Sorry no update today. I’ve been getting some loose ends tied up for some of my projects. Then, the wifey is off to a Fluid baby shower tonight, so the girls and I are going to eat junk food and watch television until she gets home . . .
In the meantime behave yourselves. If you don’t, we’ll have to send the goon squad after you.
Tuesday, March 18, 2003
Monday, March 17, 2003
Everything Was Beautiful, And Nothing Hurt
I find myself sitting here today thinking about war. It seems an unavoidable subject, doesn’t it?
For the last hour or so I’ve been trying to write about my feelings on war. Let’s just say it has fallen flat on its face. There are far more eloquent people who have far more intelligent things to say on the subject and I think I’ll let them handle the discussion.
However, I don’t find Peace, Love or Understanding so funny and I wish I lived in a world where people who felt this way were not ridiculed. Peace is a noble cause.
Perhaps I am a fool to think so. Perhaps I am a fool to want my children to grow up in a world that isn’t besieged by violence and hatred. If that is foolish, then so be it.
I’ll watch the war on TV. I’ll sincerely wish that our troops will come home safe. And I’ll also sincerely hope that no one dies at all. Isn’t that silly? That I don’t want to hear about people being blown up by anyone? Maybe I’ll just wait for the movie to come out. That way it will all be explained for me.
Oh well. I think I’ll go do some other foolish things now. Like writing letters about how I want clean air and water. Or maybe I’ll put some effort into getting a disease cured. Or, maybe I’ll do something on a small scale and buy a homeless guy lunch. That would be foolish, wouldn’t it? To let other people think I care about their welfare?
What I dread the most about this whole situation is that I’ll have to explain to my daughter why human beings go to war. I don’t know what I will say. Maybe someone will explain it to me. That would be nice. Apparently the world has been black and white for a long time, but I keep seeing all these other colors. I must be hallucinating.
Tomorrow I will come back and tell funny stories about my family. Things about how my family is happy and how much we love each other. And how we’re all foolish together.
For the last hour or so I’ve been trying to write about my feelings on war. Let’s just say it has fallen flat on its face. There are far more eloquent people who have far more intelligent things to say on the subject and I think I’ll let them handle the discussion.
However, I don’t find Peace, Love or Understanding so funny and I wish I lived in a world where people who felt this way were not ridiculed. Peace is a noble cause.
Perhaps I am a fool to think so. Perhaps I am a fool to want my children to grow up in a world that isn’t besieged by violence and hatred. If that is foolish, then so be it.
I’ll watch the war on TV. I’ll sincerely wish that our troops will come home safe. And I’ll also sincerely hope that no one dies at all. Isn’t that silly? That I don’t want to hear about people being blown up by anyone? Maybe I’ll just wait for the movie to come out. That way it will all be explained for me.
Oh well. I think I’ll go do some other foolish things now. Like writing letters about how I want clean air and water. Or maybe I’ll put some effort into getting a disease cured. Or, maybe I’ll do something on a small scale and buy a homeless guy lunch. That would be foolish, wouldn’t it? To let other people think I care about their welfare?
What I dread the most about this whole situation is that I’ll have to explain to my daughter why human beings go to war. I don’t know what I will say. Maybe someone will explain it to me. That would be nice. Apparently the world has been black and white for a long time, but I keep seeing all these other colors. I must be hallucinating.
Tomorrow I will come back and tell funny stories about my family. Things about how my family is happy and how much we love each other. And how we’re all foolish together.
Wednesday, March 12, 2003
Come Swish Around My Pretty Punk
Confessions of a Geek or Science Fiction Twin or whatever the hell I’m calling this thing these days is going on hiatus for a few days. I’m going to try to actually enjoy myself vicariously through the physical efforts of elite athletes. Either that, or I’ll consume enormous amounts of beer and chili. If you hear reports of birds falling dead out of the sky in Ohio, you’ll know the latter occurred.
I’m hoping this will act as a much needed relaxation trip for me. I’m starting to feel down, for reasons as yet unknown. There are a lot of things going on for the O’Briens. Most of them are ultimately good, but I feel it is my moral responsibility to shoulder all the anxiety for the family. So I fret and worry over everything.
If I were to write and autobiography at this moment, it would be entitled “Tales of Woe and Stomach Acid.” I don’t think it will be a big seller.
So, today I leave you with the lyrics of a song and a poem (I couldn’t pick one) whilst I recharge my batteries and hopefully return chipper, happy and lacking bitterness and worry. Of course, if I did that, I’d have to return as a different person.
The poem is by WB Yeats and is in honor of all you pseudo-Irish who will be soiling the good names of all of us real Irish on St. Patrick’s day by puking and pissing yourselves in public (odd, if you add an “e” to public it becomes “pub lice”, a condition you should avoid on Monday). The song seems to fit my mood. No deeper meaning. The lyrics are by Parsons and Turner set to a gorgeous melody written by none other than Charlie Chaplin.
A Drunken Man's Praise of Sobriety
W.B. Yeats
Come swish around, my pretty punk,
And keep me dancing still
That I may stay a sober man
Although I drink my fill.
Sobriety is a jewel
That I do much adore;
And therefore keep me dancing
Though drunkards lie and snore.
O mind your feet, O mind your feet,
Keep dancing like a wave,
And under every dancer
A dead man in his grave.
No ups and downs, my Pretty,
A mermaid, not a punk;
A drunkard is a dead man,
And all dead men are drunk.
Smile
Smile, though your heart is aching
Smile, even though it's breaking
When there are clouds in the sky,
You'll get by
If you smile through your fear and sorrow
Smile, and maybe tomorrow
You'll see the sun come shining through, if you...
Light up your face with gladness
Hide every trace of sadness
Although a tear maybe ever so near
That is when you must keep on trying
Smile, what's the use of crying?
You'll find that life is still worthwhile
If you just smile.
Discuss
I’m hoping this will act as a much needed relaxation trip for me. I’m starting to feel down, for reasons as yet unknown. There are a lot of things going on for the O’Briens. Most of them are ultimately good, but I feel it is my moral responsibility to shoulder all the anxiety for the family. So I fret and worry over everything.
If I were to write and autobiography at this moment, it would be entitled “Tales of Woe and Stomach Acid.” I don’t think it will be a big seller.
So, today I leave you with the lyrics of a song and a poem (I couldn’t pick one) whilst I recharge my batteries and hopefully return chipper, happy and lacking bitterness and worry. Of course, if I did that, I’d have to return as a different person.
The poem is by WB Yeats and is in honor of all you pseudo-Irish who will be soiling the good names of all of us real Irish on St. Patrick’s day by puking and pissing yourselves in public (odd, if you add an “e” to public it becomes “pub lice”, a condition you should avoid on Monday). The song seems to fit my mood. No deeper meaning. The lyrics are by Parsons and Turner set to a gorgeous melody written by none other than Charlie Chaplin.
A Drunken Man's Praise of Sobriety
W.B. Yeats
Come swish around, my pretty punk,
And keep me dancing still
That I may stay a sober man
Although I drink my fill.
Sobriety is a jewel
That I do much adore;
And therefore keep me dancing
Though drunkards lie and snore.
O mind your feet, O mind your feet,
Keep dancing like a wave,
And under every dancer
A dead man in his grave.
No ups and downs, my Pretty,
A mermaid, not a punk;
A drunkard is a dead man,
And all dead men are drunk.
Smile
Smile, though your heart is aching
Smile, even though it's breaking
When there are clouds in the sky,
You'll get by
If you smile through your fear and sorrow
Smile, and maybe tomorrow
You'll see the sun come shining through, if you...
Light up your face with gladness
Hide every trace of sadness
Although a tear maybe ever so near
That is when you must keep on trying
Smile, what's the use of crying?
You'll find that life is still worthwhile
If you just smile.
Discuss
Tuesday, March 11, 2003
Beavers and Ducks!
You may not realize it but . . . spring has sprung. Oh sure, the local weather man is threatening that there is a HUGE COLD AIR MASS heading our way and, in order to save ourselves WE MUST RUN FOR OUR LIVES.
Winter is always a short prison term as you sit inside, looking outside at the cold, dead world outside and you run to make a cup of hot chocolate laced with No-Doz. Everything is sleepy and tired and barren and boring.
There’s nothing to do in the winter that doesn’t involve a form of ice in your underpants or loss of circulation in your hands. No one cares about you either. You explain your misery, but they stare at you with a look that says, “Shut up. My ass cheeks are pink and raw from sliding down the ice. Do I look like I care about you?”
You’re all alone.
Children, however, seem to have some sort of magical chemical protection from certain types of cold. When I say certain types of cold, I mean:
--When playing in the snow.
--When you desperately want to go inside.
--After dark when they are supposed to be inside.
--When they are supposed to be doing their homework.
--When you’re standing out there watching them come back from the bus, and they take a detour through the bushes, to a pile of rocks, weaving in and out of parked cars, to climb a tree, to pick leaves out of their friend’s hair, to look over the pile of goose droppings and analyze what they have eaten, to throw rocks from the said pile at said pile of poo, etc. and on and on and on. Then, when she finally arrives at the door she looks at your icy corpse and says, “Were you calling me?”
But it works in reverse. It can be exactly 48 degrees, which is not cold, and you have things that you must do outside with the child. Such as, loading things in the trunk before going to grandma’s house. This makes her cold. As does:
--Walking ten feet from the car to the grocery store.
--Inside the shoe store.
--Inside the greenhouse at the botanical gardens.
--While sitting on top of the heating register while wearing eight wool sweaters, an elk hide, forty-two pairs of mittens, seven hats and one of those blankets they use for victims of shock.
--When she accidentally lights her clothes on fire while trying to mix two chemicals together to create a potion that causes lead to turn into gold.
Damn kids. They don’t make sense.
But spring has sprung. I have proof.
Outside my window, which was dead and barren yesterday, there are at least fifty Chimney Swifts flying around, arguing, fighting and I think making baby chimney swifts. The birds have returned and they are singing. Loud. And staring at me.
Holy crap they can open the door! They’re coming towards me! Wow they look mean. Quick, get help! Go get hel . . .
Discuss
Winter is always a short prison term as you sit inside, looking outside at the cold, dead world outside and you run to make a cup of hot chocolate laced with No-Doz. Everything is sleepy and tired and barren and boring.
There’s nothing to do in the winter that doesn’t involve a form of ice in your underpants or loss of circulation in your hands. No one cares about you either. You explain your misery, but they stare at you with a look that says, “Shut up. My ass cheeks are pink and raw from sliding down the ice. Do I look like I care about you?”
You’re all alone.
Children, however, seem to have some sort of magical chemical protection from certain types of cold. When I say certain types of cold, I mean:
--When playing in the snow.
--When you desperately want to go inside.
--After dark when they are supposed to be inside.
--When they are supposed to be doing their homework.
--When you’re standing out there watching them come back from the bus, and they take a detour through the bushes, to a pile of rocks, weaving in and out of parked cars, to climb a tree, to pick leaves out of their friend’s hair, to look over the pile of goose droppings and analyze what they have eaten, to throw rocks from the said pile at said pile of poo, etc. and on and on and on. Then, when she finally arrives at the door she looks at your icy corpse and says, “Were you calling me?”
But it works in reverse. It can be exactly 48 degrees, which is not cold, and you have things that you must do outside with the child. Such as, loading things in the trunk before going to grandma’s house. This makes her cold. As does:
--Walking ten feet from the car to the grocery store.
--Inside the shoe store.
--Inside the greenhouse at the botanical gardens.
--While sitting on top of the heating register while wearing eight wool sweaters, an elk hide, forty-two pairs of mittens, seven hats and one of those blankets they use for victims of shock.
--When she accidentally lights her clothes on fire while trying to mix two chemicals together to create a potion that causes lead to turn into gold.
Damn kids. They don’t make sense.
But spring has sprung. I have proof.
Outside my window, which was dead and barren yesterday, there are at least fifty Chimney Swifts flying around, arguing, fighting and I think making baby chimney swifts. The birds have returned and they are singing. Loud. And staring at me.
Holy crap they can open the door! They’re coming towards me! Wow they look mean. Quick, get help! Go get hel . . .
Discuss
Monday, March 10, 2003
Yay
Title field works. For the most part.
Now if this stupid email publishing would work, we'd be golden. And I want to be golden. I'll sell myself and buy a plasma screen TV.
Now if this stupid email publishing would work, we'd be golden. And I want to be golden. I'll sell myself and buy a plasma screen TV.
No Title Field?
See, now this is interesting. The title field isn't showing up. I'll have to fix that . . .
I'm Not Trying To Be Irritating
If you've dropped by and have seen things appear and disappear, that is my fault. I've been messing around with things and testing them out. I'm attemping to get new features to work (like the above title, which is a form field), including the ability to post via email. Once I do, I'll be the coolest kid on the block. Maybe even in the whole neighborhood. Perhaps in my congressional district.
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