Brian On _______

I can't figure out why Blogger is making indent in weird places. Oh well. Do your best to follow along.


I was digging though some boxes in my laundry room yesterday and - lo and behold! - I found the long lost Speculatory* Essay and Poetry Series.

These poems and essay sprung forth from two overly creative yet bored spirits while they were trying to stay awake in US 301, Comparative Civilization.

For our first selection, I offer an essay penned by yours truly. It is quite clear I was inspired by a riveting discussion on the events of turn-of-the-century India. I was doing an admirable job of taking notes when my classmates and collaborator, Brad, leaned over and asked, "What if your mom had named you Gandhi?"

If My Mother Named me Gandhi

A Speculatory Essay

If my mother named me Gandhi, I would probably resent her and count the days until I turned 18. Then I could legally change my name. I don’t really mind it, but the spelling trips people up. I might go with something like “Gawndee” or “Gondi.” I dunno, something phonetic. For the sake of simplicity, I’d change my middle initial to “R.” and my last name to “Jones.”

I would have a lisp and a turquoise ring on my finger.

I would wear peasant homespun wraps as I went on about my Gandhi-licious life. I would usually wear boxers underneath my peasant homespun wraps, and go commando on occasion. I’d wear sandals and occasionally I would get rocks stuck under my feet. I’d seriously consider adopting shoes that not only give me more ankle support, but kept the rocks out. Maybe some Sketchers.

And, just like my namesake, I’d espouse the concepts of ahimsa (non-violence), satyagraha (civil disobedience) and dharma (right conduct).

With a name like Gandhi, people would expect me to be different. This would be reflected in my computer usage. I would own an iMac, which is very computer-like. I’d also be really Internet savvy. You should check out my blog.

I’d be a born leader. At my high school in South Africa, I’d be elected homecoming King and would be a candidate for prom king. I wouldn’t win though because I would wear a homespun peasant wrap to the dance instead of a tux. People would laugh but it’s OK ‘cause I’d have a hot date. I’d also be co-captain of the cricket team.

I’d secretly love Monty Python movies but I’d be obliged to reject them in public as a holdover of British hegemony.

There’s a good chance I’d be Hindu. Because I’m Hindu, I probably wouldn’t like the Punjabs because they’re Muslim and they want to take Kashmir away from India (which, by the way, is a plumb). I would, however, really like to say the word “Punjab.” Punjab. Try it! Punjab. Punjab. Punjab!

I would really like frozen pizzas and taquitos. And rice. And gellato.

If I were named Ghandi, I would walk softly and carry a big stick. Actually, I’d walk softly and carry a cattle prod. I’d only use it in self defense though. Like, if this Buddhist was all up in my face was like “Hey Gandhi!” I’d be all like “Eat this, Buddhist!” And then I would shock him.

You’d think my best buddy would have a name like Jawaharlal Nehru but you’d be wrong. His name would be Bob. He be an Assyrian Christian and would work in a pickle factory. We would go to the Putt Putt course in Calcutta on double dates with our respective girlfriends. They would both look hot in their saris and I would want to kiss my girlfriend. I wouldn’t though because my dinner would give me bad breath and stupid-head Bob wouldn’t give me an Altoid. I’d want to kill him for that but that would contradict amhisa. Dag nabbit!

Another negative aspect of being named Gandhi is that I’d most likely be bald. I’d probably have really bad sunburn on my noggin. I’d look funny too; it’s really hard to pull off the bald look if you’re not black. Now, if I were a black guy named Gandhi… well, that’s another essay.

Just because I’m named Gandhi (or Gawndee or Gondi), people would assume I’m poor. But no, I’d be rich. Filthy rich. My homespun peasant wrap would be make of the finest silk from Bombay. That’s right baby, it’s all about the Benjamins. I make it rain. I’d have a private menagerie in my back yard. It’d have an elephant, a giraffe and monkeys. I’d be a lot like Michael Jackson only I wouldn’t be a pedophile or a pop star. Or insane.

My toenails would be exceptionally long and lo, the peoples would travel far and wide throughout the subcontinent to catch a glimpse.

Sometimes I’d foolishly get involved in a “dissing match.” I’d hold my own until the other guy said “Oh yeah? Well your momma named you Gandhi!” I’d act like it didn’t bother me and I’d come back with “Well you’re a stinkin’ Punjab!” We’d call it a tie but we’d both really know that he won. Despondent, I would go home and cry into my pillow and make very personal, private entries into my Hello Kitty© Diary:

Dear Diary,
I feel so worthless. I hate my name. Why did Mom have to name me Gandhi? Dad wanted to name me Harvey. That would’ve been so much better. I hate my mother. Maybe I’ll get to go on Oprah and tell her I hate her to her face. Either way, I think I’m going to develop an eating disorder.

But, in the end, I’d still love my mom. She did, after all, carry me for nine months and give me life. I’d send her a Mother’s Day card:

Dear Mom,
You’re the best. Say Hi to Dad for me.

Your loving son,

Gandhi

*Yes, I am quite aware that "speculatory" is not a word.

FYI, my reviews of Get Smart and Wanted are up at A Rough Cut.

I should have seen it coming. Heck, even Chamillionaire tried to warn me. But did I listen? Nooooooooooo.

“Brian,” he said,
“Police think they can see you lean;
You tint so it ain't easy to be seen…
They see you rollin'
They hatin'
Patrollin'
They tryin' to catch you ridin’ dirty.”

After 6 and-half-hours driving and with nearly 400 miles under my belt, the red and blue strobes of a Missouri Highway Patrol cruiser appeared in my rear view mirror.

The Trooper was very polite and I was too since

a) I knew it couldn’t be anything major and my cruise control was set at 70 and
b) I’d be that way regardless.

Turns out my windows are illegally tinted. He tested it (I wonder how much of my taxes went toward providing each state trooper a window tint tester) and apparently my tint allows only 15 percent of the light in and the legal limit is 35 percent. I explained that I bought the car with the tint already on and it hadn’t been a problem in the three years I’d been in the state, but he gave me a ticket any way. $83. Plus, I have to pay to have the tint removed.

While I am certainly annoyed that I have to drop $83, I even more annoyed that a piece of dark glass ruined my perfect driving record. If I were going to blemish it, it should at least be for going 125 while running from the cops and stashing the dope or something.

I’m still going to claim it’s perfect, because it doesn’t count against my license and it doesn’t affect my insurance.

In the end, I guess I should thankful he didn’t write me a ticket for being white and nerdy.

That and he didn't find the kilo of coke in the trunk.

OK, so none of these really have anything to do with the SBC. Too bad.



My hotel: The Crowne Plaza at Union Station. It is still a working train station.


The hotel was full of these plaster "mannequins." To me, they looked like the mummies from the Mt. Vesuvius eruption. Or ghosts.



Plaster sailor lighting a cigarette. This is looking out my room door. The train cars have been converted into suites.



The RCA Dome: the home of the Indianapolis Colts. It was right across the street from my hotel.



The Indianapolis Motor Speedway... Home of the Indy 500.



I spied a few pace Corvettes doing laps. I have no idea how fast they were going.



Rounding Turn 4 in the bus.



Pit Road and The Pagoda.



The Start/Finish Line. Originally, the entire 2.5 mile track was paved with 3.6 million bricks (hence its nickname, The Brickyard. The original paving bricks are under the asphalt, except for this 9-brick strip at the Start/Finish.


Coming into Turn 1.



Our driver kept it under 220 mph. In the time it took us to complete a lap, an Indy car would have lapped us seven times.



To enter/exit the Museum parking lot, you have to drive under the track and the grand stands.



The idiots from Fred Phelps' "church" were there to protest. I just don't get it. Thankfully, there were just two of them and even the secular press ignored them.



Huh?

I'm tired and ready to go home. Indy is a nice place to visit and (and probably not a bad place to live), but I'm ready to go home. I have a meeting with a source manana at 9, so I should be able to skidaddle on toward home around 11 or so.

All of my snarky comments relate to photos I took and I don't have my card reader with me so I can't post just yet. Look for it on Friday. Topic to be covered include: Southern Baptist fashion, protesters, the Indianapolis Motor Speedway and my roommate's razor.

Don't turn that dial!

For lunch today, my boss, associate editor and I went to the Weber Grill. You'd think a restaurant owned by a grill manufacturing company would serve up some good food and you'd be right.

My roommate came in this morning at 2. He had told me he was planning on arriving at 12:30, but because he was running late and because he’d forgotten that he was crossing into the Eastern Time Zone, he was later than he expected. I stayed up waiting for him, so I’m a little drowsy this morning.

Before we turned out the lights, Mr. Roommate (a freelancer who is a pastor in St. Louis), fished out the room service menu. “I just can’t get going when I’m away from home without eggs first thing in the morning,” he said, as he proceeded to place a room service order for 7:15 a.m. of two eggs over easy, toast, hash browns, milk and coffee. I was more than a little bit shocked, but I didn’t say anything because I was falling asleep and didn’t feel like giving a lecture in stewardship.

I’m always very conscious of my spending when I’m staying/eating on Missouri Baptists’ tab. If I had my way, I’d be staying in a Motel 6. Whenever I dine out while on convention business, I’m very careful to never eat anywhere I wouldn’t eat at if I were paying for it myself. Do I want to eat at Ruth's Cris Steak House tonight, of course. I just can't justify spending Missouri's CP money that way. I don’t care if Mr. Roommate normally does order room service when it’s his credit card number on the bill, it’s just not cool to do it when you’re spending little old ladies’ tithe. Especially not when it’s $15.97 for a plate of eggs plus the tip, and especially not when it’s being posted to my expense account.

At the moment I’m in the press room and it’s a pretty cool set up. There’s probably seating and tables for 100 media members plus a bank of printers and closed circuit video feed from the convention floor. We’re also issued radio headsets so we can listen to the audio from the convention floor if we want to, or we can turn it off and write in peace. The radio broadcast isn’t top-notch and all the voices are tinny. It’s like listening those old recordings of Hitler. Without the book burnings or the Jew-killing.

Of course this headphone thing also means I can plug into my laptop and listen to iTunes instead of the preaching/business sessions…

Ha! In line with my earlier comment on stewardship, they just ran a video promoting stewardship. It was set to Pink Floyd’s Money. I promise. Rock on, SBC. Rock on.

And from Pink Floyd we roll right into the Gaithers. I’m not knocking the Gaithers (I’ve met and was very impressed by Gloria), but how can they follow Pink Floyd?

Holy crap, now they’re playing from City Slickers. What kind of convention is this? [Note: did anyone else realize that Jake Gyllenhaal played Billy’s son in City Slickers?]