Monday, March 18, 2002
Recently I was navigating the vast, frozen expanse of the Internet in an attempt to find out what exactly Ma Bell knows about yours truly. I’d heard some scary shit from Griswald Dreck about how people online know everything about your life, from how much mustard you like on your pretzels to how many times you’ve shaved your sack. I’ve always been a man who protects his privacy, unless there’s a free prize involved, so I was curious to find out what exactly the nosy world knows about Omar Bricks.

My first stop was the Internet search engines, which proved fruitless as lunch at Arby’s. The only match that even came up was for a building material wholesaler in Texas. To be honest I was a little disappointed, I’d been hoping for maybe a real-time webcam that showed me sitting there at the computer, looking at a real-time webcam that showed me sitting there at the computer… and on and on endlessly like that Pink Floyd album or that time in college when I put two mirrors really close together and stuck my head in-between them. But instead, nothing. No credit-card numbers, no lists of my favorite CDs, and no photos of me hang gliding naked in Mexico. I’ve never actually been hang gliding, but I thought someone might have spliced my face into an awesome photo of some crazy fucker freeballin’ it over the desert cliffs in Cancun, you know? I could have gone for that.

After my rich fantasy basically had its underwear yanked up the asscrack, I decided to check out some alternative sources of information. Next came the online white pages. I figured maybe my home address would be up there somewhere with a link to a map and a note about the spare key that’s hidden on top of my doormat. Some kind of scary invasion-of-privacy shit like that to really make the search worthwhile, you know? Well fill out that fantasy in your own heads as you so desire, because it turns out I’m not even listed. Apparently as far as the Internet is concerned, Omar Bricks isn’t worth stalking or roping into a pyramid scheme. It's like I don’t even exist in their eyes, which makes me feel kind of like a time traveler with no identity and it makes me wonder what I could get away with. I could probably paint my name in block capitals on the side of the bank after I walked out with my pants stuffed full of cash, and it wouldn’t matter. What are the cops going to do, look me up online? Shit.

A funny thing did come up when I was searching the white pages, though. I wasn’t in there, but I’ll be goddamned if there wasn’t another Omar Bricks listed! No lie! Some lucky bastard living out in Sudsbury, MA. What kind of bizarre mind-bending shit is that? Could we have been separated at birth? Just thinking about how I’d lived my entire life not knowing that there was another Omar Bricks running around kind of creeped me out. What if he was out there wearing a Thompson Twins tee-shirt or something and making me look like a total dink? This was a serious liability, the Omar Bricks street cred was in the hands of some guy who could be into collecting dolls for all I knew.

This needed to be investigated with a quickness, so I sent Omar a post card and before I knew it we had exchanged several letters about what it’s like to live the Omar Bricks life. Turns out he was a pretty decent cat, maybe a little too into the quarters from all of the different states, but to be honest I was just happy he wasn’t a famous ballet dancer or anything. Before long we made plans to meet in person and I flew out to Massachusetts for the weekend.

And it was a great trip, Omar and I hung loose and had the kind of fun that only two people with the same name can have. We went to the airport and had ourselves paged, then got into a fake karate fight at the ticket desk after a long staged argument about who was the real Omar Bricks. After security escorted us out we went home and Omar had a great idea about calling a radio call-in show. I went out to the phone in the hall and called the same show, and we spent a half an hour arguing for and against abortion with the show’s host. The dude almost went out of his ass between the fact that both of his callers had the same name and were calling from the same town, and the fact that they probably don’t get a lot of calls about abortion on AutoTalk.

After that we were pretty strapped for ideas until Omar realized we could really raise some hell by trading lives for a month and acting like nothing had happened. I thought it was a great idea, but Omar’s girlfriend got all uptight about the whole thing and we had to settle for setting Omar up with double food stamps at the local welfare office. Not quite the grand caper we had envisioned originally, but still pretty handy when you need some baby formula or a rack of lamb or something.

After the weekend was over I had to come home, I think to the relief of Omar’s girlfriend. I returned to a world that felt a little smaller and a little less Omar Bricksish. But although there’s only one Omar to carry the load in these parts, it gives me peace to know that there’s another O.B. out there, somewhere, keeping it Bricks. Not to mention that I started a couple of credit cards in his name while I was out there. Voice-activated deck chairs, here I come! Bricks out.

Just Say No to Rabid Dogs
I guess every little kid had to have some major disillusionment when they were young, like having their parents die or ordering Sea Monkeys.

Windows XP: Fight the Future
But as always, my acceptance of the old Windows system was a sure as shit sign that the next version wasn't more than two weeks away.

Open Up Your Wallets, Corporate Greed-Hounds
And I’ll be damned if the fabled home of the Chicago Cubans isn’t the biggest stinker of the bunch, naming their stadium after a cheap line of plastic insect replicas aimed at gullible kids.

Sick and Tired
Three sure signs that you’re getting butt-raped by lady luck: you’re sick, you’re stuck in a waiting room watching a Behind the Music special on someone under the age of ten, and you’re listening to Aaron Neville.

Handle with Care
What the hell's wrong with the postal service that they need special instructions not to beat the shit out of your package with baseball bats or feed it through the air intake of a jet engine?

Jeff's Nuts Roasting on an Open Fire
Lately it seems like every-damned-body has been asking me what I’ll be doing for Christmas, as if I’m going to say that I’ll be attending a Roman Orgy and then invite them along.

Your Honor, the Whole Damn Vending Machine in the Hall is Out of Order
It turns out that swearing like a motherfucker, being a Communist or having a thick Mexican accent are all honky-dory if you want to be a juror these days. Go figure.

A Three Hour Tour of Conspiracy
Practically all my life I’ve been nagged by the question of why anybody would want to get off of Gilligan’s Island in the first place.

You're Welcome, Homeless Orphans
The Pilgrims actually came over on three ships: The El Nino, The Fredo and The Challenger, the last of which blew up half-way here.