Category: Other Words

We are now entering the Ides of May, and with such an ominous date comes one thing: the Matrix: Reloaded. I have been looking forward to this day for nearly three years, ever since I saw the original. It’s funny, I saw the other highly anticipated sequel, X2, the other weekend. Before the feature presentation, the audience and I were treated to a veritable Whitman’s sampler of eye candy when the final theatrical trailer for Reloaded. During which, all the new characters were shown, as well as extended snippets of the already-legendary “highway chase sequence.” I could barely contain myself. I bounced all over my chair, as giddy as a 1960’s school girl at the site of John, Paul, or George (nobody loves Ringo- his nose is entirely too big; He could probably fit a chicken nugget up his nose). Editor’s note: Michael loves to use the parentheses, as well as use several voices within the same paragraph, as he is doing here. And now we continue: …the trailer totally outshined the movie I had come to see.

I have read a couple reviews for the movie. One was copious adulation (Ain’t It Cool News, I believe), and one was fair and even-handed (Time). I have come not to go by the reviews I read. Everyone has a different opinion. Some people like too-MAE-toes and others prefer too-MAH-toes. Personally, I am content with neither; tomatoes are too much for me. Anyway, I digress.

I will be seeing the movie at 4:30 PM. I am most likely to be made catatonic, literally shocked and awed, by the visual delights witnessed by my two eyes. Look for a review or at least a reaction from me Friday afternoon or Saturday morning. Now, however, it is no longer late night but early morning. I must rest, for one’s mind is made weak by the weakness of one’s sleeping patterns. Until the next time, my little darlings, Meh.

Captain’s Log, star date: 05112003, Mother’s Day, 01:36 am.
Earlier this evening, I was searching on Amazon for “Michael Ollinger.” Hoping not to see anything, (I have identity issues- I am always trying to set myself apart from everyone else- but that’s another topic for another time) I was upset to see that there has already been a book published by someone of the same name as myself. Read more at Amazon. I suppose I should take consolation in the fact that the book this doppelgänger of mine wrote is not a New York Times bestseller or a Nobel or Pulitzer prize winner. Hell, I could probably count the number of its readers on my twenty phalanges. The other Michael Ollinger is an Economist with the United States Department of Agriculture. I wonder what he is doing now, given the current state of our economy.

Because someone has published a book with my name, I have to think of a flashy new nom de plume. This ties directly in with my issues of identity, but again, that is another discussion for another day. I was thinking of Steve Bennett, but upon further pontification, I belive that sounds too mundane. Too blase. It tastes like a saltine, looks like white bread, and has the consistency of oatmeal. Veto Steve Bennett. My second choice was an alliterative superhero name: Benjamin Braddock. Then, while watching the Graduate this evening, I realized that the lead character has the same name. (For those who haven’t seen it, it’s a great movie. Get the widescreen version, though.) I can’t share a name with the character; he’s too naďve for me. Ix-nay on Enjamin-bay Addock-Bray. My third idea was a one-name name in the same vein as Madonna, Cher, and Prince. I want something memorable, yet pronounceable. How about “Seamus” or “Rochester” or “Tuna?” Or take a completely minimalist approach and have a monosyllabic single word name. I was thinking of “Meh” or “Skort,” but then again I realized neither were even words, and who would respect an author with the name “Meh?”

Finally, after much thought and deliberation, the name I decided upon is Fenwick Bostonson. It sounds so contrived and so made-up that everyone will know that it is simply a pen name and not my birth name. I figure if I am going to veil my identity for the sake of establishing it, I might as well make the veneer as thin and gossamer as possible. That way, this Michael Ollinger will burn brightly behind his false name and overshadow his fellow Michael Ollingers.

Well, cats and kittens, the Kids in the Hall is on, and my ass hurts from sitting in this chair for too long. GK Out.

What a long, strange week it has been. I am comforted to see that Gekko has been updated semi-regularly in my absence. I am not going to make any comments regarding Bret’s updating job…I do not want to spend the next twenty minutes delineating everything he did incorrectly (mainly the “We Love You Bret” caption on the cam. That is quite the opposite of the truth around here. No one I know even likes him, let alone loves him). At any rate, I digress.

Starting this Sunday and ending yesterday, I was house-sitting for my brother. Included in the house-sitting was watching my brother’s two Yorkshire terriers, Marley and Maggie. For those who do not know what a Yorkie looks like, be sure to visit AKC for a general overview of the dog. Once you see the picture, you can only imagine what 72 consecutive hours with two of those things would be like. Although these two dogs do not look like the one pictured, they are probably just as big a handful. If making sure they relieve themselves in the correct area in their hours awake were not enough, sleeping with these dogs is a real exercise for one’s patience. These dogs have been raised sleeping with their owners; as such, they are content to sleep with their owners’ proxy in their absence. I am going to be completely honest here: I hate sleeping with other non-female human creatures. I need my space, and these dogs have no consideration for my long, bird-like appendages. I would lying if I said there were not several occasions where I wanted to forcefully eject them from my bed. That being said, I have not slept well at all for the past week or so. I am so tired and worn from the ennui of day-to-day life.

If my bout with house-sitting and the responsibilities contained therein were not enough to suck the life out of me, today I felt compelled to go to a double-header at the Ted. Baseball is fun in small portions, but 18 innings is an awful lot of baseball to endure in a single sitting. Sure, drinking beer helps pass the time, but there is only so much beer you can stomach before a revolt occurs within your body. Although there were no violent eruptions on my part, I was certainly content to cease my evening of drinking after a handful of 22’s at the game.

Well, it is no longer 5.8.03, but a day later. I suppose I should wrap this entry in Nothing in General up before I start rapping about my girl problems (I like girl-girl and girl-girl tolerates me- not quite a recipe for an enduring relationship) or my new-found love of 60’s psychadelia music. Well, cats and kittens, don’t let the bed bugs bite. Gekko Kid out.

It’s strange- it seems like just yesterday I was ringing in the New Year with those femmes from GCSU…such memories (not necessarily good ones, either). These past five months have truly flown by. I think Ferris said it best: “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in awhile, you could miss it.”

Sometimes, I can’t help but feel like I have missed something. If you had asked me three years ago, when I was on the brink of college, I would have never thought that I would be working from home every weekend, going to the nearest two-year college, and scraping through school. I had so many epic ideas and huge aspirations…most of which were dashed, thanks to my own youthful stupidity. In retrospect, I can remember only the apexes and nadirs from the past three years of my life. The high I was on when I had my first “real” girlfriend; the utter misery I endured when I went through my first “real” break-up. Going to UGA for two semesters only to decide that I wasn’t interested in the “college life;” not going to school for a couple semesters to realize I am certainly not interested in the “real” world…the list could go on and on.

My 21st birthday is just on the horizon and is quickly approaching. To be honest, I am terrified. This is it. There is no turning back after 21. I’ll be an adult. I’ll be a grown-up. The real question remains, however. What does it mean to be an adult? With the name comes what responsibilities? Unfortunately, no one has clued me in yet, so it looks like I’ll be winging it for a while.

I do know this much however…

Life is short. If you look to the future your whole life, you will miss what’s going on around you in the here and now. Sometimes, I look around at everyone around me, and I wonder what he or she is thinking. Every man, woman, and child thinks he or she has some purpose on this planet. I have been meditating on this for some time, and I doubt seriously this is the case. Pretend all you like, but we are here for no good reason at all. Oh, and forget about being special. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there are about 6 billion other humans standing around, thinking the same thing about themselves as you are. It’s times like this I long to be a different animal. No other animal consumes itself with a search for purpose as humans do. I look at my brother’s cats, and they appear to be so care-free. They don’t have to concern themselves with the threat of nuclear war, taxes, traffic, violence in the media, existentialism, a college degree, children, healthcare, car insurance, credit card debt, cult leaders, religion, et cetera. Their only concern is when their next meal is coming and the elusive possibility of getting to come inside the house. Maybe we humans could take a lesson from our pets and focus on what’s REALLY important- survival.

The other day, on a constitutional in the woods, I coined this mantra: “We run around 50-70 years, and then we die.” You gotta make sure you live to the fullest in those 50-70 years because this is it. Some people may not make it that far; others may exceed this expectancy. At any rate, you get one chance at this whole life thing, and then you’re out.

It seems like it takes a death to coerce me into writing. It’s probably more accurate to say it takes a death to make me think. Death is easily the worst thing most people will encounter in their banal lives, and it is also the simplest thing humanity encounters.

A restless night’s sleep, broken up by a touch of insomnia at around 3 AM. You can easily mistake your sleeplessness for excitement of the following day– your birthday celebration. Eventually, you drift back into your dreams of warm kisses from your lover. At 6 though, those dreams will be shattered and long lost.

At approximately 3 AM, May 18, 2001, my grandfather died in his sleep. There was relatively little struggle, but enough to alarm his wife. By the time help arrived, Grandpa was already dancing in heaven. All members of his immediate family were alerted, and by 8 AM that morning, there wasn’t an Ollinger who didn’t know that their great patriarch had gone home to God.

How easy the deceased have it! All they have to do is die; their survivors have to pick up the pieces and move on. They dwell in disbelief, mire themselves in mourning, or associate themselves with apathy. I stupidly chose to immerse myself in ire. I was so angry with everyone. This was my birthday, and now I had to alter my plans drastically. I was so selfish, so priggish, so me…

But in my defense, I quickly metamorphosed into “funeral mode.” I realized the world lost a great man, and more importantly, I lost a great man. Grandpa was a man who loved everything about life. He loved waking up at 5; he loved picking berries in blistering July humidity; he loved swimming in his pool in February; and most of all, he loved God. When I saw his well-worn Bible on his casket as the funeral party sternly filed in the church, tears welled up in my eyes, and I began to sob quietly.

That was the worst thing to see: the tears. They cascaded off everyone’s cheeks, and if eyes weren’t crying, they were about to, like clouds bloated with a summer thunderstorm. I think everyone’s tear ducts had become emotional mines, with a certain comment or memory of Grandpa setting off explosions of sorrow in one’s heart.

There’s something strange about life though. Unless you’re extraordinary, like Ghandi, or you’re infamous, like Hitler, life is nothing more than a speck to humanity. But to the individual, life is something momentous. Although I have yet to experience the unspeakable wondrousness of my child’s birth, I have experienced the unspeakable misfortune of a relative’s death.

One thing that mystifies me is the caprice of human opinion. How can someone who accepts the methods of war possibly condemn something like genetic cloning? What, you can voluntarily take life, but you can’t make it? Either way, you’re playing God.