When worlds collide.

I was driving along a major two-lane highway when I heard 'bang!-thump-thump-thump' come from the right passenger side. Great; a blow-out. I put on my hazards and began to ease over onto the shoulder.

I woke up with my forehead resting on the steering wheel. I gasped, adrenaline surging through me at the thought that I'd fallen asleep at the wheel. Ohmygod - where am I, did I hit anyone, is anyone hurt - and why can't I see anything out of my windshield?

I looked around me, looked out the side windows. Scrub grass, wild foliage, an occasional glimpse of dirt in clods the size and consistency of gravel. Okay; I ran off the road. Right, I was pulling over, and I must have run off the road. At least it doesn't feel like I'm hurt badly... Got the seat belt off and shoved my door open against all the wild growth, then began to skid downhill. Huh?

Once I got about thirty feet away, I was able to turn and see that the car had not only run off the road, but ended facing the highway - perpendicular to the lanes rather than parallel - and was on the bank of a hill at roughly a 35-40 degree angle. No wonder I'd skid. And holy shit... Oh crap what did I hit?!? The entire front end was crumpled like a piece of paper, the hood scrunched towards the cabin so that it was now only a quarter the length it should have been. The sides and back end weren't in great shape either, but nothing like the front. Whatever I'd hit, I figured I'd hit it head on and the rest of the damage came when I went off-road.

I was lucky to be alive, and even luckier to be able to self-extract from a wreck like this. I began to frantically look around for other vehicles, other wreckage, desperately hoping that anyone else involved had been covered by the same cosmic insurance policy I'd benefited from.

There were two other vehicles - a new, shiny black and silver pick-up which seemed to have been traveling the same direction I had been and who'd pulled over well before the accident, and an old green sports car that seemed modeled after the Delorian, only lower rent and hungry for rice instead of plutonium. They'd been traveling the opposite direction and were also on the shoulder, untouched.

"Hey! Hey!!" I began to wave my arms at the drivers of these vehicles. "Is anyone else hurt?"

The woman in the pick-up stayed in the cab, her ear glued to the phone. I wouldn't begrudge her that; maybe she was on the phone with 911, calling the State Patrol over to the scene. The man in the green car began to ease towards me from his end of the road. I could see that he'd moved the debris from the roadway and collected it into piles, probably at the risk of being run over. Rubbernecking out here meant flying past at about 70 miles per hour. Considerate.

"He's long gone," pseudo-Delorian began to explain once he reached my side of the tarmac. "I don't know how. Half of this-" he gestured to the automotive baubles, "-is his."

"I... Hit and run?" I blinked as my head whirled in confusion. Christ, what was it? A rig?

"Nope. Some red car, like a Firebird or Camaro or something. We didn't get a plate, but he can't be hard to miss."

"A red... car?" That just wasn't sinking in. "A car did this?"

"Yeah." Delorian Man approached the remains of my vehicle, reached a hand under the crushed passenger side fender, and peeled a large portion of the fiberglass body off the chassis as easily as if it had been a candy wrapper, or an orange peel. "See?" He held the skin of my car out to me. "Bright red, wadda they call it? Candy apple red?"

My eyes went unfocused and it became hard to breathe all of a sudden. I began to sink to the gravel underneath me as I passed out...

I woke up with a jerk, sitting upright so suddenly that my feet swinging over the edge of the couch almost kicked the dog in the head. I was breathing heavily and covered in a sheen of sweat. I looked around - home. I was at home.

Wow, what a fucked up dream. I mean, who could peel part of a car off like that? Rip it off and splinter the fiberglass if it had barely been hanging on, but peel it? C'mon... Feeling that instinctive need to reassure oneself that nightmares have no basis, I made my way to the windows facing the driveway and looked out at my car.

Which was nowhere in sight.

My stomach sank like a stone. Oh shit, where was my car?? Had I really been in an accident? Oh no, that meant my car was totaled out, I had no vehicle, how would I get to work-

I woke up on the couch. This time I stayed still, opting to stare at the ceiling as I forced my thoughts to stop circling around my brain. Was I awake? Asleep? At home? Hallucinating on an ER table somewhere?

I listened to the sounds around me to help me decide. A t.v. was on somewhere. So was country music. One roommate was asking the other to take the dogs outside to potty. Their son was asking if dinner were ready yet. Judging from the smell, they were cooking chili.

Okay. All reassuring signs that I was, in fact, at home. I slowly got up, noting distantly the odd sensation that I was moving before my body was, and that the dense physical shell was coming along reluctantly. I went to look out the windows.

My car was there, in its appointed place, with no evidence of mishap.

I went outside and lit a cigarette, pondering the theory about the world splitting off into separate reality tunnels each time a choice is made. Had I just visited one of these alternates, one in which there had been a catastrophic accident which had destroyed my car?

Nah. After all, who the hell can peel fiberglass like it's Velcro?

Hucksters on parade.

I know this "Balloon Boy" crap has been everywhere lately and, if you're anything like me, you're sick of hearing about it by now. So I'll keep this short by saying only two things.

The first is that I learned about it while I was at work on the 15th during our bi-monthly paycheck meeting. We were about to leave when a nearly hysterical Nurse Aide barged in and sprung a prayer meeting on us. In a secular, corporate-owned nursing facility. With the Administrator present, who was content to not only say nothing about the inappropriateness of this, but to join in herself. Seriously. A fundamentalist, 'washed in the blood of the lamb' prayer meeting.

My first thought was, "Let's pra- are you fucking kidding me??"

My second thought, once the subject of the prayer sunk in, was, "Bullshit."

A separate, more detailed post on why I quit my job is forthcoming.

The second thing I will say about this circus is that I find the rapid spread of the internet memes surrounding it immensely entertaining. The best one I've seen yet (click pic to see full size)*:


Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net

*Even more entertaining when you remember that scene in 'Raiders of the Lost Ark' when Indie throws the Nazis overboard on the dirigible, and you replace the Nazis with Balloon Boy.

Don't disregard bums.

They sometimes offer the most profound advice you will ever hear.

Technobsession.

Another "what should I do?" letter sent in to Cary Tennis over at Salon, this time about a boyfriend obsessed with gadgets:

    "I have been dating a man for more than three years. He just turned 40 and I am 30."

Without reading further, I can already tell your relationship is fucked. Any age gap more than four or five years is asking for trouble; and the younger you are, and the wider the gap is, the more trouble you'll experience. Unless you're in a nursing home and all your prospects are in the 70-100 year range. Then I don't think it matters so much anymore.

    "The relationship has been up and down for our entire time together, yet we always seem to find our way back to one another after our frequent disagreements."

Translation: I have daddy issues, an inferiority complex, and a fear of being alone, all of which manifest as the need to be validated as a human being via my relationship status. I am addicted to the drama in our relationship because negative attention is better than no attention at all. Additionally, I am too (willfully?) naive to understand that my father figure/boyfriend gets off on mindfucking me.

    "One of my primary issues with him is that he is constantly checking his iPhone and laptop."

This is one of your primary issues with him? 'Primary', from the root 'prime', meaning 'first', suggests that something else about him ties as tops on your list of Things That Piss Me Off. You would do well to inventory that list instead of trying to whitewash this guy by attempting to soften your language.

    "I work full-time and attend law school in the evenings, so our time is limited to late evenings and weekends."

You don't mention how many hours a week he puts in at his job, so I'm gonna go out on a limb here and guess that this might be the tie for 'Primary'. Because let's see... a full-time job is generally 35-40 hours per week, and it sounds like your law school is part-time. Figure six hours a week classroom plus another six to ten hours in homework, projects, etc, and you've got a second job to the tune of 12-16 hours per week. A grand total of 47-56 hours put in by you - not including your commutes, errand running, and any (all?) housework you're responsible for once you get home. Then you need time to unwind and decompress... So yeah, your time with him is at a premium and if he works fewer hours than you do, he should get his online time while you're away. One point in your corner, at least.

    "He is a software engineer by trade, so I do understand that he feels an attachment to technology that I don't necessarily share. But I am fed up with feeling like a secondhand citizen to gadgets!"

Damn it, quit mincing words! It's embarrassing. Look, just because someone's a technophile doesn't mean they get a free pass to be a socially moronic troglodyte. There's nothing wrong with having what Eddie Izzard calls 'techno-joy', but healthy technophiles have affinities, not attachments. That means they can not only put the gadgets down and completely unplug for a while, they might even enjoy doing so. Anyone who is to the point of 'attachment' and making you feel 'like a secondhand citizen to gadgets' has more problems than can be fixed through an advice column - and frankly, so do the people who put up with such shit.

    "I can't count the number of times we go out for dinner and at the slightest pause in conversation he whips out his iPhone and begins surfing the Web, etc. When I ask him to put it away and focus on the human being sitting across from him, he tells me, "This is the wave of the future ... in 15 years we'll have chips in our eyes and be constantly linked to the Internet" or some other lame scenario. When we are relaxing in the evening, perhaps watching a show, he is compelled to be surfing the Web at the same time."

This isn't affinity, or even attachment - this is addiction. Seriously, chica, listen to yourself! Replace the word 'iPhone' with 'alcohol' or 'heroin' or 'crystal meth' and you'd be a lot less inclined to dupe yourself, wouldn't you? Your boyfriend has an addiction, and like any other addiction, the addict will not change unless they want to change and have the tools to maintain the change over time. Seeing as your boy is around computers all day as a career... well, good luck with that.

(And besides, if he actually believes these 'lame scenarios' he uses to justify his joneses, then it's not just the scenarios which are lame. Protip: Neither I, nor anyone I know, would hire a lawyer whose significant other can be stereotyped as the creepy/pathetic Cheetoes-eating guy who wishes he lived on The Enterprise instead of in his mother's basement and cringes from soap, water, and 'The Daystar'.)

    "Am I wrong to think that this is extremely rude behavior?"

No.

Well, on second thought, yes. You're wrong to think his behavior is rude because 'rude' is not the proper category for this crap. The kid at McDonald's who is too busy texting the fry cook to take my order is rude. Anyone who talks on their cell while using the toilet is rude (not to mention incredibly disgusting). What you're putting up with is a maladaptive social disorder displayed by someone with stunted development and a completely selfish lack of respect for anyone other than himself. And in the context of what is purported to be a serious romantic relationship, it is also neglect - which is a form of abuse.

    "I'm beginning to daydream about snapping his laptop in two across my knee or hurling his iPhone out of an open car window while driving obnoxiously fast ... I periodically tease him by saying, "If an iPhone had breasts, you wouldn't need a girlfriend."

Doing violence to his toys would be a Pyrrhic victory at best - in fact, it would serve as an excuse to upgrade, and I'm sure that would only anger you further. The solution isn't getting rid of his toys, but getting rid of him. As it is, he doesn't need a girlfriend except, perhaps, as a status symbol (in the land of perpetual virginity, the man who gets laid is king). Oh, and the breasts? I'm pretty sure there's an app for that.

    "Communication has always been a problem area of ours, and this technology dependence seems to make our ability to communicate even worse. He doesn't remember little things I share with him because he's not really focused or listening."

If you insist on trying to make this relationship work, may I suggest e-mail, IM services, Twitter, Facebook, and MySpace?  It'll be a great litmus test - if you hit him up electronically and he still fails to give a shit about anything you're saying, then you know he simply doesn't give a shit and the technology has nothing to do with it.

    "I've raised my concerns with him. He becomes defensive immediately. I think he is intentionally not getting it because he doesn't want to change behavior. Or maybe he's addicted to the Web. What are your thoughts, Cary? FYI: He reads your column religiously ... I think he'd listen to you."

Grrr... What did I say earlier about whitewashing and mincing words??

Yes, he is most likely addicted to the Web. The rub is 'Why?'. Why would he be addicted to the Internet? For the same reasons others become addicted to alcohol and other mind-altering chemicals:

Because the addict can't deal with reality and they want to escape from it.

And just as there are no answers in the bottom of a bottle or pipe, there are no true answers on the Internet, either - only (mis)guidance doled out by advice columnists who can be silenced with a quick click of a mouse. Even if Ms. Tennis' advice to you were worth a tinker's dam (and it's not - how far would doing nothing more than spending five minutes putting down the crack pipe heal a relationship? Exactly.), it would only stand a chance if you both were willing to put in the effort to address grievances like adults, mutually prioritize your paradigms, and follow through with compromises.

Go with your gut. If you know instinctually that he does not want to and will not change, then for the love of all that's holy do yourself a favor and get out. Don't rationalize it with crap like, 'But I'll be throwing away three years of my life!' because:

A) it's already past and you can't get it back;

B) you spent that time learning to be a doormat, which means you can deconstruct it and learn how to never let it happen to you again;

C) there's no shame in admitting defeat when winning is not a possibility;

D) if you don't cut your losses now you may not have the strength later to escape the event horizon of his self-destruction.

Have some dignity. For the sake of your mental and emotional health, and your professional image, DTMFA.

Privilege is a bitch.

Salon's advice columnist Cary Tennis got a letter from a woman whose neighbor put a stick in her yard. The author of the letter whines in part:

"It is really upsetting to think I'm supposed to take the high road, put the stick in the trash can and let this arrogant woman continue to Mean Girl anyone she wants. I feel like I've always taken the high road and let people walk all over me and it's clear this woman is used to bullying people. I feel so wrong letting that stick stay in my yard and telling the woman by my inaction that she can vandalize other people's yards."

If I were an advice columnist, my reply might run along these lines:

Dear Unwanted Stick Lady,

While it sounds like an act of passive-aggression on your neighbor's part to walk down and put the stick in your yard rather than knock on the door and tell your husband to stay off their lawn because they'll mow it when they're good and ready, I have to say...

It's a stick. Not a pipe bomb, not a dog turd, not even a publicly visible sign chiding you to mind your own business (which you probably should).

It's a stick, small enough by your own admission to fit into a trash can.

If, after asking nicely while flashing an extra sawbuck, none of your domestics will dispose of said stick in an effective and appropriate manner, I would like to invite you to bring your problems over here.