Tao of Gabe: On History

Tao of Gabe

Gabe the Benevolent Beaver here worried about his place in the history books. I worry about what is going to survive me when I can no longer the job myself.

More than anything, I’d hate to be lost to anonymity like the third James Bond or the first George Bush.

There are some things that would be worse than anonymity, however. For instance, I could be associated with something humiliating for all of beaver history like my uncle Chip who was arrested for improper relations with a groundhog back in February.

If you’re named Dick, John, Peter, Willie, Woody, Ginny, Aunt Flo, or Ralph, you know what it feels like to be associated with something dirty. I’m Gabe D. Beaver, so I don’t need to worry about anything until somebody decides “Gabe” should be a lewd slang for a body part.

In any case, there is a formula for becoming famous that is neither embarrassing nor difficult. To become famous, you must either do something first, best, or most widely. In other words, tell your collective mother that I still love her.

Take Copernicus for example. It might seem easy enough to decipher the movements of celestial bodies and orchestrate a method to explain their movements without complex computer systems, but that’s only looking back with our 21st century eyes. At the time it was probably quite difficult, along the lines of self-immolation or perhaps even as hard as it is going to be for Rupert Grint to find a job after the Harry Potter franchise ends.

The formula isn’t that simple, however. You cannot simply earn the first doctorate in underwater basket weaving to earn your place in the world. What you do must be different enough to be taken seriously. I mean no disrespect to serious aquatic basket weavers when I say that. I envy your skills.

Alternatively, you could do something the best and be known for that. For instance, Bram Stoker did not originate the concept of vampires. That existed over fifty years before Dracula was published. He managed to earn a place in history by taking concepts that were only vaguely defined before and giving them clarity. George A. Romero could take lessons.

Alternatively, you could be like D. Gabe Fahrenheit and create a scale so flawed that round numbers are avoided like the plague. When a version is so ingrained that, no matter how flawed it is, people would fight to preserve it, you’ve done your job. The Qwerty keyboard is an example of that.

So long as everybody agrees that you’re the originator or the best, it won’t matter that the only reason they think that is because you said it so much. The music industry is good at that.

Heck, with enough publicity, anybody could become famous for anything. If you don’t believe me, ask Monica Lewinski.

Love, memorable love,

Gabe D. Beaver

“Remember Kids: Write to your congressman to let him know you care.”

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The Long Hug Goodnight

Some time ago, I decided that I needed more hugs. I was only getting one or two hugs per day and I was feeling listless.

So I decided that I would give myself a quota. I figured that if I had two hugs per day, every day, then I would get my Oomph back.

Then I thought: nah… I might as well go for gold and try to get three hugs per day.

So I started mentioning this to my chick friends. I mentioned it to my flatmate Jess (the greatest flatmate in the world, bar none) and she told me that it wasn’t three hugs per day, but seven that everybody needed to get their Oomph back.

I took her word for it, because as a psychologist, she should know all about the most recent Oomph studies.

But that also meant that I had to more than double my hug quota. I started hugging everyone I knew. Often multiple times per day.

So I kept mentioning this to my [label missing]s, in order that they not think me odd. I mentioned it to my [label missing] Suzi and she told me that it wasn’t seven hugs per day that everybody needed, but nine hugs and a laugh in order to keep one’s Oomph in working condition.

I took her word for it too, because, as an Aussie and a psychologist, she should know all about the latest Oomph research.

But that also meant I had to step up my hug quota. I started hugging everybody I’d ever met. Often multiple times a conversation.

So I continued mentioning this to my [labels missing] so that they not call the cops. I mentioned it to a recently met [label missing] named Pam and she told me that it wasn’t nine hugs and a laugh per day that everybody needed, but twelve hugs (and presumably a laugh) that everybody needed to keep their Oomph in top-notch condition.

I took her word for it as well, because as a [label missing] and a [label missing], she should know all about one’s inner Oomph and the Tao of Oomphness.

But that also meant I had to step into hug hyperdrive. I started hugging everything that’d let me. Often multiple times at a time.

So I stopped mentioning this to anybody. Except for you guys. And that’s only to tell you all to get your twelve hugs and a laugh today.

It’ll perfect your Oomph in no time.

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How Pixel got his Oomph Back

Last Thursday I was listless.
Where my list was, I did not know.

You can probably tell, going over the archive, that I did not feel like doing much. And the stuff I did do, I did not enjoy.

It went on forever and a day (forever is hereby equal to six days).

This Thursday, at Pyros, I realized I had my Oomph back.

This Thursday I had 22 hugs from 12 different people.

Every day before that I’d gotten a grand total of 12 hugs over one forever.

I now believe there is a direct correlation between hugs and Oomph.

If you haven’t hugged someone today, go and do so this minute. You won’t regret it (unless they’re wet).

This public service announcement brought to you by the Pix Capacitor.

The Pix Capacitor: is there anything we won’t stoop to?

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Flaming staffs of spin… And Twins!

Thursday at the regular Pyromaniacs meeting, I met two girls named Cam-ee (ka-MEE) and Nikki (it turns out I was one letter off last time. I accidentally spelled it “N9kki.” My bad)

They were twins.

Now, before anybody calls me immature or infantile, let me add that I have never, ever– in my life– ever met twins before.

So I was extra cheerful, perhaps too much so. Ex_Cal says that I probably freaked them out… or at least that I freaked him out.

Ooopsie.

There’s something innately fantastic about twins. More than likely, however, it was just that I’d gotten my Oomph back. I’ll explain that next.

I’ve met triplets before. But they weren’t really entertaining. And they were guys.. which doesn’t help my argument any, I know, but hey. All I can do is swear that I think my fascination is innocent. Whether you believe it or not is up to you.

I love burritos at four a.m.
Parties that never end
Dogs that love cats
And…and twins

And I love you, too
Here’s to love songs!

Okay. Fine. Call me immature, I don’t care. You’re a doody-head anyway.

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