I’ll be honest: I feel better when I talk about famous
people’s failures.
It’s because I’m a human being: a marvellous, wondrous,
dirty, stinking human being. My brain has barely been tapped for all of its
glorious potential; my mouth has uttered prose and vulgarities alike; my GI
tract makes poo. I am one of seven-point-five-billion living watermarks of
human potential.
Discussing foibles of the elite is cathartic for me: the
depths to which the latest superstar has fallen make good cover for my own follies.
Where classic truck meets restaurant, there’s no room for my burnt chicken from
last week, or my raw chicken from the week before, or my failure to produce
anything nutritious for dinner earlier tonight. When innocent lives could have
been at stake, yelling at my kids seems innocuous.
Here’s the truth: for every Ryan O’Reilly and Jay Z and
Martha Stewart, there’s a slew of us who are just as amazing and gifted and
beautiful and stupid. Heck, who’s to say I wouldn’t wreck a Tim Hortons or cheat
on Beyoncé or evade my taxes, given the chance?
What can prevent foolishness from happening? A dad who
scrapes his way through college without knowing how to read, now hailed one of
the finest life coaches there is? A mom who always opened her home to foster
kids? Brothers who inspire each other to be top-caliber players and gentlemen?
A sister who sweats it out just as hard as the guys? A California girl to do
yoga with?
This terrible event doesn’t change a thing. The potential
was always there. The O’Reillys are still the O’Reillys, and I’m still me, and
as wonderful as I think I am, I’ll probably screw something up again tomorrow.
The only reason I’m quite sure that a beautifully restored ’51
Chevy would be any safer in my hands? I don’t really go out at night.
UPDATE:
He got off all charges, because money and power. We've lost him, boys. BOOOOOOO
UPDATE:
He got off all charges, because money and power. We've lost him, boys. BOOOOOOO
