tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11846529306057805722024-03-13T22:54:43.429-05:00Lost In the HiveRandom musings from Brian O'Mara-Croft, author of Lost in the Hive: Confessions of a Reluctant Drone (PublishingWorks, June 2010)Brian O'Mara-Crofthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17715799240438469155noreply@blogger.comBlogger65125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184652930605780572.post-57178950475870062312011-06-21T10:22:00.005-05:002011-06-21T10:36:23.679-05:00The Vancouver riots? NOT My Doing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDR32N4qLz3gU5zHjBRNTIfpdM_gI2MVv52Hs-PR0TyZMM07HRa1JCb7CpeOYZQY3UfNcuNCq2UjaFkx7R5N0gR4dF4Oi9K1b_yvvE5XPqUIGClx4Ui1zT8clxwWUYCNaMwVb6K6VGBLE/s1600/file000315021003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDR32N4qLz3gU5zHjBRNTIfpdM_gI2MVv52Hs-PR0TyZMM07HRa1JCb7CpeOYZQY3UfNcuNCq2UjaFkx7R5N0gR4dF4Oi9K1b_yvvE5XPqUIGClx4Ui1zT8clxwWUYCNaMwVb6K6VGBLE/s320/file000315021003.jpg" width="241" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The same evening the Boston Bruins captured their first Stanley Cup in almost 30 years, a crestfallen horde of Canucks fans in Vancouver expressed their disappointment by laying waste to their own city. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">As I think about it now, this makes as much sense as trying to salvage your marriage by banging your wife’s sister, or declaring war against an overseas despot and then hunting your neighbors with a crossbow. (It makes even <em>less</em> sense if your wife's sister is hot or if any of your neighbors are jerks.)</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Still, since the turmoil didn’t occur in or near Chicago—in fact, happened 2, 160 miles from my house—I felt no direct effects of the unrest. Most of my family in Canada is even more distant from Vancouver, so I felt pretty confident my mom wasn't doing the stop-drop-and-roll in a public park.</span></div><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Here’s the funny thing, though: within hours, my voice mailbox started to fill with questions from some of my American friends. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sooooo</i> Brian, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">how about</i> what happened in Van…cou…ver?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“Oh my God…did <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you</i> hear what <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">your</i> fellow Canadians did?”</span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> As near as I can tell, the thinking behind these calls went something like this: </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> <span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span>Something newsworthy happened in Canada.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> <span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span>The Canadian event was newsworthy enough to receive coverage in the U.S.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> <span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span>Brian came from Canada.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> <span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span>Brian must therefore have an opinion about what happened in Canada, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> 4b. He probably knows some of the parties involved.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">This logic baffles me. I haven’t lived in Canada since 1998. I’ve only been to Vancouver once—and, when I visited, nobody threw a Molotov cocktail at me, so I thought the city was gorgeous. I’m a Toronto Maple Leafs fan; when they’re out, I don’t automatically cheer for another Canadian team (in fact, during the first round of the playoffs, I wanted the Blackhawks to thrash the Canucks). And, in spite of the notion that Canadians are a peaceful sort who (a) always eat their recommended daily allowance in fiber, (b) have daily contact with polar bears, and (c) never utter a harsh word, I’m not surprised when (d) some of my countrymen act like idiots. I’ve known some. Most often, these few act like idiots because (a) they’re idiots, and (b) Canadians love their beer almost as much as hockey. I presume at least some of those idiots live in Vancouver. </span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> I responded to the news with the same strong reaction I would have afforded riots in Boston, New York or Tuscaloosa (all of which are closer in distance than Vancouver): </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“Huh.” This followed by, "Was anyone topless?"</span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Had a neighbor thrown a rock through my window—two days’ driving distance from Vancouver, but a hell of a lot closer to my non-rock-resistant skull—my response would have been more immediate:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“Hey, what’s with the rock? And where are you going with my flat-screen?”</span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> I love both Canada and the U.S., but little that happens there affects me nearly as much as almost everything that happens here. And yet I’m the Canadian ambassador to almost every American I know whenever Canadians do something stupid. Which got me thinking: what if I called these same friends to hold them personally accountable for everything that happens here?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">On the same day as the Vancouver riots—June 15—a report revealed that 70 percent of guns in Mexico came from the U.S. I did not phone my friends to see if they could fix me up with an AK-47 to deal with chipmunks under my front porch. If I get desperate enough, I'll buy a cat.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">In Wichita, KS, the temperature rose 20 degrees in just 20 minutes, and yet I did not yell at anyone for fucking with my polar ice cap. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">In California, Arnold Schwarzenegger’s mistress confessed that she and Maria Shriver cried together when the truth about Arnie’s love child came out. I spoke of this with no one, because I couldn’t give a shit. </span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Sure, I could have placed these calls. After all, they happened in the U.S. and many of my friends are American. But I didn’t. As a "nice" Canadian—one of the mostly non-idiotic, non-looting-and-pillaging, I've-never-lived-within-a-thousand-miles-of-Vancouver variety—I don’t play that way.</span>Brian O'Mara-Crofthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17715799240438469155noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184652930605780572.post-47894476145528432582011-04-27T10:27:00.000-05:002011-04-27T10:27:23.656-05:00Not a Tough Guy...Brian Watches "One Man, One Jar"A few weeks ago, our friends Jack and Kristin visited our home for a few drinks. During a conversation that I had, of course, directed toward the inappropriate, I mentioned that I had once walked into a room as my older boys were watching "Two Girls, One Cup". If you've seen it, you know just how disgusting it is; if you haven't, consider yourself fortunate. <br />
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Jack then asked if I'd ever seen "One Man, One Jar". I had not. The attached video (via Facebook) shows my reaction to viewing it for the first time. <br />
<br />
<strong><em>WARNING:</em></strong> I swear like a sailor throughout, and Patty's background commentary is equally appalling. At about the mid-point, I convince myself it's completely fake; however, this doesn't keep me from squirming.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=10150180267961953&subj=562890092"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFRLNq_-sjkeXXOwNQ6bNDOBVSoe8yyc8DRYArmvU5ZyGFt6RWKa-xkVUnJ-p0qULmJtQGQU7gK7PFmKVkjz7pFDRpIbb987SBjEl1iT3ZyXENGDQ3-AYvCQcENG-R2wnEuKTdin4hdHo/s320/onemanonejar.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Brian O'Mara-Crofthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17715799240438469155noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184652930605780572.post-12126710188910309852011-04-26T13:20:00.001-05:002011-04-26T13:48:07.501-05:00Ambigiously Successful Negotiations in the Digital Age (Part II)In the following exchange, can you tell who's incredibly busy and distracted and who has just enough time on his hands to be hopelessly annoying?<br />
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1134XO-FzXo5_3yElG3-hvaWEww6SMjxLFotWIlNuqKCyrp8RFRaR8DK_CypXKr0eyR_fLBxRrKtGZN8hk5DHK2f_ozAxUKt2ZXjcybb8CR8-D1nLNrGlPp6PymdrBw1OFMH3o4EgQRo/s1600/chat_image2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1134XO-FzXo5_3yElG3-hvaWEww6SMjxLFotWIlNuqKCyrp8RFRaR8DK_CypXKr0eyR_fLBxRrKtGZN8hk5DHK2f_ozAxUKt2ZXjcybb8CR8-D1nLNrGlPp6PymdrBw1OFMH3o4EgQRo/s400/chat_image2.jpg" width="391" /></a></div><br />
<br />
The rest of the exchange has been omitted, because Patty doesn't find this funny.Brian O'Mara-Crofthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17715799240438469155noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184652930605780572.post-81544104978576617932011-04-26T13:01:00.000-05:002011-04-26T13:01:36.990-05:00Can YOU Find the Hidden Cottage Cheese Container?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUSFhnqolDGpvvKVftC6abVAEIJ9ubkto3gbs0TTXRi1x-kUJ91QbLvDLScxe56bcn6UCP3RTOi9zXX0trV5gxJa5P9MH3AnUGgPuYGjxJIz1RGMZZQ6cbOXDZufyq5bdTuo0rmBxQmtI/s640/cottagecheese.jpg" width="480" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Last night, when my fifteen-year-old son and his unceasing hunger ventured in from outside, I told them they could find leftover chili in the fridge, in a cottage cheese container at the front of the middle shelf. As I would soon learn, I have a tendency to be too vague in my descriptions.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">How trained is your eye? Can you spot it? I'll give you a hint: it's in a blue-and-yellow container. Oh, and it's on the MIDDLE shelf, at the FRONT.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Where is it again, Dad?"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"On the middle shelf, at the front. It's in a cottage cheese container."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Huh. Hmm. It's not here."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Really? I just put it there. Did you look?"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Yes, I looked. It's not here. Are you sure? I see yogurt."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Yes, there's yogurt. But there's no chili in yogurt containers, to the best of my knowledge. But I can tell you there IS chili in a cottage cheese container. Right there in the front. Middle shelf. Probably by the yogurt."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"No. It's not here."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"It's in a blue container, with a yellow band. It's right there. Really. Did you look AROUND the yogurt?"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Yes. It must be gone. All that's here is a tub."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Oh, okay. One question. Is it a cottage cheese tub?"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Yes."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Well?"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"I was looking for a clear container with the words 'cottage cheese' on top."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Yes, son, of course you were"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Priceless. I can't WAIT to show this to future girlfriends.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">P.S. In case you couldn't spot the blue-and-yellow cottage cheese container at the front of the middle shelf, check out the reveal below:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgan0NTkKwvUkvR33VKHRinmhXJfUN3mGmFxod8ys_L95iG9eubMQdu1AVh-8iTbRBMiU_ttJwJ32MJwB5OI8wRB-mRLwvZY3P9KNjcx53owC9ErxhLdw0Feh57huMMZ6JzDP-wGYhU32c/s1600/cottagecheese_revealed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgan0NTkKwvUkvR33VKHRinmhXJfUN3mGmFxod8ys_L95iG9eubMQdu1AVh-8iTbRBMiU_ttJwJ32MJwB5OI8wRB-mRLwvZY3P9KNjcx53owC9ErxhLdw0Feh57huMMZ6JzDP-wGYhU32c/s320/cottagecheese_revealed.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">See? It's really there!</div>Brian O'Mara-Crofthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17715799240438469155noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184652930605780572.post-32198295766312575542011-04-26T10:47:00.000-05:002011-04-26T10:47:30.233-05:00Ambigiously Successful Negotiations in the Digital Age (Part I)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: purple;"><em><strong>F</strong></em></span><span style="color: purple;"><em><strong>rom a Google Chat exchange with Patty just moments ago:</strong></em></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVsTs0mGIfLwdLfkyHHp5T0uOnk6Zodaxr7VpdPn6Cd1TS0_nrRFZjUIQ8km_JsMLJ5BLvl1HQOXLjMTn_lyQ9jYyN1e3Dvm2qKTEKDSiafPxOqlCM79PrrNe2ILSarKvXYIMhKCiQBi4/s1600/chat_image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVsTs0mGIfLwdLfkyHHp5T0uOnk6Zodaxr7VpdPn6Cd1TS0_nrRFZjUIQ8km_JsMLJ5BLvl1HQOXLjMTn_lyQ9jYyN1e3Dvm2qKTEKDSiafPxOqlCM79PrrNe2ILSarKvXYIMhKCiQBi4/s640/chat_image.jpg" width="412" /></a></div>Brian O'Mara-Crofthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17715799240438469155noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184652930605780572.post-25204962970903580862011-03-29T12:30:00.001-05:002011-03-29T12:32:38.344-05:00It's "Write My Own Obituary" Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidchZJebAlBcsJCnhe7BQRqlZQAA52U3NnAT4QSgSdWcw1zSxk203FsB22D_PnmM_ccuYzmcTQxcd7_Qq5AHoBFzwhnM8o16crGFD1-ZKVog381IWeycqHPnIoNRVxTyZgEdoXWQwdz9E/s1600/file0002042640992.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidchZJebAlBcsJCnhe7BQRqlZQAA52U3NnAT4QSgSdWcw1zSxk203FsB22D_PnmM_ccuYzmcTQxcd7_Qq5AHoBFzwhnM8o16crGFD1-ZKVog381IWeycqHPnIoNRVxTyZgEdoXWQwdz9E/s320/file0002042640992.jpg" width="216" /></a></div>Here's how I imagine it going down:<br />
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<strong><em>LOCAL WRITER FOUND DEAD, HAPPY IN SUBURBAN CHICAGO HOME</em></strong><br />
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CHICAGO (Reuters)—Controversial and as-yet-mostly-unknown author Brian O’Mara-Croft, 44, was found dead in his suburban Chicago home yesterday morning in what some on the scene described as “offputting” conditions and at least one regarded as "unspeakably inappropriate." <br />
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Although details are as yet unclear, one EMT confirmed the deceased bore a broad grimace pasted across his countenance and a portion of his lower anatomy trapped in “alarming rigor”. Emergency workers quickly left the scene, some holding their pinkie fingers up for delighted onlookers, others in tears.<br />
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Said one: “I’m not crying for him. I’ve never even <em>heard</em> of him. Still, alive or deceased, nobody should have to see <em>that.”</em><br />
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His wife of almost 10 years, Patty, shrugged for reporters. <br />
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“He died as he lived.” She batted away a tear. “He’d have wanted it this way.”<br />
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O’Mara-Croft, who sought international renown for his not-so-family-friendly descriptions of rabbit penises, bat penises, monkey penises, penises ensnared in vacuums and anything “genitalesque”, but whose stated ambition to be "The next Charlie Sheen, admired by millions," was never realized, appears to have suffered a fatal stroke at a time some would consider inopportune. The local coroner refused to speculate whether the film, “Treat Me Like the Pig that I Am #32”, found in the deceased’s DVD player, played any role in his death.<br />
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Tearful, his wife added, “I was tired. He was annoyingly drunk. He acted like a big man about how he’d forge on in spite of my refusals.” Looking thoughtful, she added, “I guess this was one journey Mr. Loved-by-Millions needed to take on his own.”<br />
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O’Mara-Croft, author of <em>Lost in the Hive,</em> is survived by five children who, although not reached for comment, have been observed smiling and cheerful in spite of the news. A friend of one observed, “You can’t even begin to imagine the weight off of my friend’s shoulders. No son should ever open his Facebook page to a photo of his father dancing in a snowbank in a purple thong. <em>NO</em> son.” <br />
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Another friend, who refused to be named, added, “Based on what I saw, I can understand his obsession with penile enhancement. The thong shot looked like two raisins wrestling a malformed earthworm in a frozen coin purse.” On the coroner’s report, the same lower region was described as “average for a Caucasian male.”<br />
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Funeral arrangements have yet to be disclosed, although most family members have confirmed they see no reason to attend on a "laundry day". <br />
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Reporters caught up with O’Mara-Croft’s widow as she appeared to be pricing coffins at various warehouse stores.<br />
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“I came for the jumbo bag of pretzels,” she said, before adding, "And I found them. It's all good." <br />
<br />
O’Mara-Croft, in his writing, sought to get a rise out of all of us; ironically, it would seem the rise he got out of himself was his undoing. He will not be missed.Brian O'Mara-Crofthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17715799240438469155noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184652930605780572.post-67637179696811504082011-03-21T15:12:00.001-05:002011-03-21T15:43:13.677-05:00Lost in the Hive CONTEST!!!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh92pliK0-8D_ROOl1b9q_Fp_8WG7C0_6T8v4MiToQ3Romd_O4aJXICQYvogk221ADH-iYsaJQEHkRwZBVG_pUQ5zIGE3L4QDPwXdTPkjoJQ1lhZdlKiTVpEiKw_M7O9M_A-aulbsp5RzU/s1600/JAR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh92pliK0-8D_ROOl1b9q_Fp_8WG7C0_6T8v4MiToQ3Romd_O4aJXICQYvogk221ADH-iYsaJQEHkRwZBVG_pUQ5zIGE3L4QDPwXdTPkjoJQ1lhZdlKiTVpEiKw_M7O9M_A-aulbsp5RzU/s400/JAR.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
My artist-wife Patty created the candy jar shown for the book launch of my book, Lost in the Hive. When this page reaches 500 followers, or when my Facebook "author" page (<a href="http://tinyurl.com/4fxxto4">http://tinyurl.com/4fxxto4</a>) hits 1,000 fans, we will draw a name at random and ship the winner a similar (not exact) "Lost in the Hive"-themed candy jar. Pass it on!!!<br />
<br />
Cheers,<br />
Brian<br />
<br />
P.S. Depending on how long it takes to reach those lofty heights, the jar may contain my ashes.Brian O'Mara-Crofthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17715799240438469155noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184652930605780572.post-56570390586391141752011-03-17T13:46:00.000-05:002011-03-17T13:46:49.325-05:00Sarcastic SWM Seeks Wealthy Nymphomaniac<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhypqek2ITYeoMUur2qAcj-M4GV3EnBP4qfP1LMwJVO9Akc4Er3JIdfFujMupdSs3rqONtnpo3FzkZLIwPrSd8suLo60G4gSIj_5UuwcOlZ9qhZBooyat7WvmC4DvqJJt2hT9M7AG1bemc/s1600/file1561246251481.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhypqek2ITYeoMUur2qAcj-M4GV3EnBP4qfP1LMwJVO9Akc4Er3JIdfFujMupdSs3rqONtnpo3FzkZLIwPrSd8suLo60G4gSIj_5UuwcOlZ9qhZBooyat7WvmC4DvqJJt2hT9M7AG1bemc/s200/file1561246251481.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>As I goofed off on the web this morning, pretending I was doing something that counts for anything, I happened upon <strong><a href="http://fragrantliar.blogspot.com/2011/03/plenty-of-fish-in-sea.html">this gem</a></strong> from the <em>Fragrant Liar</em> blog. In one of her latest posts, "Fragrant" (a strange first name that hints at qualities sensual and/or unsettling) riffs on her recent frustrations with online dating.<br />
<br />
This got me thinking: If Patty finally does run off with a guy who (a) gets dressed for work, (b) isn't a bum and, therefore, (c) isn't me, and I'm cast back into the world of the love-starved (some females) and sex-starved (all males), how might I make myself stand out from the crowd? <br />
<br />
Here's what I came up with:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7dZ9TbKjqwpPGS8S134Z36tk8VLseC7OTYczyMOfifZYQl6xhW_L_njlzg7HnZlwfEcYYqafbCG2L_goG1pCP-YDBaeeHsamgGWl6osat0Qw6P1_BlfpiPeo2nKuiOvqEY6txdd9Pxo4/s1600/personal_ad_joke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7dZ9TbKjqwpPGS8S134Z36tk8VLseC7OTYczyMOfifZYQl6xhW_L_njlzg7HnZlwfEcYYqafbCG2L_goG1pCP-YDBaeeHsamgGWl6osat0Qw6P1_BlfpiPeo2nKuiOvqEY6txdd9Pxo4/s200/personal_ad_joke.jpg" width="128" /></a></div><strong><em>MALE SEEKS FEMALE(S): </em></strong><br />
Bitter, sarcastic DWM, 44, offers simple tastes, simple thoughts, filthy habits. Has teeth, limbs, too-cute wiry hairs on eyebrows and earlobes. Orson Wellesy physique with seductively rounded torso. Inert. Has worked in past. Heavy smoker; even heavier drinker. Very efficient lovemaker. Coward. Fond of occasional showers. Crybaby. Will lick your face when you're angry to cheer you up. Favorite time of day is sex o'clock (get it? I'm full of such verbal treats). Bit of a foodie--most meals consist of (a) ground beef, (b) pasta or (c) ground beef and pasta. Slob. Will help pick lingerie painful and humiliating to you but fashionable and desirable to me. Will not mark territory with urine (bathroom floor and shower curtain excluded). Amateur photographer and videographer (see "<em>lingerie"</em>, above). Words like "dropsy" and "ballcock" make me giggle, sometimes for hours. Charmingly flatulent. You: gainfully employed and/or wealthy, nymphomaniac, 24/7 sports watcher, ten toes, should have pulse.<br />
<br />
What do you think? Do you sense a possible love connection?Brian O'Mara-Crofthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17715799240438469155noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184652930605780572.post-15948445471976145572011-03-13T11:28:00.000-05:002011-03-13T11:28:25.290-05:00SUPERZERO--The Adventures of Cap'n Thundersomething<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqLKFsAeEXtqBBy7ixjOK2KHlGPkWHPPeaRxmfb9kLOOyNJgZRszKEk7va2thaPi9Mdb_bEgbZJCNHSJSb-HDd7F6u1ZExEqo038SbMgiasu1R7dYy5ZU5YK8NOjj3VQ69UUnFAxdB0zE/s1600/file5721298196911.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" q6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqLKFsAeEXtqBBy7ixjOK2KHlGPkWHPPeaRxmfb9kLOOyNJgZRszKEk7va2thaPi9Mdb_bEgbZJCNHSJSb-HDd7F6u1ZExEqo038SbMgiasu1R7dYy5ZU5YK8NOjj3VQ69UUnFAxdB0zE/s200/file5721298196911.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>This morning, while relishing an activity Patty deems inappropriate fodder for stories (I was pooping), I happened upon an article in <em>People Magazine</em> called “Superheroes Among Us.” Across the nation, homegrown do-gooders like the Dark Guardian and Phantom Zero don pajamas and bug goggles and hit the mean streets of NY, SF, DC and other acronyms and/or cities. Some fight crime. Others promote patriotism (more difficult than chasing junkies from dark alleys). Still others help the homeless. <br />
<br />
At first, I chuckled and thought, “Dorks”. I even reflected upon how super-awesome I was by comparison. And then I realized these 24/7 Halloween people were actually helping those less fortunate. My position softened. From this point forward, they’re Dorks...with Purpose.<br />
<br />
Let’s face it: we’ve all yearned for a special gift. As a man, my first dozen items are, of course, carnal. Most involve the moniker "Cap’n ThunderPenis" (sounds best, I think, when pronounced Cap'n <em>Th-th-thuuuuuuuuuuuuuunder</em>Penis)—which, to this day, my wife Patty refuses to call me, even during yay-you’re-drunk-you-can-talk-dirty sex. Patty, of course, focuses on the practical. <br />
<br />
“I wish I could just wave a wand and have all this mess go away.” <br />
<br />
I look around at our immaculate kitchen, poke my head around the corner into our shiny family room and say, “But the house is spotless.” Whereupon Patty shakes her head and fixes me with a subzero stare.<br />
<br />
“No…<strong><em>ALL</em></strong> this mess.” <br />
<br />
When I was a kid, I wanted to be the all-powerful cowboy liberating the world from bloodthirsty Indians. <em>BLAM! POW! BLAMMO!</em> The heathen would try to flee, but I’d gun them all down. This would go on for hours, with no adult pausing the action even long enough to inform us that ethnic cleansing, even for <em>pretendsies</em>, was—oh, how to put this—fucking shameful. Even if I can justify my behavior by saying, “I was just a kid,” or “We were less informed in those days,” how then do I explain my assigning the Italian neighbor boys the recurring role of Indians, because somehow that seemed logical? <br />
<br />
Some never lose their sense of childhood magic, the dreams of leading good against evil in epic battles. Our son Devin, at almost 21, still poses philosophical questions like, “If the characters from Pokemon went into battle against the Transformers, who would win?” Patty would reply, “ “* and walk out of the room. I would guess, “Transformers”, which would lead to a 10-minute dissertation about special abilities possessed by the Charizard that Megatron would <em>kill</em> for.<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-size: x-small;">* silence.</span></em><br />
<br />
When I finished the article (did I mention I'd been pooping?) and returned to the bedroom, I asked Patty, “What special ability could make me a superhero?”<br />
<br />
Without a pause: “Well, you drink VERY well.”<br />
<br />
“What kind of gift is THAT?”<br />
<br />
“Well, you don’t get nasty when you’re drunk.” I was struggling to picture a costume—something bottle-shaped, like me—when Patty added, “But you sometimes get maudlin.”<br />
<br />
“Example?”<br />
<br />
“Well, you cry during the American national anthem.”<br />
<br />
“What’s wrong with that? I’m a patriot!”<br />
<br />
“You’re a Canadian!”<br />
<br />
Patty then asked what superhero she could be. Drunkman answered without thinking. Mistake. <br />
<br />
“How about ‘The Cold Fish’?”<br />
<br />
Patty’s mouth fell open. I didn’t dare mention the resemblance to a largemouth bass. She said, “So be it. I’ll be The Cold Fish. No problem*. Nope, no problem at all.” <br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-size: x-small;">*Problem.</span></em><br />
<br />
Patty then renamed me “Offensiveman”, a nod to my gift for saying the most inappropriate thing in every situation. The name will probably stick.<br />
<br />
The conversation continued. If we were superheroes, there's a pretty good chance our offspring must also have special powers. So, since Sunday mornings are tailor-made for meaningless whimsies, meet our SuperKids:<br />
<br />
THE SMOOCH (aka Devin): Exceptional kissing skills, as evidenced by the 200 or so nauseating Facebook photos of him with his mouth inside his girlfriend’s, like a mother bird barfing up earthworms for her young. Evil.<br />
<br />
THE EGOTIST (aka P.J.): Unshakeable belief that no matter how much those around him wish he’d bite his tongue, he feels the world will be a better place when he speaks his mind. We don’t call upon his evil powers often.<br />
<br />
THE INDIVIDUALIST (aka Colin): Different from everyone else. If you like something, he won’t. Then, just maybe, you won’t either. And then he’ll like it, because you don’t. Needless to say, he’s quite evil, unless you tell him he is.<br />
<br />
TIME STANDS STILL GIRL (aka Kelly): Able to freeze time. No matter what time the family is leaving, or the amount of advance notice provided, and even amid threats of impending child abuse, never walks out the door until everyone else has spent at least 15 minutes grumbling in the car. Unspeakably evil.<br />
<br />
THE BEFUDDLER (aka Connor): Promotes insanity. Could convince felons to go straight simply by promising not to ask another pointless question, like, “If you’re such a superhero, why do bears hibernate next to the swallows of San Capistrano?” Evil incarnate.<br />
<br />
So we’re all superheroes or supervillains of a sort. Some have more to offer the world than others. Who YOU gonna call?Brian O'Mara-Crofthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17715799240438469155noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184652930605780572.post-60739933953781360292011-03-05T09:05:00.001-06:002011-03-05T09:08:51.074-06:00So You Want to Be an Author...REALLY?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqpl0I7RKxgzUA-nTzMGcvDnUwb8jNZreuFOTldyifBWuvXuLuTEqRfCDgKLJ7yWosloWBpHNu_9RqIuTXyJ4Cxipckn4XBiIKiCTPBILdRJ9ghcZp-SOZR3GfAjlhjS-2ZZ6aKFpmRxk/s1600/file000398613366.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" l6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqpl0I7RKxgzUA-nTzMGcvDnUwb8jNZreuFOTldyifBWuvXuLuTEqRfCDgKLJ7yWosloWBpHNu_9RqIuTXyJ4Cxipckn4XBiIKiCTPBILdRJ9ghcZp-SOZR3GfAjlhjS-2ZZ6aKFpmRxk/s400/file000398613366.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
On June 30, 2009, as I finished my best-ever conversation with my literary agent, I escaped the mammoth throng of faceless aspiring writers and jumped into the more exclusive club of the faceless soon-to-be-published. <em>Lost in the Hive,</em> my collection of off-the-wall true stories, morphed from pie-in-the-sky dream to new reality.<br />
<br />
As my kids would say, I was hella stoked.<br />
<br />
After the requisite happy dance—and the fleeting thought, “Move over, David Sedaris, there’s a new neurotic humorist in town”—my mind flooded with questions: Would I find summers in Key West too searing? Would Scorsese understand that only George Clooney could capture the requisite “me-ness” to render the film adaptation an Oscar favorite? How on earth could I protect a chapter devoted solely (and self-lovingly) to masturbation? And on my first of a tiresome series of appearances on Oprah, should I go shabby-chic or prom-formal? <br />
<br />
In seconds, my brain swapped Fords for Maseratis, modest bungalows for lakefront estates, friends for groupies, anonymity for celebrity, papa for paparazzi. <br />
<br />
It took months to extract my bulbous melon from the haven of self-delusion that, these days, passes only for my ass.<br />
<br />
Oh, we’ve all heard the stories. Lonely single mom writes fantasy about wizard boy and—poof—becomes more popular than both The Beatles <em>and</em> Christ. Dad says shit, son gets rich. Ex-first-lady scores eight million to dish about the most famous appendage in the free world. <br />
<br />
With such boundless fame and fortune swirling about, how much pie could the rest of us—The Newly Published—expect to tuck into? <br />
<br />
If you’re already famous, or struggle to find pants that can accommodate both your frame and the cascade of horseshoes raining out your posterior, you’ll get your fill. If you’re a mere mortal, get ready to spend years wondering if you might better have made your name by duping the media about your toddler taking a solo flight in a hot-air balloon.<br />
<br />
So, for those of you who aspire to be—or have just learned you’re to become—a published author, allow me to throw a colossal, well-chilled bucket of truth in your face. No charge. And please, no tears.<br />
<br />
<strong>Truth 1: </strong><br />
<strong>You probably won’t be famous</strong><br />
<br />
My book hit the shelves in June of 2010. In spite of the best efforts of my publisher, and a near-manic flurry of self-promotion that started months before and that continues to fill my every breathing moment, get this: <br />
<br />
I’m still not famous. <br />
<br />
Oh, at my local bookstore, the owners may tell a customer, “Here’s one of our local authors,” and I may be rewarded with a tight smile and a, “Oh, how nice for you,” but my presence generates little more enthusiasm than had the owners said, “There’s a few cookies left in the kids’ section. Help yourself.”<br />
<br />
My wife is a teacher. We cannot walk our streets without tripping over current and former students. I walk in my spouse’s shadow. If I say hello to most folks, they still avert their gaze. <br />
<br />
I’m not bitter. Okay, I’m a little bitter.<br />
<br />
<strong>Truth 2:</strong><br />
<strong>You probably won’t be rich</strong><br />
<br />
In 2004, before much of the publishing world swirled down the toilet, 950,000 of the 1.2 million books published in the U.S. sold fewer than 99 copies. Few books ever sell more than 3,000 copies. <br />
<br />
If the new math eludes you, allow me to elucidate: This really, really blows. <br />
<br />
And it gets worse.<br />
<br />
Most authors receive 10 percent of the cover price each time their book sells. If you have an agent, he or she receives 15 percent of this. So, for each copy of my book that moves at its cover price of 15 dollars, I receive $1.27. At 1,000 sales, I’ll come away with $1,270. At 5,000, I’ll pocket $6,350—hardly enough to qualify me as a Beverly Hillbilly, and a bit less than I’d earn as a panhandler.<br />
<br />
For six months of full-time toil, this figures out to between a quarter and a dollar per hour. When I was a kid, I wouldn’t even run an errand for my ailing grandfather for these wages. And he paid <em>cash.</em><br />
<br />
Bottom line: if you’re doing this for the money…don’t.<br />
<br />
<strong>Truth 3:</strong><br />
<strong>Book tour? Hahahahaha</strong><br />
<br />
Unless you’ve written a book for which a publisher is itching to mortgage its future—or, in other words, you’re a demigod or better—don’t count on your book as the passport to world travel. For most, the “book tour” is an abstraction; in reality, to get your name out there, you’ll fish through your own wallet, time and again, to sell just a handful of books.<br />
<br />
Example: I was invited to headline a book signing at a small store in a smaller town an hour west of my home. The costs associated with this visit—gas, meals and such—came to roughly $100. I bought a book from the host store (which an author should always do). New total: $127. To break even, I would need to peddle 100 books. I sold two. To see my books in the hands of two new readers, I invested $124…and that’s for one event.<br />
<br />
Moral of the story: if you want to get your name out there—to meet your “fans”—first check the depth of your pockets.<br />
<br />
<strong>Truth 4:</strong><br />
<strong>You may only get one kick at the can</strong><br />
<br />
Somebody once told me that your first and second books are “gateway” books, the ditchweed you smoke before the big houses hook you on the heroin of popularity that comes from being a “name” author.<br />
<br />
This may be true—as yet, I wouldn’t know—but I do know you have to get to the second book before you get to the third. Have you ever tried to secure a loan when you don’t have credit? Same principle. If your first book struggles for sales—yes, even good books flop—you’ll deteriorate overnight from beautiful swan to ugly duckling. If your book sales soar, you’ll be the belle of the ball; if they don’t, your balls could be bells and nobody would listen.<br />
<br />
If you want to be the proud parent of more than one book, do this: sell your house, your soul and, if you’ve got the equipment for it, your body, to get people to read and talk about that first book. You’ll feel dirty, but you’ll have to get dirty if you dream of becoming dirty rich. <br />
<br />
<strong>Truth 5:</strong><br />
<strong>Nobody cares about your story</strong><br />
<br />
You may have a fascinating story to tell. See “Oh, how nice for you,” above. Too bad nobody cares. Before you ever contact anyone in the publishing world, ask yourself, “Do I have a fascinating story to <em>SELL?”</em><br />
<br />
In the months since <em>Lost in the Hive</em> reached stores, I’ve thrown myself into two projects: a second collection of humorous essays, and a less rib-tickling memoir of my wife’s near-fatal heart attack and battle with heart disease.<br />
<br />
Both are—in my opinion and my agent’s—good, compelling books. I even allow myself the vanity that they’re on par with books you’ll know more than mine. <br />
<br />
The few editors who’ve previewed them agree. I’ve been told, “This is hilarious,” and “The story of your wife is heartbreaking.” In each case so far, though, I’ve also been told, “This just isn’t a strong fit for our list right now.” This sounds encouraging, but really it’s publisher-speak for, “Thanks for checking in; now please go away.” Even the best authors in the world know this schtick.<br />
<br />
If you want to seduce Random House, Penguin or another of the big boys, you’d better be one amazing, timely and unique writer, or a successful writer who’s already seduced them and left them spent and breathless with your bestseller-list stamina. And that’s just the foreplay. <br />
<br />
You’d also better have a selling proposition that blows publishers’ skirts up. You’re too late for zombies, vampires or vampire-hunter presidents. Publishing is a business of dreams, to be sure, but never forget it’s a business, and a fickle one at that. <br />
<br />
So know what makes your story stand out, and do your song and dance. Then hope and pray. Failing that, find two or fewer degrees of separation between you and Lady Gaga. I’m no relation; I checked.<br />
<br />
<strong>Truth 6:</strong><br />
<strong>Don’t trade your dream for anything</strong><br />
<br />
Since this piece is about truths, I won’t lie—no battle scars will deter me from my dream, and no amount of suckling on the chapped teat of publishing will leave me feeling anything but thirsty. I’ve written a book; ergo, I am an author. Even if I’m never a famous author, and even if the half-life of embarrassment generated by my written candor spans generations, I’ll know I’ve left a legacy. <br />
<br />
Oh, and I believe in the ideal marriage of editor and author. I know there’s a special someone out there for me, a literary soulmate who will love me (okay, my work) enough to stand at the altar with me and beyond— ‘til death (or declining sales) do us part. <br />
<br />
Sure, if nobody on Earth ever again buys anything I’ve written, I will be crushed. I wrote the stories because I had something real to say, and I’ve always hoped others would listen. If a million people buy <em>Lost in the Hive,</em> I will believe in it just as much—no more, no less—than I did when I first submitted it for consideration. <br />
<br />
I’ll persist even when everything tells me I should quit. “Everything” can shut the hell up. <br />
<br />
If you want to write, write. You may never find an editor willing to amplify your voice to the world, but you will have done something toward a goal. <br />
<br />
At every book signing, I meet someone who says, “Have I got a story for you;” or, “I’m a writer, too;” or, “Can I borrow your pen?” When I ask these aspiring authors where their projects stand, most point to their heads and say, “It’s all in here.” News flash: it’s no good in there. Set it free.<br />
<br />
For much of my life I dreamed of being a writer. On June 30, 2009, my dream came true. It’s not precisely the dream I thought I’d get, and it’s not a complete dream, but it’s a dream nonetheless. And I’m living it.<br />
<br />
As insane as this may seem, and even if it means I never wash the bitter taste of mediocrity from my mouth, I would give anything, spend anything, do anything, to forever taste this bile, to feel these frustrations, to stay—however tenuously—in this club.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><em><span style="color: #0c343d;">NOTE: If you would like a PDF version of this entry, you can get it </span></em></strong><a href="http://www.lostinthehive.com/So%20You%20Want%20to%20Be%20an%20Author.pdf"><strong><em><span style="color: #0c343d;">HERE.</span></em></strong></a>Brian O'Mara-Crofthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17715799240438469155noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184652930605780572.post-91004917318288524582011-02-28T06:56:00.000-06:002011-02-28T06:56:36.960-06:00One of my drones<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Hi everyone:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My son Connor, one of the "drones" from my book <em>Lost in the Hive, </em>once agreed to have his head shaved in support of an aunt and cousin who were battling cancer. Things didn't go as well as we had expected. Please check it out!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Cheers,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Brian</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><object width="320" height="266" class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="http://i.ytimg.com/vi/5YFbt7_ye28/0.jpg"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/5YFbt7_ye28?f=user_uploads&c=google-webdrive-0&app=youtube_gdata" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="http://www.youtube.com/v/5YFbt7_ye28?f=user_uploads&c=google-webdrive-0&app=youtube_gdata" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object></div>Brian O'Mara-Crofthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17715799240438469155noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184652930605780572.post-29466757952483942412011-01-07T16:16:00.000-06:002011-01-07T16:16:43.228-06:00Parenting...the biggest chore of all<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd2UM0unR_RCYWFxMSlWYL55ZLcLzW2_rbQOtff7OVZpF5IN6ldgw3WO2q_HbLoYnkSiya_EUg2V4nVLeuUdPdh-SzGTV8TIEwHNdhmeL2g2w8Tnz5ZXfQRYN_wRd94NuCe09OzPeSTv0/s1600/file4041249270482.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd2UM0unR_RCYWFxMSlWYL55ZLcLzW2_rbQOtff7OVZpF5IN6ldgw3WO2q_HbLoYnkSiya_EUg2V4nVLeuUdPdh-SzGTV8TIEwHNdhmeL2g2w8Tnz5ZXfQRYN_wRd94NuCe09OzPeSTv0/s400/file4041249270482.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>My daughter speaks:<br />
<br />
“I will empty the entire dishwasher,” she says to her younger brother—in the same <em>“And just before God napped on Day Seven, He created Me”</em> tone most of us reserve for to-dos like touching up the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel—“But only if you take out all the garbage.”<br />
<br />
My son responds, “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…”, as though we’d asked him to clean my office or pop a boil in my armpit without using his hands or tools. For emphasis, his shoulders, arms, back and legs immediately morph into a wet paste, and a reluctant blob slimes its way into the kitchen.<br />
<br />
These high-powered negotiations are <em>de rigueur</em> around our home. I suppose, as parents, we should be more understanding; after all, besides being the ones paying for absolutely everything, we have the gall to carve a merciless 15 minutes into their quality draped-over-a-chair time (and, in the process, allow them to fall 150 texts or so behind). I also suppose I should be able to throw a 95-mph fastball, understand why there’s even one iota of appeal in shows like <em>Real Housewives of Beverly Hills,</em> or fix something…<em>anything.</em> But I cannot, so I settle. I act like a raving bitch.<br />
<br />
True, it’s not our children’s fault they were born to parents who—horror of fuckity-fuck horrors—expect them to carry their weight (or at least a portion of it, from the kitchen to the garage). But it’s also not entirely our fault they developed an absurd sense of entitlement that allows them to say, in all sincerity, “But I mowed the lawn <em>twice</em> last year.” <br />
<br />
I’ll take some of the blame, but most of it I’ll lay squarely at the feet of those parents who present chores as an option rather than an expectation. If you’ve ever said (or nodded at) the expression, “Let them be children—they’ll grow up fast enough,” watch your back.Brian O'Mara-Crofthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17715799240438469155noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184652930605780572.post-72981511148356431342010-12-14T09:23:00.002-06:002010-12-14T09:23:56.622-06:00Where the hell have I been?Sorry I haven't been writing much here of late. I've been working on a second book, helping out with a sick family member, and working on a video trailer for my first book, LOST IN THE HIVE. I'll be posting again soon...in the meantime, please check out the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GsE6r0sHHzI&feature=mfu_in_order&list=UL">book trailer.</a><br />
<br />
Cheers,<br />
BrianBrian O'Mara-Crofthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17715799240438469155noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184652930605780572.post-36478287818832286042010-10-24T14:55:00.000-05:002010-10-24T14:55:55.979-05:00Death By Ladybug<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKRxa3HK4A9IBoLSyjRIli7gQZHIRLu1j4NQt4trpi_67L7Rr0UlduY4xXfD4j2nfCPU1rMOLtDyrbj5RXrZWwJhCD5NadvH8Y3ilN7_1Us_Wz8-Ak2ZnNPG93dMJSIE-_hJAyTAfyb_I/s1600/file0001447664899.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKRxa3HK4A9IBoLSyjRIli7gQZHIRLu1j4NQt4trpi_67L7Rr0UlduY4xXfD4j2nfCPU1rMOLtDyrbj5RXrZWwJhCD5NadvH8Y3ilN7_1Us_Wz8-Ak2ZnNPG93dMJSIE-_hJAyTAfyb_I/s400/file0001447664899.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Call me morbid, but, in recent days, as I’ve tried to drift off at night, I’ve been convinced I’ll die a violent death while I slumber. My thoughts flood with the prospect of a demise almost beyond imagining:<br />
<br />
Death … by ladybug.<br />
<br />
They’re everywhere. Before I close my eyes, I try to count how many have taken residence on the ceiling. There’s no real logic in this. It’s one of those “enemy you know” scenarios, like when one counts rabid sheep. My subconscious tells me that if I’ve tallied thirteen, my next morning won’t suck if the same baker’s dozen are still there, and in the same place. It seldom works this way; ladybugs don’t keep the same hours.<br />
<br />
You’d think I’d be happy to find them gone. All that does, in truth, is make me fret less about where they <em>were,</em> and a great deal more about where they now <em>are.</em> If they’re not above the bed, my brain tells me, they must be <em>in</em> the bed, and that does little to help me ignore the snooze button.<br />
<br />
So I count. <br />
<br />
There are, of course, those few lone wolves who skitter across the ceiling, left to right, front to back, shells rattling out an erratic symphony best described as <em>ewww.</em> They do this, making me restart my count over and over, before they come to a full stop in a tight formation directly above my head. I can’t help but think this is by design. <br />
<br />
“One, two, three…hey, get back there! One, two…”<br />
<br />
These rogues fear no magazine and no vacuum. They may know they’re tempting fate, but they take comfort in knowing they would die with dignity—as I hope I will, when the huddled mass of cowards in the corner (out of reach of the Dyson’s wand and too numerous to measure) swoop down and strip my bones clean while I chase butterflies and unicorns.<br />
<br />
Then, as I watch the biggest of the spy-bugs stretch and yawn above me, I begin to worry that, before the full wave comes, an advance party will crawl into my open mouth and do a little Chorus Line, one singular sensation across my taste buds. I don’t know much about ladybugs, but I have read they bear an unpleasant taste. <br />
<br />
How, I wonder, does anyone know this? <br />
<br />
I’ve never seen Bobby Flay gush about Ladybug Tartare as an appetizer before a main course of Beetles à la King (“The key here, folks, is to maintain a high heat, so they don’t skip around so much, and turn them only once.”) I know not a single ladybug cuisine enthusiast, even though you might expect I would, given I live not far from counties where hounds are considered peers. <br />
<br />
Perhaps I’m not adventurous enough, but when I see a vulgar insect, I don’t imagine how appetizing it would be on a toast point with a garlic aoli and a sprig of thyme. <br />
<br />
“Patty, you have to try this. It's divine. Just remember...the antennae are garnish.”<br />
<br />
I don’t want to eat it. I want to kill it before it kills me. I don’t want my last seconds on earth to be plagued with the realization there’s at least one thing I abhor more than brussels sprouts. So, with few other logical options, I wake Patty. After she clears enough fog from her eyes to feel confident in her you-insensitive-bastard glare, she grumbles, “What?” <br />
<br />
I stay silent, but let my wide eyes drift from hers and up toward the heavens.<br />
<br />
“Brian, what?”<br />
<br />
“Shh-shh-shh. “Look. Up there.”<br />
<br />
Her eyes ease up at first, and then leap from what-now to what-the-fuck in a nanosecond, just as they do when she comes home from work and finds I’ve left the toaster on the counter, a skin flick in the DVD player and a tuna-salad-soiled knife in the sink. But this moment is much juicier and preternatural. I’m shitting bricks, to be sure, but she’s shitting townhouses.<br />
<br />
The bug nods and waves an armor-clad wing, the insect equivalent of, “Good on ya, love!” Patty does not wave back or exchange any such pleasantry. She’s a turtle now, and the paisley comforter is her cotton shell. I feel her racing pulse in my pillow.<br />
<br />
From under the blankets, I hear, “Please, Brian … please get rid of him.”<br />
<br />
“Him? How do you know it’s a male? It’s not like he’s pointing at us with a penis and doing a cabaret number.”<br />
<br />
“Whatever. Get rid of her.”<br />
<br />
“How do you know it’s a girl? It’s not like she’s…”<br />
<br />
“Stop! Just get rid of it. Please!”<br />
<br />
My vision’s not great, but I think the bug—boy or girl—looks wounded by her remarks.<br />
<br />
And this is where I <em>could</em> be brave. I could be my wife’s Russell Crowe, her gladiator. I could grab a candle holder and squish the interloper against the ceiling with a macabre, “Hahahaha.” But another would soon take its place, and then another, and I’d spend the better part of the night naked and stretched out from mattress to ceiling—not one of my better looks. It would also mean I’d need to keep wiping the orange guts from the white paint, and I’d forget my count and have to start all over again.<br />
<br />
No, I won’t deal with the ladybugs. I’ll hide under the sheets and hope they won’t rain down upon me, or find a way to squeeze into my eardrum. Let them host a convention to help sort out the ladybugs from the fellabugs. Hell, they can have a no-holds-barred orgy up there. I don’t care. And if, as the prayer goes, I should die before I wake, I’ll at least have better-than-average odds to shed this mortal coil from a sound slumber. I can now sleep, and sleep well, because I now know Patty will not.Brian O'Mara-Crofthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17715799240438469155noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184652930605780572.post-66748756372997909042010-10-21T12:35:00.000-05:002010-10-21T12:35:07.349-05:00Receding Heirlines<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxqdwjyc-jpf0ks6X-AfDVjYdOro2TurySOdfviz8CVlAOMyfoJuKEhGwRJ5bey5LmKVxwk9xT7wNgrkLidfBIhTsUkaOUZUEhUJ6G_nJuAkuQxlNrA0D763HEQCUMtayDIpsua4T5CVc/s1600/file0001301731166.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxqdwjyc-jpf0ks6X-AfDVjYdOro2TurySOdfviz8CVlAOMyfoJuKEhGwRJ5bey5LmKVxwk9xT7wNgrkLidfBIhTsUkaOUZUEhUJ6G_nJuAkuQxlNrA0D763HEQCUMtayDIpsua4T5CVc/s400/file0001301731166.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><strong>"An angry father is most cruel towards himself."–</strong> <em>Pubilius Syrus</em><br />
<br />
After several lazy afternoons scanning online sites of famous quotations, searching for that one quip that would so fully encapsulate my experience as man, husband and father I could spare myself the hassle of coining my own, this nugget gave me pause. What stopped me wasn’t the message. No, all I could think was, “Wow, how angry was his father? What monster would curse his kid with the name Pubilius?” <br />
<br />
Was it common practice in first-century BC to dole out names that sound queer both as a whole and in any shortened form? Pubilius? Why not Marcellus, which leaves its owner the option of being just “Mark”? Or John, which, because it tangles the tongue, some pronounce “Jack”? Or even “Billy”? No, scratch that—it sounds stupid, like something you’d call a one-hit-wonder country singer.<br />
<br />
Life on the arid Syrian schoolyard could not have been a picnic for young Pubie. Still, as I digested this quote, something moved me. <br />
<br />
<em>An angry father is most cruel towards himself. </em><br />
<br />
What kind of ridiculous shit is that? Why in god’s name would I target myself for malice when I spend every waking hour with a figurative “kick me” sign on my back? We’ll never know what the Syrus kids slipped into dad’s wine the day he penned this twaddle—perhaps just more wine—but I like to think he meant to write this: <br />
<br />
<em>“Only a masochistic dunderhead would be most cruel towards himself. A smart and angry father prefers to be cruel to his kids.”</em> – Brian O’Mara-Croft<br />
<br />
As a parent of five, I have been angry—very angry. Oh, the many flavors of rage I’ve savored. The veins in my forehead stay bulged and throbbing in mere anticipation of my next tirade. When I’m in this state, slapping a mosquito on my forehead would launch a fountain of gore. I love my children with all my heart. I just abhor the way their minds work.<br />
<br />
Who stashed the milk next to the cookies in the pantry? Sure, I get it that Oreos and two-percent enjoy a perfect marriage, but are memories so short these items need to be kept side-by-side to recall this? Is a deafening argument in which every third word is “idiot” and every sixth word, “fuck”, really so compelling it can’t wait until I wrap up my speakerphone call with an important client? And what on earth possesses the lot of them to burst, five-wide and unannounced, into our bedroom just as I’m making my best love?<br />
<br />
“I’m busy here! GET OUT!”<br />
<br />
“But why are you and Mommy nakee? And why are you shoving her? Is she stuck?”<br />
<br />
“A little. Now close the door.”<br />
<br />
My own father was no stranger to moments of fury. He exercised the option, as did others of his generation, to position a “Board of Education” in plain view on the kitchen wall. It may well have been an idle threat, but none of we three boys dared cut in line to snatch top spot in the pecking order. He never used the paddle—although once, when the hockey stick I left on the garage floor launched the car’s side mirror, in dozens of pieces, down the driveway and into the street, I watched his hands tremble toward it.<br />
<br />
Today, a parent merely mentions the word “spanking” in the abstract—as in, “If I don’t spank you now, I’ll always wish I had”—and a kid’s finger hovers over the first speed-dial button, a direct line to DCFS. <br />
<br />
<em>Just try me, old man.</em><br />
<br />
At times I have been cruel, if only by accident (or, as the more particular might propose, from negligence). I’ve flipped my kids over my shoulder—<em>“Wheeee!”</em>—only to miss the catch on the other side (<em>“Whoops.”</em>) I’ve rushed their delicate noggins headlong into awnings, car doors and picture frames. I’ve led tender bare feet across lava-hot pavement. I’ve tossed baseballs and Frisbees toward their hands—and into their faces.<br />
<br />
One night, I loaded my infant son into a “baby backpack” to join me on a winter walk. Although the air was frigid and the wind stiff, I worked up a steady sweat. My son did not. When we returned an hour later, he had to relearn the ability to walk. If you closely examine the face of this same son, now a 20-year-old survivor of my questionable parenting, you may detect a subtle shift in skin tone as you scan from left to right. Who knew sunlight beaming through car windows could permanently flash-fry an infant’s cheek?<br />
<br />
Like baby sea turtles, some of my children may not see adulthood. Thankfully, I have spares.<br />
<br />
Take my youngest son, Connor. Years ago, in a supermarket, I asked him to help me transfer groceries from the cart to the checkout conveyor belt. This, I thought, would both expedite the process and allow me to bond with the five-year-old. I lobbed him a box of raisin bran, and then a package of extra raisins. I tossed a tub of ice cream.<br />
<br />
“Good job, little man. Nice snag.”<br />
<br />
Upping the ante, I flipped a loaf of bread around my back, and a sack of Cheetos up from under my leg. He caught all with a flourish, and alley-ooped each onto the belt. <br />
<br />
“Wow, you’re good at this. Feel like a challenge?”<br />
<br />
He nodded and scrunched his eyes. “Bring it.”<br />
<br />
I grabbed the next closest item —a bag of some vegetable—and split-finger-fastballed it in Connor’s direction. <br />
<br />
Everything moved in slow motion. When this happens, you know things won’t end well. I see every movement as clearly today as a decade ago. The bag pinwheeling through the air. My son’s eyes opening wide in eager anticipation. Tiny hands snapping forward to make the grab. My wife Patty’s eyes also growing wide, her lips following suit with a dramatic “Brian!!! Noooooo…..” Connor’s fingers closing around the bag. These same digits falling back as the look of glee gives way to a mask of stark terror. The bag dropping to the floor with a dull thud. Two screams—one from him, another from Patty. An utterly dumbfounded look on my face.<br />
<br />
“What?!?”<br />
<br />
I’d never bought fresh artichokes before. I had no idea they were Mother Nature’s version of throwing stars. When at long last I stemmed the steady flow of tears—and ventured a tepid reply to Patty’s legitimate query about what the hell was wrong with me—I fished out the Cherry Garcia and passed the whole tub of apology to Connor. <br />
<br />
He recoiled in terror—presuming, I’m sure, it would pop open and shower him with broken glass and starving rats. Then he pouted. <br />
<br />
“You hurt me.”<br />
<br />
When I removed the lid and nothing vile beset his now fractured sense of trust, he at last accepted my peace offering.<br />
<br />
“Here…this is for you.” I looked at him, pleading. “Please don’t write a tell-all.” <br />
<br />
He’s fourteen now, and so far has shown no interest in learning how to sign his name, let alone inscribe bitter tirades about child abuse disguised as harmless fun. He’ll even eat artichokes. I’d dodged a bullet.<br />
<br />
On those occasions when I reflect upon my win-loss ratio as a parent—usually when there’s nothing on TV and my relentless petitioning for a midday slap-and-tickle has fallen yet again upon deaf ears—I wonder what the sum-total of my efforts will be. <br />
<br />
Will my heirs gaze fondly on my portrait, a giant, tacky, gilt-edged monstrosity dwarfing the fireplace below? Will my descendants be known not by their given names, but as Son of Brian, or Grandson of Brian, or Second Nephew Thrice Removed—also of Brian? Or will I recede in memory until I’m no more than an insignificant skid mark on an otherwise vibrant fabric of life and the living?<br />
<br />
Will my children ever quote me to their children or grandchildren from stories I’ve left behind? I like to imagine they’ll boast, proudly, “You know…your grandfather penned great tomes about playing with himself!” Or they’ll ask, “Can you guess how many times Grandpa violated Grandma? No? Why not read his books?” Oh, what a glorious and mysterious legacy my namesakes will inherit.<br />
<br />
I, like all fathers, do hope my kids will take away something positive when my mortal coil unravels like every Slinky I’ve ever owned or touched. My father, I’m sure, once said to my mother, “I’ll never do that when I’m a parent.” And I once promised, “Because my parents did this, I’ll never have children. I may even lop off my penis. You just watch.” In turn, my kids will rework the parenting rules to suit their needs and circumstances. None will get it quite right; no one ever has.<br />
<br />
Still, with any luck, they’ll remember the choices I’ve made along the way, and will learn from my mistakes. They won’t freeze, cook, bash, maim or threaten their offspring. They’ll lock the door before they go at it like minks. And, with any luck, they may gently pass artichokes into their kids’ hands, rather than hurl the entire brood into a shrieking, bloody nightmare.Brian O'Mara-Crofthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17715799240438469155noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184652930605780572.post-23096677209795644822010-09-28T14:36:00.001-05:002010-09-28T14:42:35.058-05:00Welcome to the Microcosm<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhw24ivK2v87NtShglzbTKJdEQu1iPTvvtl8rntUP4O2_VRC9Y-dzKqWdfzhkTuGA1gH0sojR-34Uh2gArEcYTgJmlPanv4eNlhqQypdtxpSs1CxU5DLKW31BZMRLzbvYVJAUe2B_6QJk/s1600/file000222016451.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhw24ivK2v87NtShglzbTKJdEQu1iPTvvtl8rntUP4O2_VRC9Y-dzKqWdfzhkTuGA1gH0sojR-34Uh2gArEcYTgJmlPanv4eNlhqQypdtxpSs1CxU5DLKW31BZMRLzbvYVJAUe2B_6QJk/s320/file000222016451.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>As the long evenings of summer disappear along with an increasingly elusive sun, as the greens transform to reds and oranges, and as the crisp air of autumn hints at the promise of winter just months away, Patty and I often give in to wanderlust (I prefer garden-variety lust, but that's another story). For Patty, our truck becomes our vessel for adventure, for meandering treks along unpaved roads with no set timetable and, often, no set destination. For me, these outings chew up hours that might otherwise be filled with home repair assignments I work so hard to avoid.<br />
<br />
Most times, we happen upon tiny but quaint communities untouched by the hustle and bustle of urban sprawl, places that have instead adopted a more laid-back charm as their definition of progress. These villages boast wine shops, antique stores and gift boutiques, nestled among mom-and-pop office supply and shoe shops that have miraculously survived the megamall age. I'm a small-town boy, so visits to such places often inspire moments of nostalgia, and serve as a refreshing change from charmless suburbia.<br />
<br />
Some stores offer handmade jewelry and knick-knacks by local artisans. With Patty on board, these villages cost us a small fortune, because Patty is stronger than most at finding something unique we just can’t pass up lest it be lost to us forever.<br />
<br />
This past Saturday, we stopped at a small town where being literal was apparently the order of the day. Railroad Street ran directly parallel to the Amtrak tracks. Center Street and Main Street, running in opposite directions, divided the town. I looked on a local map, and felt no surprise to find Church Street as one of the main routes. I did feel some surprise to find no street named “Liquor Lane”, because the number of pubs in town was surpassed only by the selection of places of faith. For just a moment, as I did a tally of the saloons, I thought, "I could live here forever."<br />
<br />
After Patty satisfied her shopping urge by picking up a pair of earrings ("We have to buy <em>something,</em> don't you think?"), I suggested that we stop into one of the town’s bars for a drink. She agreed. We selected one and walked through the door. We didn’t immediately realize we’d also walked through a portal into the past.<br />
<br />
As we received our drinks, in plastic cups (which immediately made me think this was one of those places where glass is frowned upon, “just in case”), I scanned the patrons. The man beside me, who kept regaling the bartender with stories about his son—to whom he referred not by name but as “M’boy”—sported a bushy mustache that obscured both his upper and lower lips. I whispered in Patty's ear.<br />
<br />
“Check it out. Does anyone have <em>just</em> a mustache anymore?”<br />
<br />
Before she could reply, a cursory scan down the bar provided an answer. Yes. In this town, mustaches were not only acceptable but, it would seem, required. All of the men had them. I felt out of place. I felt even more conspicuous when I reached into my backpack (which caused everyone in the bar to cast a disapproving look, as though I was fishing through a Louis Vuitton purse for my lost lipstick) and pulled out my cell phone (the appearance of which inspired looks that suggested all present considered me “high-falutin’”).<br />
<br />
At the end of the bar, two men—one with hair to his waist (and a mustache) and the other with no hair at all (other than a mustache)—entertained their female companion, who had no mustache but whose hairstyle harkened back to the rock videos of the early 80s. The less hirsute of the two kept the woman giggling with a loud demonstration of how many pot-smoking terms he knew, which he presented as an uncategorized list:<br />
<br />
“Blunt. Mary Jane. Reefer. Bong. Spliff. Doobie. Munchies.”<br />
<br />
He paused only long enough for her to look up and admire the expanse of arm clearly visible below his wife-beater shirt. Said shirt bore the name of yet another local bar. Another scan of the room revealed that everyone was content being a walking billboard for a vice of choice--a bar, brand of cigarettes or variety of beer.<br />
<br />
I turned to the man next to me.<br />
<br />
“There’s a lot of bars in town, huh?”<br />
<br />
“Well, they come and go." He reeled off an impressive list. "Oh, and there used to be a place over on Center Street, but it wasn’t very busy, and then it burned down.” He said the latter without even a hint of suspicion. “M’boy likes the Silver Saddle.” He then turned back to his beer in a way that suggested that since I insisted on carrying a purse, future conversations were not encouraged.<br />
<br />
I suggested to Patty that, if she was amenable, I'd be content to chug my drink immediately and hit the road. She agreed. Before we left, I stopped into the bathroom. It was designed for one person, and provided the choice of a urinal or a toilet. I chose the urinal, but looked over at the toilet just long enough to notice that another patron had opted against the urinal because doing so would mean he’d be unable to pee all over the seat. I decided we really needed to get going.<br />
<br />
Moments later, we were back in the truck, on a freeway, with a new set of earrings and my backpack-purse, heading back to what we, in the suburbs, define as civilization.Brian O'Mara-Crofthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17715799240438469155noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184652930605780572.post-13064625247099087142010-09-16T13:00:00.000-05:002010-09-16T13:00:23.229-05:00Room...and bored<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUOSnwTSux_I0-8JYzqYMJxgAo2ijeVuq1uhPmzE2KUAY9gN61L0tx1oE7rOULYsJqErMegQ03SPCZRMejc78GY8sClc5JfFJ04AGJXCAdJj0gOXiSuZi6Furb-vcJm-Ez6iC-dL4tZxA/s1600/prison.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUOSnwTSux_I0-8JYzqYMJxgAo2ijeVuq1uhPmzE2KUAY9gN61L0tx1oE7rOULYsJqErMegQ03SPCZRMejc78GY8sClc5JfFJ04AGJXCAdJj0gOXiSuZi6Furb-vcJm-Ez6iC-dL4tZxA/s320/prison.jpg" /></a></div>At age 17, I left my hometown of 13,000 people and moved to a modest basement apartment in the northern part of Toronto. An ambitious college student who was relieved to have at last escaped the perceived hell of rural living, I quickly became homesick, and took the train home many weekends.<br />
<br />
On one such return visit, my parents informed me they had offered up the use of the sofa in my new pad, free of charge, to the daughter of an acquaintance. <br />
<br />
"You did <em>what?"</em><br />
<br />
"We told her she could stay with you. It's only for a month."<br />
<br />
"But why?" You should imagine a whine here.<br />
<br />
"Because it seems like the right thing to do. Besides, her family has always been good to us."<br />
<br />
"Dad, you are a <em>customer</em> in her father's restaurant. A paying customer. No, wait...a regular, paying customer. Getting a good breakfast that you paid for doesn't really qualify as a <em>debt owed."</em><br />
<br />
My arguments fell on deaf ears. My parents paid most of the cost of my apartment, so it was mostly their space to loan out to any near-strangers for whom they felt the slightest affinity. Besides, they pointed out I could get rides home on weekends from my new roomie, who owned a car. I might have offered more of a protest but, well, my mom intimidated me. She still does.<br />
<br />
Pat (not her real name; okay, I’m lying, it was her real name) moved in early the next week. At first, I wasn’t completely averse to the idea of having a companion. My apartment was a 90-minute transit ride from my school, so none of my fellow students wanted anything to do with visiting me. I had been spending most evenings (a) sitting in a chair watching television and chewing my nails, (b) playing with myself, (c) pretending I had no laundry and a surplus of friends, and (d) waiting for my landlord to go out for the evening so I could steal some of the weed he stashed under his sofa cushions. <br />
<br />
On top of this boundless excitement, having a living, breathing person around didn’t seem horrible, although it would put some constraints on (b).<br />
<br />
"Okay, Dad, she can stay...but just for a month."<br />
<br />
He looked at me the same way I now look at my kids whenever they refer to our home as "my house".<br />
<br />
"You're doing the right thing, son."<br />
<br />
Within a week, I discovered that I truly could hate a person more than I hate sauerkraut or laundry. Allow me to explain.<br />
<br />
First, the rides home. Pat liked to smoke cigarettes, but didn’t <em>buy</em> smokes.<br />
<br />
"I'm not <em>really</em> a smoker."<br />
<br />
This meant that any cigarette I lit became a community smoke for smokers and non-smokers alike. I wouldn’t have minded so much were it not for the fact Pat was what we called a “juicer”. This meant that the dry cigarette I passed to her returned seconds later as a hot, spit-saturated sponge caked in lipstick. The shoulders of highways across Southern Ontario became littered with half-finished cigarettes thanks to yours truly. My lung capacity began to improve.<br />
<br />
The worst part of living with Pat, though, was her immediate comfort in my space. Case in point: she enjoyed talking on the phone. My phone. Nobody could reach me. For all I knew, every person I had ever known could have died and been buried and I wouldn’t have had a clue. I seethed, but said nothing. <br />
<br />
I said nothing because interrupting any of Pat’s conversations—all of which were, apparently, of national importance—caused her to toss me that subtle, “And what the fuck do YOU want?” glare. Besides, interrupting her calls would mean going into my own bedroom, which had largely become off-limits except when she decided I could sleep. I didn’t want any part of that space, because Pat apparently felt all calls were somehow enhanced if she took them while sprawled, face down, on my bed, in an oversized sweatshirt…and undersized panties. Sounds kinda hot, right? Not so much.<br />
<br />
I blame my frustration for my judgmental nature. Really, a kinder person would describe my roommate’s posterior as “voluptuous”, “generous” or “Rubenesque”. I was not such a person, so I recalled it to friends (and the strangers I was soon hitting up for conversation) as “Jesus, that is one huge dimpled golf-ball of an ass”. Below said Titleist were ample legs that resembled balloons from which air was slowly escaping. Until I saw my first Vermeer painting years later, the term “milky white” brought no positive images to mind; all I could think about were Pat’s limp, cellulite-clad limbs. (In case you were wondering, I <em>was</em> bitter.)<br />
<br />
For the month Pat stayed with me, she proved to be long on promises and short on delivery. Every day I heard about the cases of beer and countless food items that would soon be clogging our fridge. I heard about the good times we’d share visiting parties and bars. Instead, for weeks, I stayed thirsty, hungry...and out of my room. <br />
<br />
When Pat finally left, I spent an entire evening stretched out on my bed, taking long, satisfying (and deliciously dry) drags on one cigarette after another, dreaming of beer and food, and relishing my new-found independence.<br />
<br />
My brother moved in a week later.Brian O'Mara-Crofthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17715799240438469155noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184652930605780572.post-66734230696868106072010-08-25T14:39:00.000-05:002010-08-25T14:39:35.075-05:00Seems I'm (almost) human after all<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSqyO19UwqlVp2ZKMj6QG3IaWSTkRzzoZ2fNU4LB1LOF-Bjd5xOr0Rpho-34oG3CmqleL2726-a507kvXfxxYwdbJCXIYiUGez6FKZ_lVTEca53J06678_AX1fSFHuRJ1ziBXwqs-jiUw/s1600/file000708882179.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSqyO19UwqlVp2ZKMj6QG3IaWSTkRzzoZ2fNU4LB1LOF-Bjd5xOr0Rpho-34oG3CmqleL2726-a507kvXfxxYwdbJCXIYiUGez6FKZ_lVTEca53J06678_AX1fSFHuRJ1ziBXwqs-jiUw/s320/file000708882179.jpg" /></a></div>Over recent months, my wife Patty has <strike>bitched incessantly</strike> pointed out that her quirks and foibles too often inspire me as I craft blog entries, write stories for my books (existing and in-progress) or update the <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/Brian-OMara-Croft/137467411303">Facebook fan page</a> for my book. She asks, "Why don't you turn the focus back on yourself?" In response, I roll my eyes and cluck, in part because I have very few noteworthy quirks, and in part because I like to cluck when the opportunity presents itself.<br />
<br />
Of course, you and I both know she’s being irrational (yet another of her delightful quirks). However, in the interests of <strike>self-preservation</strike> equity, I list below a handful of my own unique qualities; I hesitate to call them “quirks” because they’re so darned adorable, as you will see.<br />
<ul><li>I absolutely will not enter a bathroom with anything in my mouth, with perhaps the exception of cigarettes (which, because of a medical condition—uncontrolled addiction—I require at all times), and my tongue, teeth and uvula, and only because I haven’t figured out a safe, temporary way to remove them for the duration of bathroom visits. </li>
<li>I have a Chicken Little complex. If it’s especially sunny outside, only dusk convinces me the day won’t end with the world as a giant, glowing fireball, upon which the only things that will survive are me, thousands of cockroaches, a heavy winter coat and a boxed set of the <em>Twilight </em>books. Everything that happens over the course of my daily comings-and-goings bears ominous overtones, most of which seem certain to lead me to (a) poverty, (b) incarceration, (c) erectile dysfunction, (d) a slow, painful death, (e) all of the above, or (f) all of the above…on a giant fireball.</li>
<li>If I’m upset with someone, I will not make eye contact with them. I will address all comments during any dispute to either the television or my cocktail glass. If someone asks me to look at them while we’re talking, I simply blur out my vision and pretend I’m focusing on them, even though I'm basically blind. To seem less rude, I conduct most arguments from adjoining rooms, from which I can yell my side of the argument and pretend not to hear any retorts.</li>
<li>I rarely use the appropriate utensils when preparing and/or serving food. My preferred tool for almost everything is the wooden spoon, which means that any soup I prepare takes 45 minutes to move from pot to bowl and contains no more than 10% liquid (which is, incidentally, how I prefer my soup).</li>
<li>I cannot follow a recipe without adding at least three ingredients not listed. This fierce sense of individualism has, on more than one occasion, been catastrophic in the culinary sense. So, although I believe both onions and garlic are delicious elements in almost everything, they have proven to change the overall flavor of, say, apple crisp.</li>
<li>I am incapable of going to the store and returning only with what I went out for. If I was sent out to replenish our milk supply and went to a store that sold only (a) milk and (b) Brussels sprouts, I would buy both, even though I abhor Brussels sprouts.</li>
</ul>I hope my wife is happy. I am human. I have quirks. As mentioned, they’re adorable quirks, but they’re quirks just the same.Brian O'Mara-Crofthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17715799240438469155noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184652930605780572.post-68088133771999460662010-07-02T11:38:00.001-05:002010-07-02T11:40:17.622-05:00Yep...I'm a Facebook Whore<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbHOTjoPqp2QqlDcHbTWwiElUzXaQR-nUKhuuA0t6PeSOoQF8XOhWmL_tHw0PhqtXislke-cGPd4STKgAv71DL-BjYzbM4syBYSLoW0a3o8b1M17ziLX28zXiLJeRhFGCQSuMCkKky3wQ/s1600/file000300736594.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbHOTjoPqp2QqlDcHbTWwiElUzXaQR-nUKhuuA0t6PeSOoQF8XOhWmL_tHw0PhqtXislke-cGPd4STKgAv71DL-BjYzbM4syBYSLoW0a3o8b1M17ziLX28zXiLJeRhFGCQSuMCkKky3wQ/s320/file000300736594.jpg" /></a></div>I never expected this. What happened to me? How did I become such a shameless, addicted, sucking-on-the-teat-of-social-media Facebook slut? Over the past few years, I’ve transformed—from a hidden-identity lurker seething at pictures of my kids in state of partial undress with smoke pouring from their mouths, or gasping at their boundless fondness for the word “fuck” in routine correspondence—to a person who spends most of my waking hours either (a) on Facebook, or (b) wondering what’s happened on Facebook since the last time I logged in. <br />
<br />
I have two Facebook pages. One is my personal page; to put it gently, it’s boring as shit. My second <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/Brian-OMara-Croft/137467411303">page</a>, which I use to promote my book, is an endless obsession. Every time the number of “fans” (or “likes”) drops by even a single number, I freak out. “What did I say/do/not do? Who left? How can I get them back? Do I smell bad/odd/like death? How can they smell me? Why am I such a stupid, stupid, stupid person? If I updated my Facebook in the middle of a forest, would a tree fall on me?” <br />
<br />
I look at the ratings of my “post quality”, and wonder what I have to do to make people more engaged in the content (the more they respond and share your stuff, the better your rating.) Oh, and at least once a week, I find a way to use the words “vagina”, “penis” or some derivative, because, at heart, I’m an oversexed thirteen-year-old boy who still giggles at farts. Just this past week, I enjoyed a spike in fans based on my discussion of how killer whales can be masturbated (hint: it involves a water-filled cow vagina and a steady hand).<br />
<br />
Still, in spite of my addiction, I do have limits. I have no interest in how many sad llamas, treasured golden mystery eggs or sacks of high-quality cow shit my grammar-school classmate will share, nor do I care how many other pals my pals have dispatched to secure their vaunted ranks in the mob hierarchy. I’m too competitive. If I started playing those games, I would play for keeps. So, in the interests of not losing real-world friends because I stole their imaginary “party duck” or rare collectibles, I refrain.<br />
<br />
I will NEVER use “LOL” or “ROFL” or “ROFLMAO” in any discussion. I may find something hilarious, but not enough to make me tip over and writhe on the carpet. Sorry. Besides, how compelling is this sort of chat session?<br />
<br />
Them: Hi Brian.<br />
<br />
Me: Hi.<br />
<br />
Them: What are you doing?<br />
<br />
Me: Oh, nothing.<br />
<br />
Them: Hahaha. Me too, LOL. Nice day, LOL.<br />
<br />
Me: Yes. Nice. Great day to do nothing!<br />
<br />
Them: ROFLMAO!<br />
<br />
Me: Yeah.<br />
<br />
Them: Okay, LOL, talk to you later, LOL.<br />
<br />
Me: Bye.<br />
<br />
On the plus side, Facebook does help make the world a more intimate, accessible place. In the past few weeks, I’ve reconnected with a handful of childhood friends. Every time I find one, I feel like I've discovered a cure for cancer or a way to boil a perfect hard-boiled egg. Of course, one soon realizes that over the course of say, thirty years, some of us have changed, and the catching up may be more work than fun.<br />
<br />
Me: Hi!<br />
<br />
Them: Wow, long time.<br />
<br />
Me: Yeah. So what’s new?<br />
<br />
Them: LOL…you mean over the past three decades, ROTFL?<br />
<br />
<em>[Brian is offline.]</em>Brian O'Mara-Crofthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17715799240438469155noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184652930605780572.post-17935035836828771142010-06-17T22:57:00.001-05:002010-06-17T22:58:42.928-05:00A special day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2rgr6nb7HJwpQKxcYTxmgB_Eg6LQYabF1hLc-CIxhEqIH3pAO_92ePB6RAL7iq6C7LZAzQn-rRDCsazhjSRwKJo4p2VPfJxejUMVSsA_ILsAxoYpnKMOoa_N_ZfFsN-Pip_8CzsaPXJY/s1600/lost_in_hive_front.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" ru="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2rgr6nb7HJwpQKxcYTxmgB_Eg6LQYabF1hLc-CIxhEqIH3pAO_92ePB6RAL7iq6C7LZAzQn-rRDCsazhjSRwKJo4p2VPfJxejUMVSsA_ILsAxoYpnKMOoa_N_ZfFsN-Pip_8CzsaPXJY/s320/lost_in_hive_front.jpg" width="210" /></a></div>Hi everyone:<br />
<br />
Just wanted to depart from the norm and share some exciting news with you. My first book, LOST IN THE HIVE, will be launched in grand fashion tomorrow night at Old Towne Books & Tea in Oswego, IL. Like all first-time authors, I'm plagued with insecurities about the whole thing. For example, what if it's like one of those birthdays where you invite all your friends and nobody comes? What if people read the book and hate it? What if they read it and hate me?<br />
<br />
I put my heart and soul (as much as I have left after all those deals with you-know-who) into this book, so I hope you'll consider picking it up and giving it a go. <br />
<br />
Thanks to all for your ongoing support; I couldn't (and can't) do it without you.<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
Brian<br />
<br />
P.S. If you will in fact consider giving it a go, please order a copy from <a href="http://www.publishingworks.com/">http://www.publishingworks.com/</a>.Brian O'Mara-Crofthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17715799240438469155noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184652930605780572.post-17988737677043061852010-06-05T15:53:00.004-05:002010-06-05T15:57:55.117-05:00Introducing Nutly McMoron...A Fable with Pee<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ9klhTU3uHRo9AQ6k-rIg-3cWn-ynCLCG99eOe-vYmQ8QFj4CQUCN4Qnoup0mt5GJkRYYh6SJ-ZSKrF0Oi5dPG9U31Qwg5PQ_EF6zuL9ZKv8R5rLPjkUvPQe9h2f72AlKSHgOg5Iea7o/s1600/file0001958464674.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ9klhTU3uHRo9AQ6k-rIg-3cWn-ynCLCG99eOe-vYmQ8QFj4CQUCN4Qnoup0mt5GJkRYYh6SJ-ZSKrF0Oi5dPG9U31Qwg5PQ_EF6zuL9ZKv8R5rLPjkUvPQe9h2f72AlKSHgOg5Iea7o/s200/file0001958464674.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>When I was a high-school student (and dinosaurs still roamed the earth), I remember studying Robert Frost’s poem <em>The Mending Wall,</em> which taught us that “good fences make good neighbors”. <br />
<br />
This past Thursday night, I also learned that when a clown of a neighbor threatens to call the police, said clown becomes even more agitated when you beat him to the punch. Allow me to explain.<br />
<br />
Three neighborhood kids (including my youngest son) and a sleepover guest were outside playing <em>Ghost in the Graveyard.</em> At some point during the game, one or more of the participants decided to make a slight adjustment to the rules. Under new game play, instead of hiding or seeking, they upped the ante and urinated on a neighbor’s bushes and lawn. The neighbor, who (a) wasn’t invited to play, and (b) as mentioned previously, is a clown (or, if you prefer, an idiot), decided he didn’t like kids peeing all over his property.<br />
<br />
On the surface, I agree with this gentleman-slash-douchebag. I would prefer my lawn to be just that—a lawn—rather than a toilet. Having said this, if a young kid or two peed on my bushes, and I caught them in the act, I might do something drastic like—oh, I don’t know—open my door, and say something pithy like, “Hey kids. Stop peeing on my bushes.” If they persisted, I might even be inclined to pick up the phone and say to the kids’ parents, “Forget to pay your water bill? Need a plumber?” As for my own kid, I would make him water all the plants and flowerbeds for weeks to come, since he'd shown a related interest. In the scheme of things, though, I wouldn't act like the sky was falling.<br />
<br />
Not Mr. Douchebag. To him, this was the greatest offense man has ever perpetrated against his fellow man. Before long, I received a knock on the door. Another neighbor’s kid said to me, “Hey, someone wants to speak to you.” Immediately, I started wondering if I owed anyone money or if, in a drunken stupor some other night, I had placed my first-ever order for an eight-ball. Not so. I walked down the driveway to investigate. <br />
<br />
“Yeah, hi. My name is Nutly McMoron <em>[not his real name].</em> I just caught your son and a couple of his LITTLE FRIENDS <em>[condescending fuck]</em> with their dicks out, pissing ALL OVER my bushes. I should call the police for damage to my property.” I wondered what he imagined was in the kids’ urine…sulfuric acid? Weed-B-Gone? I thought of a good answer.<br />
<br />
“Oh.” <br />
<br />
“And if you don’t deal with them right away, I’m calling the police.”<br />
<br />
“Oh. Well, if my son did that, I will certainly deal with him.” (Most likely by saying, "Don't do that, dum-dum.")<br />
<br />
“Okay. I appreciate that. Cause they had their dicks out.” Yeah, I caught that. I thought about telling him that most human males who pee, unless they’re freaks, find this to be the preferred approach. I didn't, but was glad he reminded me they had the technique down.<br />
<br />
What I didn’t realize was that Mr. McMoron planned to linger in the neighborhood for several hours until he could claim his pound of flesh. My wife Patty and I wandered over to our friends’ house to strategize. En route, the idiot yelled out, “Don’t take their word for it. They’ll lie.” Wow, a kid might lie to stay out of trouble? Unheard of!<br />
<br />
After talking to the kids, who denied involvement in the desecration of the precious bush, we started home. The idiot was waiting outside. We ignored him and went inside. Twenty minutes later, I walked outside to hear the neighbor still ranting to another neighbor about the travesty of which he was victim. Again, he was ranting on and on about calling the police.<br />
<br />
So, being the good neighbors we are, we saved him some trouble. We called the cops. When they arrived, one officer spoke to the man, who raved and gestured and cast aspersions not only on the local children, but also on the community at large, the police and me. <br />
<br />
As a gesture, I suggested to “my” officer that if it would make my idiot neighbor feel better, he could come to my house and urinate on any bushes of his choice; after all, his dog pees on them daily. I even proposed that he could pee on my leg, if it would make him go inside and shut his cakehole. The officer disagreed with my suggestion, but while my neighbor flipped his lid, I quietly talked the officer into attending my book launch in a couple of weeks.<br />
<br />
Ultimately, the cops put a little fear of god into the lads, we instructed the kids to never go near this man’s property again, and things settled back into some semblance of normalcy.<br />
<br />
I’m thinking about building a fence—nothing major, just something modest and about twelve feet tall, with a crocodile-infested moat around it. Good NEIGHBORS make good neighbors; a good fence keeps the idiots out.Brian O'Mara-Crofthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17715799240438469155noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184652930605780572.post-69255969161568094612010-05-25T16:25:00.001-05:002010-05-25T16:26:40.109-05:00Get My Dinner or I'll Burn this Mother Down<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAQxa4qDCFKSLQB8Y-0AhiOdh_jOhxp6xhPzYkZ5BdjAyvlg8v6NrPPKc4dVyWDjGpR8ymWpIvwF4SHd91nRBbBgSogDARzix5dNk_57tcWBcyOZNdX7MXglXO79i13TXffmac2Fn4brI/s1600/file0001991000222.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAQxa4qDCFKSLQB8Y-0AhiOdh_jOhxp6xhPzYkZ5BdjAyvlg8v6NrPPKc4dVyWDjGpR8ymWpIvwF4SHd91nRBbBgSogDARzix5dNk_57tcWBcyOZNdX7MXglXO79i13TXffmac2Fn4brI/s320/file0001991000222.jpg" /></a></div>I read a charming little news piece this afternoon about a husband in West Virginia (a hotbed for stories about crazy people) who was a bit miffed his wife didn’t have his dinner on the table when he got home from whatever crazy people do on Sunday afternoons.<br />
<br />
The guy, who looks like Leonardo (daVinci, not DiCaprio), but who clearly was no Renaissance man, opted against the traditional forms of protest—for example, asking nicely—or other alternatives, like cooking his own damned food or ordering in. <br />
<br />
Allegedly, his dinner was important enough, and her failure to provide it egregious enough, that he set their home on fire. Nothing sends a message about unsatisfied expectations like a good four-alarm blaze, I always say. I bet next time she’ll have his fucking meat-and-potatoes on the table when he gets home from the bar, dammit!<br />
<br />
In Montreal, another man was arrested for setting fire to his house after an argument with his wife. No details were provided about whether or not he’d eaten…but my guess would be no. I’m no expert, but I find it hard to believe any man would burn down his house on a full stomach. I know <em>I</em> wouldn’t.<br />
<br />
I know what you’re thinking. Big deal. Who hasn’t threatened to torch their house during a tiff from time to time? Just the other night, Patty was wrong about something, but wouldn't accept that I'm almost always right. So, to make my point, I retrieved the gas can from the garage and set it on the kitchen counter with a note that said, "Care to rethink your position? All my love, Brian. P.S. Make me a sandwich?"<br />
<br />
Still, I see your point. If everyone who set their house on fire justified a blog entry, there’d be blogs on that subject alone. Fire, schmire. Okay, I’ll go one better. <br />
<br />
An overwrought pilot (and I have to weigh in with the opinion that “overwrought” and “pilot” are not a great combination) recently sent an email to his girlfriend, threatening to crash a passenger jet if she didn’t get back together with him. Again, no information on whether she’d forgotten to bring him his lunch.<br />
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Ladies – why must you make our lives so difficult?Brian O'Mara-Crofthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17715799240438469155noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184652930605780572.post-91570199185188041672010-05-05T10:02:00.004-05:002010-05-05T15:36:08.223-05:00Those with Enlarged Genitals Need Not Apply<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxzbdcqedxWLNpV0T1YbCwM4wsYQZq1VlWheGrGr5Eeiro0Ra-kFnbki44nF9NoKHVc_w731rROnGXy437Pjf2R_aenSzaJbkVFVKwAzk2Auuo_gZjVcjPYn3MXh_j3QROlOAMH4Zmguo/s1600/pumpkin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxzbdcqedxWLNpV0T1YbCwM4wsYQZq1VlWheGrGr5Eeiro0Ra-kFnbki44nF9NoKHVc_w731rROnGXy437Pjf2R_aenSzaJbkVFVKwAzk2Auuo_gZjVcjPYn3MXh_j3QROlOAMH4Zmguo/s200/pumpkin.jpg" tt="true" width="200" /></a></div>At some point during childhood, hasn’t every boy entertained a dream of becoming a police officer? Well, on the island of Papua, a starry-eyed dreamer can only become a defender of justice if he <strong>resists</strong> the not-uncommon urge to modify his penis into an absurdly oversized, bloated and painful monster. <br />
<br />
It’s even in the job interview.<br />
<br />
“Good morning, and thanks for coming in. Wow, your scores at the Academy are off the charts. You look like you’d be a fine protector of what’s right and just.”<br />
<br />
“Thank you, sir. I did my best to stand out.”<br />
<br />
“Very good. And that brings me to my first question—purely routine, but they insist on it upstairs. Been messing with that penis at all?”<br />
<br />
“Come again?”<br />
<br />
“Have you been working on enhancing your, er, little fella?”<br />
<br />
“Sir?”<br />
<br />
“It’s a simple question, son. Have you wrapped your pecker in gatal-gatal leaves? Made it all inflamed and puffy to impress the ladies and intimidate the boys in the change room?”<br />
<br />
“But sir…”<br />
<br />
“ANSWER the question!”<br />
<br />
One wrong answer…"Oh, I guess I might have wrapped it in a leaf or two, but just the one time"...and the dream dies.<br />
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Much of Papua is governed by various tribes who for many years have sought independence from both the official bureaucracy and the constraints of what the good lord gave them. The more sensible recruits stay away from the leaves of the gatal-gatal (or “itchy”) tree, which apparently makes one’s member look as though it has been stung by a swarm of bees, and instead sport a koteka—or, for the less culturally evolved, the common penis gourd. It’s fancy, more than a little impressive (available in various sizes, shapes and angles) and doesn’t lead to hours of wailing and screaming. <br />
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What’s more, if you remember to leave your gourd at home on interview day, you may just become a Papuan boy in blue one day.<br />
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<strong>NOTE (for the gents, and the gals who love them):</strong> I checked. Apparently, gatal-gatal leaves are not readily available in North America. <em>Dammmmmmmmmmmmiiiiittttttt!</em> However, you can order five-packs of koteka gourd seeds from Amazon for $3.99. Only five more packs are in stock (actually, <em>four,</em> now), so don’t delay.Brian O'Mara-Crofthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17715799240438469155noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184652930605780572.post-48656903768067817902010-04-20T13:44:00.007-05:002010-04-20T13:49:59.894-05:00The Life & Times of Jinx Misfortune (a.k.a. Me)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8YWk7tL7ML4OxdZEabfPJthJV31nzbg8BaLBD87paKf2U-bZR7XuBneH6BveABzbDaHCZdt-Z4g0FbElFrB14BgKfkiJ8imWwEXiZeqh06UZKknFnJazRJYAUOJ41nmmu1bDyjZk2D48/s1600/BRIANSUCKS.png" imageanchor="1" style="cssfloat: right; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8YWk7tL7ML4OxdZEabfPJthJV31nzbg8BaLBD87paKf2U-bZR7XuBneH6BveABzbDaHCZdt-Z4g0FbElFrB14BgKfkiJ8imWwEXiZeqh06UZKknFnJazRJYAUOJ41nmmu1bDyjZk2D48/s400/BRIANSUCKS.png" width="400" wt="true" /></a></div><br />
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">jinx</span></strong> <br />
<br />
<em>1. A person or thing that is believed to bring bad luck.</em><br />
<em>2. A condition or period of bad luck that appears to have been caused by a specific person or thing.</em><br />
<em>3. Me.</em><br />
<br />
I am fast coming to the disturbing realization I am a living curse to any sports team I support. Let’s look at the evidence:<br />
<br />
<strong>Baseball: </strong><br />
<br />
I love the White Sox with a passion. I read anything and everything about them, even during the frigid months of winter. I could wear White Sox clothing every day of the week without donning the same item twice. If my wife cried out, “Oh, Mark Buehrle!!!” during a round of slap-and-tickle, I’d beat my chest with pride. I own White Sox <em>furniture,</em> for God’s sake. <br />
<br />
On the first day of the season, I paced through my home for hours before the first pitch, and forced Patty to endure about 300 text messages with every play of the game (and most of the opening ceremonies, through which I cried a little bit). <br />
<br />
So far this season, the Sox own a 4-9 record, their worst in 13 years. I’m starting to think my beloved team may finish with a 4-158 record. Why? Probably me.<br />
<br />
<strong>Hockey: </strong><br />
<br />
I’m a Toronto Maple Leafs fan. They haven’t made the playoffs in five years. For as long as I’ve been a fan, they’ve either sucked or mostly sucked. Even diehard fans refer to them as the “Laffs” or the “Make-Beliefs”. I sometimes refer to them as, simply, "Those motherf***ing, good-for-nothing, piece of s*** a**holes." Aloud, I leave out the asterisks.<br />
<br />
Before I was born, the Leafs won the Cup twelve times. Since then? Once—two months after I was born—when I was too busy refining my diaper-filling technique to care about hockey. With the Leafs out of things (again), I’ve started to root for the Blackhawks in the playoffs. Sorry, Chicago.<br />
<br />
<strong>Football: </strong><br />
<br />
I cheer for the Chicago Bears. I did not cheer for them in 1985. Lucky them.<br />
<br />
<strong>Basketball: </strong><br />
<br />
I didn’t really follow the Bulls this year, so they made the playoffs. I tuned in for a few minutes of the first two playoff games—and the Cavaliers are up two games to zip. <em>Ta-daa!</em><br />
<br />
<strong>Conclusion:</strong> <br />
I, like the teams I root for, suck. The only comfort I can take in my ongoing sports nightmare is that the Cubs—for whom I hold no special warmth—aren’t doing much better than the Sox. Now that I’ve said that, though, they’ll probably win the World Series, the only good aspect of which will be my ability to find better White Sox gear on sale at T.J. Maxx. <br />
<br />
Life’s funny that way. Why am I not laughing?Brian O'Mara-Crofthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17715799240438469155noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184652930605780572.post-75779508191186571462010-04-05T15:44:00.000-05:002010-04-05T15:44:40.456-05:00Ah, Poopy Puppy Love<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsRpLQmXahkYJVX74BC5CNg4Rawtq6n6RbmpayoqJ5Mkbpd1FyvCkznzi00fdEbNQgEolRp9gCTuCYdGZF6Q8PsBRKTGy_y6LpNWvyVCmEnqdlLanNy_5uMDVqrpnF3HL1ml4hIG41qkM/s1600/dogkiss.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" nt="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsRpLQmXahkYJVX74BC5CNg4Rawtq6n6RbmpayoqJ5Mkbpd1FyvCkznzi00fdEbNQgEolRp9gCTuCYdGZF6Q8PsBRKTGy_y6LpNWvyVCmEnqdlLanNy_5uMDVqrpnF3HL1ml4hIG41qkM/s320/dogkiss.jpg" /></a></div>Patty and our friend Cindy chatted on the phone the other night. This normally wouldn't be significant enough to report here. After all, the discussion usually falls into the category of what I affectionately call "girl blather" or " random, sports-impeding noise", and seldom ventures into my preferred "sexy talk".<br />
<br />
This time was different. I clearly heard Patty end a sentence with “French kissing”. I turned down the TV (I had cranked the volume just seconds before in hopes of drowning out their voices, so Patty was actually yelling “FRENCH KISSING!!!”...which made it even hotter.) I asked Patty to put the call on speakerphone.<br />
<br />
Cindy’s voice flooded the room.<br />
<br />
"You're saying there's dozens of Facebook photos of your kid and his girlfriend making out? <em>Ewww...</em>” <br />
<div></div><br />
“Dozens. Maybe hundreds. If the photos of them slobbering all over each other weren’t enough to make a mom cringe, get this: there's a bunch of pictures of them kissing the dog. And each other, while they're kissing the dog.”<br />
<br />
<div> Cindy: “You're lying. The dog? Really? They’re kissing the dog?”</div><br />
Patty: "Yep. Kissing. The Dog."<br />
<br />
Me: “On the dog's lips?”<br />
<br />
<div>I asked Patty to take the call off speakerphone. She would not.</div><br />
<div>Patty said, “Well, they say dogs have cleaner mouths than humans do.”</div><br />
<div>Cindy: “There’s no way a dog’s mouth is cleaner than a human mouth. Look at the shit they eat.”</div><br />
<div> Me: “You mean like shit?”</div><br />
<div>The who’s-got-a-filthier-mouth debate between the gals almost became heated. I couldn’t understand why. Unless they were kicking around the idea of taking turns swapping spit with an Irish Setter (which, for reasons that unsettled me, seemed just a little sexy), did it really matter who won the argument? </div><br />
<div>From where I sit, I don’t care if a dog’s mouth is as sterile as an operating theater; there’s no good reason for me to probe it with my tongue, unless of course there's some way to get a buzz from the spit. Besides, sure as shit, I’d end up kissing the dog that tucked into a decomposing squirrel or well-filled diaper five minutes pre-kiss. It’s just not worth it, no matter how cute the dog—or how strong the temptation. </div><br />
<div>Still, I Googled. I needed to know. </div><br />
<div>Turns out, both dogs and humans have disgusting mouths—cesspools, really. We shouldn’t kiss dogs but, it turns out, we really shouldn’t kiss each other, either.</div><br />
<div> As I researched a conclusive answer to this debate, I also learned:</div><ul><li>With a little elbow grease and the right products, one can remove poop from wood floors, carpets, walls, ceilings and mattresses</li>
<li>People everywhere find countless varieties of “unknown” poop in their homes </li>
<li>Insurance companies will sometimes pay a claim if you have a poop explosion in your house </li>
<li>One should not eat poop (of any variety)</li>
<li>Parents aren't fond of pictures of their kids making out with pets, or each other</li>
<li>Poop sticks to parakeets’ feet</li>
</ul>In case you were wondering…Brian O'Mara-Crofthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17715799240438469155noreply@blogger.com3