Insert your own title- I'm late!

Recently, a good (not to mention hot and sexy) friend and I were discussing a great movie from years ago called "Time After Time." It starred Malcolm McDowell (of "A Clockwork Orange" fame) as HG Wells, the well known Sci-Fi writer of classics such as "War of the Worlds" and "The Invisible Man." In the movie, Wells invents a time machine (a la one of his other classics "The Time Machine"), which is promptly stolen by his good friend John Leslie Stevenson (played by David Warner), who also happens to be the notorious Jack The Ripper! The Ripper escapes into modern-day San Francisco and takes up his old habits, while Wells is forced into pursuit of his old friend. A great thriller, with just the right amount of tension, suspense, and cheese (not to mention Warner's spot-on-creepy Ripper portrayal!). It's also the reason for my third straight re-write of the opening of this blog (I blame it on the aforementioned friend for reminding me of the movie... feel free to blame her yourselves...). But I'd be lying if I said I didn't also owe her for giving me the best of the three openings to a blog about time, and why my time is more important than anyone else's...

That's right, I said it. I'm not as young as I used to be and my knees don't work right, so it takes me longer to get where I'm going than, say, someone mumblemumble years younger than myself. I have errands that take up a lot of my time, and they must be done in a timely manner. Trips to the post office, the gas station, the grocers, the porn shop (though that particular trip has died down; I find a lot of the good stuff for free on the internet). The thing is, I have places to see, people to do, so yes, my time is more valuable than yours! Just as I'm sure your time is more valuable to you than mine. Maybe you have a sick relative you're looking to visit. Or a grandchild on the way. Or there's a sale on condoms and you want to stock up, you fucking whore. It doesn't matter, your time is valuable to you, for whatever reason. But, alas, no one's time is more valuable to them than those fucking cultural illiterates...

I was third in line at the gas station, buying beer and smokes, when I spotted him. He stopped at the pump, got out the car, already digging for his wallet. I admit I had hope it wouldn't happen; I mean the guy was an older fellow, maybe late-fifties, and dressed business casual. He just didn't have the look, per se, of an illiterate (Does that sound like I'm saying an illiterate indeed has a particular look? Why, that'd be prejudiced of me, wouldn't it? Who gives a fuck, they're the CIs!). But my hopes were once again dashed as this prick comes striding in the door, squeezes himself to the side of the register and says "Twenty on five."

Here's the thing, people: your time may be more important to you, but I don't give a fuck about you or the reasons why you're in such a hurry. I've got my own shit going on, and don't have the inclination to give a fuck about why you're in a rush. All I know is that I apparently got up a little earlier than you did, and therefore am not as pressed for time. You're not going to visit your problems on me because of your poor time management. When I'm in line ahead of you, you'll wait your fucking turn. If that means I start calling out "The line's back there, asslick" or "We were here first, you fucking cunt," then that's what I'll do. Maybe you don't embarrass easily and won't give a shit what I say... but it'll make me feel better. And it may just give everyone around me the courage to speak up as well.

Back to the line-cutting prick... The cashier ignored him; she was ringing up the guy who waited patiently to get to the front of the line. But, as illiterates are wont to do, he kept insisting himself upon her by waving the twenty in her face. I opened my mouth to say something, but the guy in front of me spoke first: "The line's back there." That's it, that's all he said. He was ignored. The illiterate actually tossed the twenty over the register at the woman tending it and walked out the door. "You're welcome!" I shouted. I got one or two more readers that day when I casually mentioned I write about those people all the time, and told the others where to find the Sanitorium (okay, I hear you... but it's not really prostitution if money isn't exchanged...). I wanted badly to give the address to the line-cutting prick, but he was gone before I got out the door.

Worse examples exist: people running red lights and speeding put others in danger. Shoving past people or barrelling out of aisles with shopping carts can injure someone. If we all keep in mind that everyone's time is valuable to them, and we don't try to impose on one another, we can all remain healthy and happy. And I'll continue wearing my size eleven shoes when I venture out.

They're great for tripping line-cutters.

A Loved Letter

How do I begin? I'm not really sure. Hell, I don't even know why it's hitting me now, I've known for months. And it wasn't something that necessarily surprised me. The one she chose surprised me, I'll say that much. I don't know if she'll be reading this. I know she's been here, but I don't know how often. Once? Twice? Daily? I don't think she was too interested in my ranting, having heard some of it before. But if there's a chance she's going to read this, I have to take that chance. (This is another one that's absent the ranting and swearing, so if you're not interested, move on. But you may learn something about letting go. Or not letting go. It's really hard to say, so I'm just going to get to writing.)

Years ago, we met. We talked for a while before we actually got together, remember? A good year or more. It was pretty difficult, not being able to see you. The phone conversations were wonderful, don't get me wrong. But when we finally decided to meet, in Chicago, I had no idea how difficult it'd end up being living so far apart.

Chicago. Man, what a time that was, huh? I went along with the sight-seeing, but from the time I saw you get off that plane, you were the one thing I couldn't take my eyes off.

Remember the snowstorm? We went into that mall, barely a flake falling, and when we emerged a few hours later, you couldn't see anything but white! We somehow made it back to the hotel, after getting lost. Twice. I remember we ended up at a gas station, asking for directions, and the damn hotel was right behind it! We ended up in the hotel bar, and ordered pizza. Spinach and feta cheese. It was delicious, probably the best pizza I'd ever had; but wasn't that really the company I was keeping? I know it was.

We stayed up late, watching "Sleepless In Seattle" and the irony? We both fell asleep before it was over. Separate beds turned into you crawling into mine.

Two days later, we sat in the lobby, too afraid to say goodbye. We both had lives to get back to; and I told you "It's a good thing this wasn't more than three days." Remember what you said? "I know." I didn't think you understood what I meant; until you told me you did. A kiss and a goodbye, and that was that... until two weeks later...

It was the first time I'd driven that far, seven straight hours (eight, if you count the hour I was lost). We met at that Drury Inn, and I remember getting there and parking next to your car, though I had no idea what you drove. You came out as I was walking in, wearing that sweater I'd left with you. I almost collapsed into your arms, I was so happy. We spent the next six hours together. I drove a total of fourteen hours to spend six hours with you. And on the way home, I cried when I passed the Gateway Arch, because I had no idea what I'd do without you. It was then that I realized I loved you.

Fast forward, two months. I transferred from my job in Columbus to a job in St Louis. For six months, I was happier than I'd ever been. Ever. And then I got in the way of us. And with a last kiss and a tearful goodbye, we weren't "we" anymore. And for the next seven hours, all the way home, I cried. I cried until my face swelled so much I had to pull over at a rest stop and grab a can of soda to hold over my eyes, just to get the swelling to go down.

We've stayed in touch over the last ten years, sometimes talking every single day, even though we were still so far apart. I've heard of the good ones, the bad ones (one of which is still on my list... you know what I mean), and even seen the ugly part of one in particular (yeah... ex-hubby). When WJ and I came to visit, it was the first time I'd seen you in eight years. Know what's funny? I still couldn't take my eyes off you. I know you noticed.

And then there was that little conversation we had on your back porch.

I've loved again, you know that. I've cried to you about a few ladies, and always listened to your counsel (even when I didn't heed the advice).

If I sat and thought about it long enough, I could recall every single second we spent together. Every. Single. One. You could argue that this is about how I can't let go. But I say it's a work in progress, and probably always will be. All our great loves should be. And knowing the circumstances surrounding the man you're going to marry, I just want you to be sure.

Learning to let go is one thing. Learning to love is... wrong.

Drawing a line in the sandbox

Some years ago, when my son was in the first grade, an older kid in fourth grade got it into his head that my boy was an easy target. He started picking on him. It lasted a day and a half before my son caught him on the playground after school and beat the shit out of the kid in front of his friends. A few years later, my ex took my son out of school because a kid in his class was flicking him in the head during class, and my son tired of it. After school, he waited for the kid and his friends to walk by and punched the kid in the face. Once. The kid went crying to the principal, and my son's been in home schooling ever since. I'm not a proponent of violence as a way to solve problems, not at all. But I won't tell you that I think what my son did was wrong, either.

There's been a lot of talk lately about bullying, fueled by the death of Seth Walsh, a 13-year-old boy who, after years of the abuse, hanged himself from a tree in his own backyard. That's right, he was 13. There was also the case of Jaheem Herrera, an 11-year-old who was found hanging in his closet by a belt, dead. Let me say that once more: Jaheem was only 11! An 11-year-old child hung himself because he was tired of kids at his school teasing him! No charges will be filed in either case.

These are just two examples of a growing list of young kids committing suicide due to bullying. The issue of bullying comes up every few years, but only when the bullying causes 1) a kid to kill him or herself; or 2) a kid to take a gun to school with the intent of murdering the offender(s). Am I the only one who finds this unacceptable? We talked this issue over and over when Columbine happened. Did we learn nothing? How in the fuck do we continue allowing this to happen?

Look, folks, we can't have it both ways. We can't preach non-violence and allow kids to aggressively pursue bullying non-violently with name calling and teasing and posting nasty things on Twitter and Facebook about their chosen targets. It's not right that we tell our kids to suck it up, it's only words, and sticks and stones, and all that noise. It's clearly not working, and the reason it's not working is because it is, in fact, BULLSHIT! Words hurt. Take the current mid-term elections. This is the slimiest election year I can ever remember, with the "Taliban Dan" shit, and attacking someone's faith, and accusing others of witchcraft. If a politician can say it hurts their feelings to be called a bad christian, what right do we have to tell our kids that words are only words? We're setting our kids up for failure, not protecting them.

So what's the answer? How about we educate the teachers and the parents? I don't mean a day in some seminar, no no. I mean a month before school starts, we send teachers and parents to classes, three times a week, and educate them on the signs of what bullying looks like. Then, on the first day of school, we make it perfectly clear to all students that bullying will not be permitted, in any form, and the consequences will be severe. Perhaps something for everyone. No sports for the entire year. Automatic 10 point grade drop. Repeat offenders are expelled to study hall for the remainder of the school year and made to repeat that year. And I think we need to give principals the authority to mete out the punishments as they see fit, provided they work within a chosen set of guidelines. If these punishments seem harsh, I thank you. They're meant to sound harsh. When the alternative is kids killing themselves, the punishment for bullying MUST be harsh!

We can no longer afford to continue thinking of bullying as a right of passage, or a symptom of growing up. I'm not naive enough to believe bullying is going to go away, but we must change the rules to accommodate the times in which we live. This isn't the world of twenty years ago.

Remember, it was only eleven years ago when we were watching police and paramedics pulling dead bodies from a school in Denver. And we didn't have Twitter and Facebook in 1999.

Like it or not, "cultural illiterate" equals "retard."

Alright, I'm hearing a few of you loud and clear. You don't like it when I use the word "retard" in describing, well, retards. You think it's a derogatory term. In this I'd agree. But you further think it's a derogatory term for the mentally handicapped. This I disagree with, folks. Now I'll tell you why I feel this way, and why I'll continue to use the term, whether you like it or not.

Someone close to me is autistic. He's a hell of a good guy, just has some trouble in social settings with those he doesn't know. He's usually okay once he's introduced and gets to know you, but until then he retreats into the world of people and things he knows. His sister in an extrovert, and that helps him get over things rather quickly. Still, he's autistic. And if I ever heard someone call him a retard, they'd have a hell of a bigger problem than their personal social graces. I'd also not stand idly by and have someone call a mentally disabled person stupid, retarded, idiot, or any other term I'd consider derogatory if I didn't believe they could adequately defend themselves in that particular situation.

I've said it before, I don't give a fuck what you do in your own house, and I don't particularly care what you do outside it either, as long as it doesn't interfere with my or anyone else's life. You want to use the "N" word in describing a black person, that's fine with me. But unless there are black people around and you're not whispering, don't expect me to keep my mouth shut. And don't expect me to sit by and watch as you commit other social dis-graces, either (far too many examples to give, and I know you're not an idiot, you can figure these out for yourselves). But call someone with a disability names? Fuck you, asshole, ain't going to happen, not when I'm around.

Webster's dictionary defines "retard" as "to delay or slow the progress of." Are you honestly trying to tell me that this isn't EXACTLY what I've been talking about here at the Sanitorium? A culturally illiterate person or group is retarding the progress of what we call civilized society. If you want a partial list of who these people are, read the very first blog entry. The term's not derogatory for a handicapped person, though I suppose you could make the argument that the assholes I speak of are, indeed, mentally handicapped. But why split hairs? Retard's a verb. I use it as a noun because I'm not going to add "er" at the end; it doesn't have the same impact.

Maybe I should use the term "fucktard" instead.

Pro-Choice: It's not just for abortions anymore.

Know what I really hate? Alright, alright, stop the snickering. I'll re-phrase: Know what ELSE I really hate? People who tell me one thing, then change their minds and try to tell me I was mistaken in what I was told. Nope, that just doesn't work for me. It doesn't exactly fall under the category of "Don't piss up my leg and tell me it's raining." More like "Did you just piss on my leg?" "Yes, my mistake." "Why did you do it?" "Do what?" "Piss on me?" "I didn't, it must've been rain."

See what I'm saying? But I'll take it one step further: not only do you tell me you didn't do it, you act offended that I'd accuse you of such a thing. Basically call me a liar. This very thing happened to me yesterday.

I offered someone some cash (long story, and to tell it I'd have to give a name- or a moniker- so I'll just give you the basics). Said person turned the offer down, saying they'd be fine without it. I decide to use the money to purchase some pictures for my niece of her new baby, and buy some suds (something I couldn't do when taking the vicodins, and I wanted some for the opening weekend of college football). Only after I mentioned these things did this person ask "Are you going to give me any money?" I asked for what, and was told I offered, so was I going to do it? This immediately angered me, but I thought 'Okay, I offered, perhaps I should go ahead and do it.' But first, I had to make clear to this person that they'd turned the offer down once. "Yeah, I guess, but you told me you didn't need any." "I didn't say that! I said I didn't need as much as you offered!" Nope, nope, and, uhh, nope. I have a VERY good memory (especially when the vics aren't in play, which they weren't), and I know exactly what was said. And looking at this person, I could see in their face they knew it, as well. "Yes, I'll give you some money," I say, smiling and shaking my head (which I KNEW would anger them... I figured, share the wealth, right? Meaning the anger, not the money, Roundtowners). It certainly had the intended effect. I got a "Keep your money!" and a very melodramatic exit from the room.

I'm all for choices. There's honestly not one person in this world, NOT A SINGLE ONE, who doesn't have a choice. You hear it all the time: "I didn't have a choice." Hell, even I've said it, but in truth we all have a choice, even if the choice is to live or die, or to allow someone else to live or die. So, if you make a choice and wish to change your mind, that's alright with me. It's one of the most basic human rights, to make your mind up for yourself. As long as that choice doesn't affect my right to also choose, have at it! But don't make a decision and then lie to me and say "I didn't say, mean, intend, think, iterate, portend, or CHOOSE that." It pisses me off, and it's the quickest way to make me an enemy. It's difficult for me to trust someone who's outright lied to me, to say nothing of someone who tries to make a liar OUT OF me.

This has happened with this same person once before. That time, it ended in a shouting match and the silent treatment imposed on me for a few days. This time, I didn't give this person the satisfaction. If they won't talk to me, that's fine. I have nothing to say. I laid a fifty-dollar bill right where they could find it, and it was still sitting there this morning. I told this person that if it was still there when I got back, it was mine and I would spend it as found money. I'm not going over this ground again, so you'll never know for sure what happened. But I can tell you that if history serves, that money will be gone. And that's alright with me, it was offered, turned down, asked for again, and given. My responsibility has ended. Their responsibility is to thank me. I'm not holding my breath.

That is, after all, their choice.

Are you ready for some footbawl?

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

We now return you to our regularly scheduled progamming...

Neighbors. We all have them; whether they're a few feet or a mile away, we all have them. Some are nice, bring us things like cookies or frozen treats. Some aren't so nice, bring us dog and cat shit on our front lawns or toss our mail in the garbage when they receive it by mistake. My parents have one of each. The neighbors to the right are a nice old couple that occasionally cut the ditch in the front yard with the riding mower they own, simply because it's easier than my dad doing it with his push mower (and his bad back, and his arthritis, and those ungodly white legs of his). They've brought my parents Christmas cookies, and my mother's delivered a tasty frozen concoction made with strawberries, Cool Whip, and Oreo cookies. They get along just fine. And where would the fun be in talking any more on the subject of their good neighbors, when they have a perfectly good, perfectly ignorant, dumbfuck of a bona fide cultural illiterate living on the opposite side? You want the ranting and raving? Hang out and enjoy!

First, a little background on said dumbfuck: his wife, according to him, is in a mental institution, because she's mentally unstable (gee, really, is that why?). His daughter's currently serving time for theft... of HIS Jeep. And recently dumbfuck moved into his girlfriend's house (and back), but when he left, he also left his unemployed 18-year old son behind to fend for himself (and trust me, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, which makes the fact of his being left alone all the more tragic). Dumbfuck rides his motorcycle when it's raining, takes his pick-up truck when the sun's shining, refuses to keep his lawn cut, and oh yeah, did I mention he has a beagle puppy he keeps outside ALL THE TIME? He had two dogs before that which disappeared. I don't know, don't want to know. There are so many examples of illiteracy I could pick apart, but I'm going to stick to the two that directly involve yours truly. After all, you want it from the horse's mouth, right?

The first and second interactions I had with him were very similar, both involving trees he has in his front yard. One's more a bush, I suppose, but the other's a crabapple tree. The "bush" is quite large and the branches stick out every which way, leaning out so far they nearly hang out into the road (this is a country road, 45 MPH until a quarter mile north of Roundtown, where it hits 55 MPH). Exiting my parent's driveway, it's nearly impossible to see what's coming through the branches. When my mother mentioned this to me one day, I asked why they didn't just cut it back to where they had a clear line of sight? Not getting the response I really needed, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I took the electric trimmer they have and cut the branches back. I suppose I should mention dumbfuck wasn't even living there at the time, it was when he was staying with his girlfriend. By sheer luck, he came back that day. The branches were obviously cut back, and I happened to be on the front porch when he pulled in his driveway.

"Did you see who cut my tree?" he asked.

"Yep. I did. It was blocking the view out of the driveway, and it makes it dangerous for my parents to pull out onto the road."

"I'd appreciate it if you asked next time." And he begins to walk away, as if the conversation's over. It might have been, but what'd we talk about in regards to the culturally illiterate? Right! Education! So, I tried to educate him. It obviously didn't work; I already said there were TWO examples I was going to discuss, didn't I, Roundtowners? Keep up, now, so far so good...

I responded "I'll ask, but the result will be the same. If those branches are blocking the view, they're going to be cut." He turned around, as if he were going to respond, then didn't. He just looked at me and walked away. The next thing I hear is banging and cursing coming from his garage. Perhaps he's not used to being talked to that way. Perhaps he's upset he didn't have a good comeback. Who the fuck knows. For that matter, who the fuck cares? I took the book I was reading back inside, and that was that. Pretty tame, right? No big deal. But the SECOND time, well... that was a tad different...

The crabapple tree hangs out over my 'rents' driveway turn-around. It's summer, so they're abundant on the tree, and in fact make a mess my mother sweeps into dumbfuck's yard when they cut the grass. Many crabapples equals a lot of weight on the branches, and they hang quite low. Low enough, in fact, to scrape the top of my parent's van when they turn it around. Electric trimmer, anyone? This time, I cut the tree back to the property line. It looks really funny, actually; one half of the tree's huge, the other's a bunch of stumpy branches. Looking at it after, I actually burst into fits of laughter I couldn't quite control. This was the cause of the escalation in the argument I had with the dumbfuck when he came home.

Knock knock. The door opens and an angry, red-faced neighbor is standing there, asking my dad who cut his apple tree. "I did!" I shouted from the couch, and stepped around to the door.

"You have no right to cut down my tree, that's MY tree, it's on MY property!"

"Wrong. It's hanging onto THIS property, and that makes the branches I cut THEIR property. THEIR property was scratching the roof of THEIR van. So I cut the offensive branches back." (I type this a bit more eloquently than was the language actually used, but hey, creative license and all that.)

"You can't do that without my permission! I know the law!" (Isn't it funny how people who don't have a leg to stand on think the law is always on their side?) "I'll get a conjunction against you!" A... CONJUNCTION? I couldn't help it, there was never any doubt the laughter was going to burst out, so I didn't even try to hold it in. And it did burst out, like a fucking volcano! If I'd have been taking a sip of beer, dumbfuck would've had a faceful of foam!

This guy was PISSED! He turned as red as those fucking apples he's complaining about, and that association made me double over! The thought of that tree, the "conjunction," and the beet-red face on this dumbfuck was more than I could take! I closed the door on him, still laughing, and heard the small gate my parents use to keep the dog on the porch skid across the driveway as Mr Grumpy took his leave. I laughed for next 20 minutes, my mom joining in, my dad shaking his head the whole time and wondering if things would get worse.

Look, ladies and gentlemen, if I already know you're one of the illiterates I pontificate about in the Sanitorium, and you make yourself an ACTUAL illiterate by showing the type of ignorance dumbfuck demonstrated to me, expect to be laughed at. I may not be the smartest guy in the world, but I paid attention during the Saturday morning cartoons of my youth, and Schoolhouse Rock in particular, and I know what a conjunction is...

It's that little train with the words on it... right?