic talent to do it.

But I believed my own lie at the moment. Because in that moment, I knew my dad. He wasn’t my “true” dad, of course. But he was one that was alive in my head.

My own memories of my dad are muddy at best, but for a moment they were clear. Even if they weren’t true. I never mentioned to my friends that I was jealous that they had dads that would help them in cub scouts. I never told them that I was jealous of their dads cheering on the sidelines of soccer games and I certainly never mentioned my anger at them when they told me their dad was a jerk. In my mind I figured at least they had a dad.

Memory is a strange thing. I hadn’t thought about my storm trooper lie for years. In fact, I doubt I had thought of it again since I told it. So why did it occur to me recently?

In a way I want to go back and tell all those kids that I didn’t tell them the truth. That my dad never once carved a storm trooper or any other Star Wars related toy. I want to tell them that the way my dad, in the short time I knew him, was just fine with me.

He may have never made toys but he was a cowboy soldier, a professional hockey player (who didn’t know how to ice skate) and had been bayoneted in the chest during the war (though there are rumors that the scar on his chest was really from when he climbed a barbed wire fence as a teen).

I know these things because he told me.