I’m not like everybody else

I guess I should start at the beginning.

I was born January 4, 1966 in Columbus, Ohio. I cannot remember a time when I could not read. It wasn’t something I consciously tried to learn to do. The ability was just there.

I did not see anything unusual about that. I was the youngest of five children, with a 10-year gap between number four and me. I was never around anyone my own age until I went to school, so I had no reference point for my abilities. What do you mean, most 3-year-olds can’t read? Like, it’s hard?

I think I started to sense that there was something unusual about me by the way my family treated me. My older brothers would bring their friends over to the house and have me read books to them. These books would be far beyond my reading level (if there is a reading level at age three)—more on the order of my sister’s college textbooks than Dr. Seuss. I didn’t necessarily understand what all the words meant, but I could read them.

When I started going to school, I was tested and found to be reading at a fifth grade level. The original plan was to put me in kindergarten in the morning and first grade in the afternoon. This did not work. I came out of kindergarten with the idea that school was a place for play, and, so, I had no interest in listening to anything I heard in first grade. After a few weeks, I was given an IQ test for placement in a learning disability class, and…surprise! The new plan: let me finish the year in kindergarten and put me in second grade the next year.

Being skipped a grade in school defined me for many years afterward. Even in high school, I was known as “the kid who skipped a grade” (even though I went to school with at least two others who had also skipped grades). I suppose it was necessary, but there was also a down side to it. As an adult, one year more or less doesn’t make much difference, but it means everything when you’re young. 

I remember it being especially hard to adjust to middle school. Elementary school was a breeze—the teachers were happy if I showed up. Middle school was a completely different game. What is this “homework” of which you speak? Looking back, I understand why middle school was so hard for me. When I started sixth grade, I was only 10. Most of the eighth graders in the school were 13. There’s a big gulf between the two. 13-year-old boys coat themselves in Axe Body Spray and try to impress girls. 10-year-old boys bathe once a week and can’t say “Uranus” without laughing.

High school was better in some respects, but still had its challenges. Imagine how it feels when all your friends are learning to drive and you can’t. And dating? Aside from the prom, forget about it. 

My main consolation was living in my own world. Give me a pen and paper and I could build you a city or start my own baseball team. Give me some records and I could be a DJ. Give me a Racing Form and I had my own racetrack. 

At the same time, I was not completely oblivious to my surroundings. I actually yearned to be popular. I entered high school with a bit of a swagger. Hey, I’m smart, so, of course, I’m going to be popular…right?

I thought I had arrived when I somehow managed to be elected president of the freshman class. All that accomplished was painting a big target on my back. Kids would make ridiculous demands (Throw the class a party! Take the whole class to Kings Island!) that I couldn’t possibly meet, because the position had no real power. (You don’t think high schools really want the students to run anything, do you?) But the kids still blamed me when they didn’t get what they wanted, so it didn’t take long for me to go from hero to zero. I’ve often wondered if my election might have actually been an elaborate prank my classmates played on me. Or maybe I’ve seen Carrie too many times.

After incidents like that, and the inevitable bullying that you’re bound to read about if I can stand to write about it, I hoped that I would have my revenge in college.

If only.

But that’s a rant for another time.

You go back, Jack, do it again

Well, here I am again. I have returned to this blog many times, only to abandon it again despite my desire to keep it going. Time is certainly a factor. I work a full time job, sometimes six days a week, which leaves me little time to blog. Then there is the question of whether anybody even pays attention to blogs in the age of podcasting. My past attempts at blogging didn’t get much of a response.

The real issue, though, is whether I have anything important to say. The best writing, after all, is sparked by some kind of passion. You have to have something to say, and really feel like saying it.

I have also become aware of the limits of life. I am now 59 and becoming more aware that I am not going to live forever. I will be retiring soon (provided that certain people stop twiddling with the stock market), and I really want to leave something on this earth that speaks to who I really am. 

I feel as if I have developed a passion worth writing about—something that will be of value to the public.

Thirteen years ago, I was diagnosed with autism*. That diagnosis changed the way I look at my life. Suddenly, my life story made sense. As I looked back on my life and many of the problems I’ve had, I can’t believe it took until I was 46 to figure it out.

At the same time, that awareness has led me to be concerned about the misconceptions people have about autism and the lack of resources for autistic people. I hope that this blog can draw attention to the challenges autistic people face, and help some people.

It’s not all about autism, though. There’s also horse racing, pop music, progressive politics, TV, pop culture, and the words to every Monty Python routine. Be prepared for strong language, adult situations, and unpopular opinions.

So get on board and buckle up. Probably.

*Milder forms of autism such as mine are often referred to as Asperger’s syndrome. I prefer not to use this term because Hans Asperger, for whom it is named, was a Nazi doctor who played a role in the deaths of autistic children.

Another Song About Love

Girl meets boy, and boy meets girl

They go to senior prom and then go out into the world

They’re Archie and Veronica, they’re Jack and Diane

They’ve started into thinking that it’s all some kind of plan

They may see a gold anniversary
Or they may find that they’ve had enough
But it’s just another song about love

She’s a single mom raising two girls all alone

He’s looking online for a love to call his own

They like the same music, they have the same fears

They’ve lost at love before and can’t remember all the tears

Soon he’s headed east on the freeway

In a car jammed with all of his stuff

But it’s just another song about love

It’s “Stardust” and “Something” and “Unchained Melody”

It’s “At Last” and “Make You Feel My Love” and “All of Me”

They’re all great love songs, I’m sure you know that’s true

But the best love songs are written by me and you

It’s another first date, another new start

Another night together or another broken heart

But we all play the fool, we all know the game

It doesn’t even matter if the sexes are the same

You may be together forever

Or your lives might prove to be rough

But it’s just another song about love

Copyright 2022 Robert A. Fritz

Our little group has always been and always will until the end

Here I am, starting this blog again. I’ve been wanting to blog again for a while, but never had the time. I know blogs are sort of old hat now, but I feel as if I still have something to say, so here I am.

Mensa has gotten quite a bad rap lately, particularly through a negative podcast by Jamie Loftus called My Year In Mensa, in which Mensans are portrayed as right-wing extremists, and even dangerous individuals who threaten fellow members. This week, an article appeared on the New York Magazine website from someone who said some positive things, but still emphasized fringe ideas held by a few, as if they were in the majority. 

Critics of Mensa in the media always seem to use the same strategy. They show interest in the organization, feigning objectivity as they attend Mensa events, or even take a Mensa test. Then they concentrate on the worst people they meet in Mensa, emphasize the things they say and do, and conclude that Mensa isn’t worth joining. The critics are also fond of pointing out that the founders of the organization believed in eugenics, even though the founders are long gone and have nothing to do with modern-day Mensa, which holds no political or religious views. If you’re going to hold its founders’ views against Mensa, then, by that logic, you can’t drive a Volkswagen, either. 

Mensa just can’t catch a break. 

Sure, there are assholes in Mensa, but I have also met a lot of great people through the organization who I am glad to call my friends. Mensa has been a big part of the story of my life for over 20 years, and I can say that it has changed my life for the better. 

I joined Mensa in 1993 after submitting my GRE scores (which got me into Mensa, but not into grad school, but that’s a whole other blog entry), but my job took me on the road for months at a time, so I could not become very involved with the organization. This changed in 2000 when I left that job to continue my education. 

Around that time, I got a computer for Christmas, and, of course, soon discovered online dating. My first online date was a disaster. My date spent 20 minutes telling me repeatedly that she “used to be a raver” (I’m still trying to figure out what in the hell she meant by that), shot down every attempt I made at conversation, then threw her business card at me and stormed out of the restaurant. Was this some kind of strange courtship ritual that I didn’t know about? 

 

I now find this incident amusing (if only because of the idea that I was actually interested in someone whose chief life experience involved hanging out in clubs with a pacifier in her mouth), but, at the time, I was worried. Was this what the dating scene was all about? Was this all I had to look forward to? 

No sooner had I considered joining the priesthood (which would be kind of weird considering I’m not Catholic) than I went to my first Mensa Regional Gathering. I met a woman there, and we were in a relationship within weeks. That relationship lasted two years. The week that we broke up, I met my wife, Jamie, online, on a Mensa Yahoo! Group. Aug. 30 will mark the 20th anniversary of our meeting in person at the Pittsburgh Mensa RG. We would be married at a Mensa event three years later. 

I have a lot of great memories from my years in Mensa, and I can’t imagine what my life would have been like had I listened to the naysayers. I would probably be dodging business cards on a regular basis.

The Old Lamplighter (In Delmont, PA)

(To the tune of “The Old Lamplighter” by The Browns)

For a good time you will remember
And great food night or day
The old Lamplighter
In Delmont, PA
From January to December
It’s not so far away
The old Lamplighter
In Delmont, PA

You head northeast on 22
We will be waiting there for you
From Pittsburgh, it’s a thirty-minute drive
We’ve got Italian specialties
Filet mignon is sure to please
A banquet room where parties come alive
An institution of good cheer
Even “Mindhunter” was shot here
You’ll walk in and feel glad that you arrived

‘Cause we’ve got steak, prime rib and seafood
And pies baked fresh each day
The old Lamplighter
In Delmont, PA

See us or breakfast or for lunch
We even have a Sunday brunch
We’ve got a table waiting just for you

So bring your family and friends
We know that you’ll come back again

And we’ll be glad to see you when you do

For a good time you will remember
And great food night or day
The old Lamplighter
In Delmont, PA

Florida Man

To the tune of "Particle Man" by They Might Be Giants

Florida Man, Florida Man

You know him from TV and radio-land

Morning DJs talk across this land
About Florida Man

He doesn’t dance and he doesn’t sing

He just likes to do outrageous things

Caught on camera in a garbage can

He’s at it again, Florida Man

Florida Man, Florida Man

Pleading his case before the judge again

Is he on drugs? Nobody knows

Florida Man

Florida Man, Florida Man

Keeps an alligator close at hand

Ask him why, he says it’s his wife

Florida Man

Saw him one morning at a quarter to four

Walking naked in a liquor store

Strange thing was that it had closed at ten

A crazy man, Florida Man

Florida Man, Florida Man

Somebody stole his bag of meth again

Called 911 to get it back

Florida Man

Last week I heard he was down in the Keys

Pooped on the counter in a Mickey D’s

Shake machine was broken again

He just can’t stand that, Florida Man

Florida Man, Florida Man

Gets pulled over by Policeman

They have a fight, Policeman wins

Poor Florida Man!

There's just a meanness in this world

What a week.
It all began last Saturday with a text message from Jamie that I will never forget.
“Active shooter in squirrel hill near shady and wilkins. Be careful.”
I was several miles from that area at the time, but I relayed the message to my supervisor and went on carrying mail.
By the time I got to my regular mail route, in came more details.
“They have the guy in custody.
8 dead.
Inside tree of life synagogue.”
Since I have become jaded about mass shootings and the inability or unwillingness to do anything about them, I replied, "Here we go again."

****

But this was not like other shootings, because this one was so close. Every mass shooting is a tragedy, but they are usually so far away from your everyday life that they become nothing more than a reason to shake your head when you watch the news. A church in Charleston, a school near Boston, a gay bar in Orlando--all might as well be on another planet if you don't live in that neck of the woods. 
Not so this time. While Tree of Life is not on my mail route (it's even in another zip code, strangely enough), I could easily walk there from it. 
The biggest thing I noticed as I walked my route that afternoon was the lack of activity. Saturdays are usually more quiet than weekdays anyhow, but this was different. Few people were out walking, and several people who I did talk to, obviously aware of the situation, told me to be careful. I'd been keeping an eye out for trouble already due to the letter bomb situation (there are two prominent local politicians on my route, both Democrats), but this day was eerie in its stillness. The main noise I heard--which I will never forget--was the constant whirr of helicopters overhead. (No running to make up time today, Bob.) At one point, I heard the schoolmaster from Pink Floyd: The Wall shouting in my head and couldn't help but laugh. 
Nobody on my route was killed that day, but there were several familiar surnames among the dead. The law of averages tells me that some of my customers were in that building. It still seems hard to believe that this happened so close to me--in Squirrel Hill, literally Mister Rogers' neighborhood. 
But in another way, it's not hard to believe at all.

****

Much has been, and will continue to be, said about the root causes of this, and all the other, mass shootings in this country. If you follow me on Facebook, you know how I feel about those issues. I could sit here and talk about guns, Trump, hate speech, what have you, all day, but it's my only day off of the week and I have laundry to do, bills to pay, and a house to clean. Besides, the shooting ultimately isn't about those things. They are all symptoms, to be sure, but the disease is much bigger. 
When I was young, I was a bit of a "true crime" geek, and I have returned to that fascination sporadically since. I have always been intrigued by what motivates people to commit horrible crimes. But this case is different. 
It actually surprises me a bit that I can't bring myself to care about the shooter's motivation, aside from his anti-Semitism, which has been all over the news. I couldn't care less about what books he read, what drugs he took, or his relationship with his mother. To care about those things is to concede that there are some sort of mitigating circumstances that might somehow justify his actions.
And there are none.