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.
Wednesday, November 27, 2002
Friday, November 22, 2002
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.
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.
Thursday, November 21, 2002
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 20, 2002
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 19, 2002
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.
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.
Monday, November 18, 2002
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.
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.
Friday, November 15, 2002
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 13, 2002
Tuesday, November 12, 2002
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.
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.
Monday, November 11, 2002
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!”
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!”
Friday, November 08, 2002
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.
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.
Thursday, November 07, 2002
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 06, 2002
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 05, 2002
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.
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.
Monday, November 04, 2002
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.
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.
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