CEREAL AFTER SEX

Have You Heard of a Library?

Has the definition of LIBRARY changed, and nobody told me?

I’ve always considered the public library to be a place of quiet solitude where people go to browse books, read, write, do research, study, and surf the internet — among other things — in a distraction-free atmosphere. Apparently, things have changed.

Once again, I found myself in the local public library to get some writing done. I use the library at times because I don’t have a home office and since we live in the country, our internet is a bit challenging at times. But more importantly, since I am presently a house husband trying to be a writer, it’s nice to get out occasionally and be in a different environment.

This particular trip started out peaceful enough. But then, a gaggle of schoolchildren (probably late elementary, early junior high years) descended on the place and chaos ensued. As the clamor of young voices rose and bodies stampeded to and fro throughout the building, I began to wonder if it was something more akin to an amusement park or a Chuck E. Cheese and not a library as the sign outside read.

I understand children can be noisy and overly energized at times, but when you are in a public library, shouldn’t there be some semblance of decorum and restraint, regardless of age or hormone level?

When I write on my laptop at the library, I use my earbuds and listen to meditative music for writing on Youtube. Yes, that’s a thing. It’s great. But it’s not enough armor to deflect the yelling and carrying on of rambunctious school kids working on whatever project they were working on. It was probably something useless in relation to their future place in the world. How about having them do a project on how to act in the library? There’s an idea for you. Let’s teach our kids something useful.

Maybe I’m just being a stick in the mud again, as evidenced by this previous post: Have you heard of shutting your face?

But is it really unreasonable of me to expect the library to be a quiet place and not a roaring circus with flying methed-up monkeys bouncing off the walls? I think not.

The sad thing is, there was a teacher involved in leading this pack of wild animals. She apparently didn’t set any rules beforehand and did nothing to temper the noise and running around once it took off. Nothing at all.

And neither did any members of the library staff. How is this allowed? It’s a LIBRARY!

I do not get it.

Am I wasting energy on this? Does it make any difference if I bitch about it?

Probably not. Or maybe it’s just good therapy for me. Congratulations dear readers, you’ve been promoted to psychologist.

Now, even though the schoolchildren weren’t technically heckling me, it kind of felt like it. They were disturbing my work. Maybe I should go over to the school while those kids are trying to take a really important math test and start heckling them. That’ll show ‘em. You know, like that Seinfeld episode where Jerry goes to the office of one of his hecklers and boos and hisses her while she’s trying to work. … No? Nothing? It was a TV show. Back in my days. Look it up on the device of your choice.

My wife says I should go to a coffee shop instead. We have a nice one downtown that is rarely busy, and they have free WiFi… And coffee. And pastries. And a clean restroom. I think I’ll try that out and see how it goes.

I suppose I can wrap this up with simply saying that at times I feel as if I am fighting a losing battle against inconsideration as a whole. I often wonder if it’s just me. Maybe my nervous system lacks a protective shield. Maybe I’m not genetically built to live on this planet. Maybe the star people dropped me off at the wrong stop and I’m just wandering around with the wrong kind of soul.
Have You Heard of Not Being an A-Hole?

Internet Archive Book Image / Saint Nicholas serial, 1873

Is it just me, or does the world seem to be producing more assholes exponentially?

Has my personal perception shifted, and I’ve just become more in-tune to the hateful and obnoxious things humans do because as a society we tend to focus on that? Or does the collective conscience of the world continually adopt an even greater and real negative attitude toward kindness and consideration? I struggle to wonder why.

As someone who worked in the news media business for several years, I encountered many “bad news” zealots raising inky torches and eager to live by the creed: “If it bleeds, it leads.” Roughly translated as: When bad things happen, it’s good for business. I was never comfortable with that, but I had to make a living.

Now, in all fairness, I must confess that I have my moments of not being the nicest person in the world. I have my moments of anger, frustration, and unkind words. Just ask my wife. I know I have worn her down, but she has the patience of a saint and a forgiving heart and if it were anyone else, I’d probably be single for the rest of my life. She is the essence of true love and for that I truly love her.

But when the dust settles, and I’ve come to terms with what I’ve done or how I acted toward someone — I feel bad about it. I feel guilty. I feel remorse. I feel the need to apologize and make amends. I feel the need to be kind again.

But I get the feeling that’s not true for a lot of people — and I think that is what perplexes me the most. The fact that some folks are perfectly content with being A-Holes and actively seek to be that way. It’s their chosen lifestyle. They revel in it. And like I said, that’s the part I just don’t get.

How do these people sit down and enjoy dinner at a restaurant with any sense of contentment? How do these people sleep at night? How do they find any comfort or peace in how they live their lives? Are they just utterly blind to the errors of their ways? How do their brains process and maintain the acceptance of actively wanting to be an A-Hole? When did being an A-Hole become a desirable trait?

I’m shaking my head as I often do.

I won’t go into the origin story of how or why people evolved into A-Holes — I’ll leave that task to greater minds than mine. The point of this article is the fact that A-Holes exist. They are real. They are plentiful. And they haunt our world.

Now, there are varying levels of A-Hole. They run the gamut from the person who lets a door slam in your face on your way into a building or rides your ass in traffic to the unfathomable A-Hole who decides they will walk into a grocery store and let loose gunfire on innocent and unsuspecting people because of the color of their skin — like it recently happened in Buffalo, NY. Like the devil’s godfather himself, a hate-riddled A-Hole to the highest degree.

Although innocent until proven guilty in a court of law, I hope in the end this A-Hole gets what he so rightfully deserves.

When I go out into the world these days, I must unfortunately accept the fact that I will be swimming in a giant sea of A-Holes. I can easily pick them out. I must have A-Hole radar. There’s a look to an A-Hole. There’s that determination in the eyes to cause unrest. There’s that smirk of entitlement. There’s that obnoxious swagger up to the convenience store counter, the throwdown of snacks, and the blaming of the innocent clerk for everything that’s wrong in the world. To live by the A-Hole code is to live as an obnoxious jerk set on dismantling any inkling of human kindness, love, and joy.

But in fairness once again, not everyone I think is an A-Hole may actually be an A-Hole. I’m sure of it. I get that people have bad days. I get that people are frustrated (probably with A-Holes). And I get that we never truly know the struggles of others. But even so, there are those out there that seem to delight in making life uncomfortable for the rest of us. And I don’t like that.

Am I an A-Hole for writing this?

Type your email…
Have you heard of shutting your face?

I went to the local public library as an experiment in trying to get some peace and quiet so I could get some writing done. It failed miserably.

Instead, what I found was a den of inconsideration for the needs of others. I guess that’s no surprise these days. As the running around and wails of children rose higher and higher, I quickly began to question if this was a library or a fucking daycare.

Maybe I’m just a bitter post-middle-aged man who doesn’t care for the free-spirited and clamorous cries of high-octane toddlers in a quiet space intended for reading, writing, and study.

Do I have a stick up my ass? Is it seriously too much to expect a library to be void of noisy and obnoxious distractions?

My god! If your kids want to run around and scream, take them to the park – or a hockey game! Or at least temper their outbursts with some calming discipline or a Flintstones’ chewable valium.

But it’s not just the amped up children causing distractions – full-blown adults are to blame, too. I’m talking about the ones who think the library is the perfect place to carry on a cell phone conversation loud enough for everyone to be a part of. Really? I don’t need to hear about your cousin’s latest bout with explosive diarrhea.

Then there’s the folks who find it perfectly reasonable to yell to each across the entire room.

“Did you find that book yet!”

“No!”

“Then quit wasting time and come up over here and asks the person at the desk!”

SHHHHHHHHH!

It got to the point I wanted to scream myself. But instead, I shut down my work, packed up my laptop and walked out. I was left defeated and uninspired and unable to accomplish anything I set out to do. Frustration. It seems to haunt me everywhere I go.

Part of the problem is, I’m easily distracted. It’s difficult for me to focus sometimes and so I’m much better off in a quiet environment. I’m nothing like my wife. She could read a book at a death metal concert and comprehend it all with the clarity of an unmuddied lake.

But this isn’t the only incident of unwanted clamor when the situation dictates some level of quiet and respect that I have recently experienced. Just the other day, my wife, myself, and my father-in-law attended my stepson’s senior awards ceremony at his high school.

We were all disappointed to see a lack of attention and respect when speakers were at the podium presenting awards. Granted, some of the lists of award winners were long and tedious and maybe some parts of the program could have been better executed, but that still doesn’t excuse some of the behavior we sadly witnessed.

Many people, students mostly, were talking among themselves as if they were in the lunchroom swapping unwanted sandwiches and stories of weekend sexual conquests. There were several points in the program where we couldn’t even hear the presenter speaking – and they were using a microphone. Many of the students lacked any sort of interest in the accomplishments of their peers and made it quite apparent by meditative and deadpan stares into cell phone screens.

The sad part is, there was only one teacher/administrator who even vaguely addressed the problem – and even then, used only a brief, disgruntled glance toward the crowd. Someone should have stepped up to the microphone and politely demanded attention to the matters at hand. No one really did, and when it came time for my stepson’s awards presentation, we struggled to hear what was even being said.

I felt bad for my wife. This was a big deal for her. It was a proud moment for her that she wanted to treasure. But it was left somewhat tainted by the inconsideration of others. Even so, she was glad to be there and requested a transcript of what was said during her son’s presentation. The written word will always have value.

And I have to wonder if it is all a generational thing – this lack of respect and attention and any consequences for it. My father-in-law let it be known that such behavior back in his days would have never been tolerated – it would have been stopped – abruptly, and with vigor.

What can I say? Maybe I am just becoming a grumpy old man and my tolerance level just isn’t what it used to be. I’m not that old, though. I’m younger than Johnny Depp.

Now you kids get off my lawn!
Have you heard of 15 items or less?

I was wide awake and dreaming in the express lane at the food store.

“That’s 15 items or less mam, can’t you read the sign? It’s all lit up there in green and white in the grocery line.”

She had more like 15 times 15 items in her cart and damn coupons on top of that. I could tell the wild-haired hippie clerkie was getting all screwed up in his mojo by her lack of consideration for the rules and etiquette of grocery shopping.

I could tell the guy ahead of me, the guy with the black plastic basket with just a few things in it, wanted to punch her in the face. I could tell he was a bit peeved with all his heavy sighing and mumblings under his breath which soon became audible to the world over the loudspeaker:

“You dumb bitch!”

So, as I said, I was wide awake and dreaming in the express lane at the food store. My life clock was on hold. I looked around and all I saw was candy bars and flustered clerkies running here and there because they looked all short-handed and stuff and I guess that was because of the wildfire and everyone on fire and dying.

So, the world stopped inside of me whilst it spun like a swarm of horny hornets all around me. I thought about the universe while I looked at chocolate bars. We know the universe is there – but where exactly is THERE. Where IS the universe? Chocolate bars with almonds. Coupon-clipping clods taking up time and space. Why am I so worn out and disheveled?

The beep, beep, beep of the checkout lanes buzzed around in my head. I was there, but I was not there. I was thinking outside of the box, I always think outside of the box, way outside of the box, because I do not like the box. The box is full of narrow-minded doinks easily swayed by false flags and idiot box propaganda. 642 channels and there is nothing on.

I waited and waited, grasping my shopping cart like a baby carriage, gently rocking the carton of organic milk and bag of donuts into a restful sleep.

I noticed how her inflated flesh was packed tightly into her polyester, frantic pants. She seemed annoyed that the clerkie wasn’t doing his job properly when he slammed her hunk of watermelon down on the counter.

“Please be careful with my watermelon! I want to speak to your supervisor!”

Are you fucking kidding me?

If it wasn’t against the law, I would have pulled up a couch and coffee table and sparked one up right then and there. But then everything is against the law, isn’t it? Slamming someone’s watermelon is a violation of someone’s rights, right? Everything is a violation except for the ones who create the code of violations and place them in our heads and warn us that they are violations.

It’s 2:06 a.m. and I cannot sleep. It’s too hot to sleep. I have words tumbling around in my head that make no sense and I need to just tap them out for right now.

529 words, no make that 531 words, no … 538 words … of blah.

I am looking at the spine of a book on one of my bookshelves: The Day After Roswell.

Turn to page 137 and the seventh sentence will be your future:

“He told the New York Times in 1955 that the nations of the world will have to unite, for the next war will be an interplanetary war.”

Just what I need, interplanetary war.
At the Speed of Mary Jane’s Insomnia

I was once told by an electric psychic that I would die in a car crash in Montana on a sweet summer day in June in the year 2013. It didn’t happen. But the light bulbs we had for dinner last night were delicious. They illuminated my guts, and she could then see what I was feeling for real as we sat across from each other at the round table with the big candle in the middle. There was a lot of crunching going on and they say that eating glass isn’t good for you, that it can cut your guts to ribbons and then you will float away to the great ZOO in the sky and hang out with the gibbons, swinging from pearly gate to pearly gate with fury motivation and momentum.

“Pass the beans. Pass the barbecue sauce. Pass the don’t you have any manners?”

The next night our neighbor from across the hall had crock-potted some brisket but apparently, he didn’t cook it right and it came out all stringy and overly wet and he pounded on our door and said he had way more than he could eat himself and so he gave us some.

“I have potatoes too. Take some. Eat them. Enjoy them.”

We had only been married for 41 days and already she was getting on my nerves. She was making me climb the walls of our small pad across from the milkshake factory in a big city far, far away from wherever you are right now, so don’t try to go there, you won’t find it. We do not live on any map or globe. I read books when she bores the hell out of me. She has a strange fascination with cheese. Every time we go to the grocery store down and around, she quickly makes for the Department of Deli to peruse the plethora of cheeses they have there. So much cheese that I can’t believe, and they all have weird names and weird shapes and there are so many I do not remember, nor have I cataloged them. She has to look them over closely; she tries to smell them through the wrapping, she shakes them like an unopened Christmas present as if some pile of diamonds was just going to come falling out and then she wouldn’t need me anymore.

The crock-potter knocked on the door again to see if we would be interested in his lemon chicken and sausage feast. The stereo was blaring, and the chick was belly dancing, and I could not hear him knocking at first until he nearly bashed in the door.

“I crock-potted some lemon chicken and sausage, and, you know me, I made too much again.”

“Come in, you know my wife the belly dancer, right?”

“Absolutely. That’s one fine belly you got there.”

She stopped dancing, turned, and jumped out the window.

“Holy belly flop!” That’s what the crock-potter said.

“Don’t worry about her; she does that all the time.”

He went to the window and sure enough saw her rolling across the small patch of lawn and then she went running around in circles and down the street.

“Where is she going?”

“I don’t know, she’s insane and we barely communicate.”

“But you’re married. Surely you have some kind of convos?”

“Nope.”

“Then why did you marry her?”

“I don’t know. She told me about a mysterious island and that intrigued me. She said she would take me there, but now I’m thinking it was all a bunch of bullshit.”

“Your apartment is small.”

“Care for a cigar?”

“Got any Pink Floyd?”

I rummaged through the record collection throwing albums here and there trying to find a Pink Floyd record.

“Nope, sorry. I must have eaten it.”

“Well, I’m going to go home then and prepare my menu for tomorrow.”

“Any ideas?”

“Tuna casserole.”

*****

I sat on the couch reading a book about antique rocking horses when she came flying in the door all sweaty and out of breath.

I looked up at her.

“What the hell is going on?”

“The world is on fire!”

“What are you talking about?”

She pointed to the window.

“Look!”

I closed my book and went to the window. It seemed absurd and impossible, but she was right. The world WAS on fire. Everywhere I looked there was burning going on. Everywhere I looked there was black smoke rising from the Earth and spiraling up toward God’s red velvet footstool. It was all orange and maniacal. It was the bombs, the bombs, the bombs, they had come raining down like a lava thunderstorm of human parking lots of lost and twisted souls.

“I’m too tired for this shit,” and I closed the curtains, went into the bedroom and closed the door.

She came knocking.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m tired. I need to rest up. Tomorrow will most likely be a pretty rough day.”

“You dumb bastard! This is hardly the time to be sleeping.”

“What do you propose I do then, eh? As if anything would even matter my dear.”

“I want a divorce!”

“Good! So do I. Now leave me be so I can get some rest.”

I heard her stomp away and then the front door slammed. It was beginning to get very hot in the room and I turned on the fan. The breeze felt like winter in Bermuda and I was hungry for pineapple. I telephoned the crock-potter.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s your neighbor.”

“Oh, hi!”

“Listen, I know the world is burning to bits and pieces, but I was wondering if you had a good recipe for glazed ham, you know, the kind where you put the round slices of pineapple on top.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“I could crock-pot a ham and throw some pineapple chunks in there. Would that be OK?”

I thought about it. Damn, the apartment was getting really hot.

“Yeah, that sounds pretty good.”

“I’m excited.”

“So am I. Just don’t screw it up like you did the brisket.”

The bedroom roof caved in.