Riding In Cars With Pizza

  Miranda handled the surgery well, considering the fact that she is a five gallon bucket of emotion.  The hardest part was the IV, and after that they didn't have to stick any more needles in her. 
  We sat in her room--her, her mother, and me--and I got re-acquainted with my ex.  Yay?
  Being divorced has made The Storm all thoughtful and sensitive and introspective.  She is now the all-knowing seer and matriarch, kind and gentle and wise.
  Except I'm not buying it.  I know her.  And, as it turns out, I still know how to set her off. 
  We were talking--or they were talking and I was listening--and Miranda would ask questions and Linda would patiently impart wisdom.  It seems that our son Mitchell has ADD, and is both bipolar and psychotic.  Either psychotic doesn't mean what I think it means, or he has been over-diagnosed, and the latter I find more likely.  Miranda had asked about it because she seemed surprised to find that Mitchell has ADD.  Duh.  I can tell.  One thing about being diagnosed with it, not to mention the reading I've done about it, gives me some insight...kind of a "I can spot my own kind" kind of thing.
  Miranda herself is bipolar, and the two kids come by it honestly.  Hell, all four of them do.  Melissa is medicated and Michael ought to be.  The Storm is bat-shit crazy, and HER mother was a psychotic and a pathological liar, and besides being bipolar she probably had a multiple personality disorder.  And no, I'm not exaggerating one bit.
  Miranda also has some anxiety issues, which Mitchell does and so does their mother.  The Storm has anxiety and depression.  She said she is bipolar, to which I would respond, "Really?  Just the two?"  It's just a joke and not really true.  She doesn't even have the two.  She just has the one.  She has a constant depression with very few peaks and more than enough valleys.  Add to that a heaping helping of anger issues and bring to a roiling boil.  Stir occasionally.
  The Storm tried to say that she had ADD, because when she cleans house she is in the middle of several projects and forgets what she is doing and has to make a list to stay on track.  That's when I said, "That's not ADD; you're just old and can't remember shit."
  Silence.  Miranda giggled, then stopped.  Linda held her mouth shut tightly for a good two minutes and didn't say a thing.  Let me tell you, it was fucking awesome.  I don't care; like I said, I can spot my own, usually.  And she's not one of them.  She has a hell of a lot of problems, but ADD isn't one of them.  Miranda doesn't really have it either, although I would want add the caveat of "not yet" because it could always present itself later.  Linda did her best "I'm holding my tongue to keep from saying something bad" that she does in lieu of self-control.
  But she cheapened it so much that I didn't tell her that yes, I have it, and yes, I've been to the doctor about it.  I have it, not you.  I am the one who will drift away or even out-right WALK away in the middle of a conversation.  But maybe it's not ADD.  Maybe everyone is just boring and I'm rude.
  Oh well--whatever.  Nevermind.

  Oh, two other things happened.  Let me either wander off course or get straight to the point, depending on which you think is right. They filled Miranda's script for pain pills, and brought it to us.  And they wanted 10 bucks to pay for it, right then.  My only regret was that I didn't have my benefits card on me, so I just handed her the debit card. 
  Linda bitched the whole time.  They shouldn't have just filled it.  She can get prescriptions filled at Walmart for 4 dollars.  They should have offered us the choice instead of automatically taking care of it.  Blah blah blah, on and on, she didn't stop.  I gave the woman my  card, she ran it, she gave me a slip to sign, she handed over the drugs and she left, and the whole time Linda was bitching.  They *should* have done this.  They *should* have done that.  First of all, I'm paying for it, so shut your fucking pie hole.  Secondly, passive aggressive doesn't work.  If you REALLY want to do something about it, THIS is what you must say:  "Excuse me, miss, but can we just instead fill this our self at a pharmacy of our choosing?"  Ask the nurse DIRECTLY, instead of indirectly bitching for 10 goddamn minutes.  What is you fucking point?  If you have a fucking point, make the fucking point!  And I fucking paid for the goddamn script, so really, what is your mother fucking point?  Jesus, shut up already.
  What was the other thing?  Oh yeah, the form.
  Miranda's post-op instructions just as a matter of covering their ass mentions smoking and second hand smoke.  Again, The Storm rises.  She can't smoke in the building at work, she can't smoke in restaurants, and soon she won't be able to smoke in her car.  She'll be damned if they will stop her from smoking in her own home.  Both the nurse and the doctor had experience dealing with insane people.  They sympathized and understood and said don't worry about it; it's just a standard line on the form.  But she wouldn't let it go.  She has no self-control, so she kept muttering under her breath about it.
  Oh, yeah, she kept going.  Christ.
  You know--I write this knowing full well that my new sweetheart Detroit will probably read this, even though she has slacked off significantly and doesn't seem to care so much about what I write so I have to make it interesting for her even though some of this but not all of this I have told her before.
  Having said that:  when we first got together--when I left my wife for this new life and new person--I of course had doubts.  It was a hard thing to do but ultimately prevailing was my desire to get out my marriage. 
  But the doubts:  Was it the right thing?  Am I giving up too soon?   Shouldn't I try to make it work?  Couldn't we work out our problems and get back together?  Should I stay or should I go?  Time and distance--it's been three years since we split up--have given me clarity and perspective.  Monday I spent more time with my ex than I had in three years.  Aside from the fact that there were still things I couldn't tell her (it's my life and none of her business, but I still can't tell her things because it will set her off and I have learned--she has taught me--to keep things from her), the other thing was I just couldn't stand her.  She still couldn't let go of anything, she still bitched needlessly about things that were none of her concern, she still took things personally that were NOT about her, and she was still self-righteous and sanctimonious and completely humorless.
  Speaking of humorless, she had a comment about me doing stand up. In the world she lives in, she had been trying to get me to do it for years, she said.  But then when I left, that's when I do it?  I'm an asshole.  *She* was the one who told me, "You're not as funny as you think you are."  In her mind, this is encouragement.  What I should have said was, "Nothing was funny until I left."

  Back to the point, or to further meander...
  Miranda has anxiety, and she is a worrier.  Like the anger control and depression, she comes by this honestly, either genetically passed from her mother or learned.  From her mother.  She has a friend whom she worries about doing something bad (read: start having sex young, at age 13) and Linda was trying to counsel her about it.  I did manage to get in a few words, like she can be a good influence on her friend, instead of the friend being a bad influence on her.
  Linda, of course has always been way to open and honest with the kids for my comfort.  She freely admits how having kids at a young age ruined her life and ended her childhood early.  That's all well and good but she also casually tosses around my early drug use as a cautionary tale as well.  If it keeps the kids off of drugs, fine, but I don't need *all* the details out there.
  I do know that more of the details than I am comfortable with about our break up are out there--and you've seen this blog, you've read it--I let it all out.  But she goes over the line.  Maybe because it's only the details that make me look bad, and the 19 years off hell I went through are conveniently glossed over as "we had some good times, some bad times."
  Well, what's my point in all this?  That's a really good question--what the hell is my point?
  My point is, Linda is so ready to use whatever diagnoses she can as a crutch, as an excuse for not...being rational:  I can't calm down, so I have anger issues.  I can't find my keys, I must have ADD.  I'm an unbearable bitch to live with, I must be bipolar.
  As for me, I straddle the median between denial and acceptance.  I know that--or at least I feel that--ADD is over-diagnosed in this country.  Maybe I do have it but I can still (mostly) function.  Maybe I don't have it but it sure does explain a lot.  If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck and has a short attention span, chances are it's ADDD--Attention deficit duck disorder. 

  It does come at me from all sides.

  The Storm said my son had a breakdown, because he feels like I don't love him and don't want to spend time with him.  And he feels like he's been replaced by Detroit's two sons.
  My daughter had knee surgery the other day to correct her leg alignment.
  I am broke and getting broker, and stressed out as I try to figure out how to get more money into the house.
  I feel pressure from my brother to take care of the insurance money...something I should have done over a year ago anyway.
  I have no idea what is going on with my sister and I'm leery of asking because I don't want to be drawn into her bottomless pit of despair and poor decision-making.
  I have vehicular troubles all over the house--the Mercedes needing an oil change is the least of my problems.  Detroit's van has a possessed electrical system, the Saturn can't pass an emissions inspection, Fred sits in the garage like a coma victim on life support, and Mitchell's Intrepid sits in his driveway waiting for a drive-by shooting to put it out of its misery.
  My home improvement projects have hit a snag after things were going so well.  Aside from the minor issue of running out of money, these goddamn recessed fucking lights that I fucking put up in the unholy ceiling of the fucking shit basement don't work.  And while I'm not an electrician, I am a thinker.  If there are six lights connected and there is power to EVERY wire but the lights don't come on, I think there is something wrong.  I have a tester that shows current to all the wires.  It should be bright, but the darkness of the basement permeates even my soul, like a grape Kool-aid stain on a white carpet.
  Speaking of simile, my newly diagnosed ADD is like an old girlfriend who left town, got a degree and got diagnosed as psychotic and then came back for her BeeGee albums.  It's familiar to me, and the only thing that's different is that now I know what to call it.  It doesn't mean I know how to deal with it.
  If only my son knew how much I missed him and wanted to spend time with him.  Between his schedule and mine, and his detached aloofness that patrols the walls he has up, it's a wonder I can talk to him at all.  While I do like Alex alot, as far as Brandon goes the most you can say is that on the best days I tolerate him.  And neither one of them is Mitchell.  My firstborn male child, my progeny, my bloodline.  My younger and gigantic mini-Me.  The one upon whose shoulders my hopes and dreams for the future of the family lie.
  He doesn't know, you know, that when I left Linda I wanted to take him with me.  I knew that I could never take Miranda, and to make a baby make that choice is wrong.  And it was the same for Mitchell.  I would never make them make that choice; it's wrong.  I left them with their mother because it was best for them.  I sacrificed a piece of me for them.
  I know that makes me sound like a martyr and that's not what I meant.  All I meant was, I wasn't going to make a bad situation worse by doing that to them.
  My daughter's knee surgery went well, even though I had to spend the whole day with my ex.  Aside from the painful awkwardness of sitting in a room with her for several hours, I also got several great reminders of how close she is to Miranda--a closeness that I will never have again.

  I just....grrr!  Fuck this pity party.

  I guess I need to sort me fuckin life out, mate.  Figure out what I can do something about, and what I can't do anything about.  Draw a line down the middle, make two columns, and then fuck with both of them.

  I took the month of October "off," and worked just one job.  It was like a vacation.  But as November loomed on the horizon like a haunted pirate ship with a booty of past due bills,  I knew I would have to find work soon.  I need a second job.
  Found it.
  The Big L had a line on this job for me back in March, I think.  I talked to him recently and he said that he could hook me up.  He did.  Last Friday was my first day at my new job.  I needed something that--well, here were my requirements:
  Night job, because I work during the day
  But not too late, because I work in the morning
  Good money, because I need it
  Easy work, because I'm basically lazy
  Something in Pizza, because I need to reinforce my street cred
  Something with hot chicks, because I'm a shallow pervert.

  Well, that about covers it.  I started working at Imo's (pronounced like EMO) Pizza, which is a big local chain.  The St Louis Style of pizza is a thin crust, due largely to Imo's.  Other than the hot chicks, this pretty much covers all the bases.  Maybe that part will come later.  Haha. Come later.  Haha.  I kill me.
  Despite being a chain, the place is laid back as hell.  It's a local chain.  There are maybe 40 or 50 units in the St Louis metro.  Maybe more.  Maybe I'll look it up if I give a shit and think about it later.
  Great--there's a Wikipedia entry for Imo's Pizza.  The links are interesting, especially about St Louis, New York, and Chicago-style pizzas.
But here's the rundown:

  People who have never worked in a kitchen before are sometimes offended by how dirty they are.  Listen, your food hardly ever touches the floor, so why worry aobut it?  Same for the walls.  The tables are clean, and the walkin is cold.  That's all that really matters.  The oven isn't so clean but it is 500 degrees, and that kills most offensive things. 
  There are two different groups of people in the store:  the drivers, and...the other people.  The other people answer the phones, take orders, make the orders, serve to customers, and clean the store.  The drivers?  Well, the drivers just drive.
  The drivers are not paid by the hour.  I guess you could say I am a private contractor.  Whatever, dude.  This is what we get:  We start the night with 20 bucks as a bank, but we get to keep that, so that is pretty nice.  We also get tips.  The tips and the bank we get in cash every night, which is cool if you're into that sort of thing.
  Then we also get paid per delivery.  There is a 2.50 delivery charge, and the driver gets all of it.  This goes onto a check which we get every week.
  The store is in a  neighborhood that is not so great, and I know it well.  I've managed the various Domino's that cover this area at one time or another if not multiple times.  This part of town is either Spanish Lake or Black Jack.  Regardless, it is unincorporated St Louis County.  People live here think they live in Florissant, but they really, really don't.  It's more pathetic than people on the outskirts of Beverly Hills trying to claim a 90210 zip code.  More pathetic, because this is just a because this is just a North St Louis County suburb they are trying to latch onto.
  I need to recalculate what my nut is, because before I had the home loan it was 200 bucks per week on the second job.  Chances are good that I'm going to have to get another one if this stays as just Friday and Saturday.  But I do feel better, at least, for having gone right out and gotten the second job like I planned.  But I'll take a third one.
  I can't believe how oddly satisfying it is to be delivering again.

  I had my psychiatrist appointment the other day.  I must say, it was not what I expected.  No couch, for one thing.  What self-respecting shrink doesn't have a couch?
  I was here because I had long suspected that I had ADD.  Then, on the recommendation of a friend, I read a book.  "Driven To Distraction."  Instead of the healing that she had hoped would happen, I got a little freaked out because I saw more of myself than I was really comfortable with in the book.  So now, here I am, in a psychiatrist office, answering questions and filling out some quizzes, and talking to the head doctor about my problems.  I told him about my mother, and I suspected that she had it.  I told him about my sister, and how her problems are much deeper.  I told him about my ex, and how I could never be myself in front of her.  He took notes and nodded in all the right places, and gently urged me on.
  I'm not sure what I think of the guy.  He's older, laid back, and obviously pretty bright.  He was easy to talk to, and I learned a lot even during just this initial interview process.
  I guess I expected some sort of big revelation.  Maybe a siren to go off and the lights go red, and a troop of orderlies would come marching in to fit me for a straight jacket.  That being a ten on the lack-of-subtlety scale, what I experienced was about a two. 
  He said, "I haven't just been sitting here idly and and letting you blabber on.  I've been evaluating you this whole time.  I would say you definitely have it."
  "Oh."  Oh.  Well, okay then.  Now what?
  I think many people come to see a psychiatrist for the express purpose of getting drugs.  This is not what I want.  As I said, I don't want to lose *me*.  What if, in the process of taking care of this, the drugs make me normal, and normal turns out to be an unimaginative, unfunny, boring and very stupid asshole?  What if, without my ADD, I'm just like Detroit's ex?  Nobody wants that. 
  But I was offered the meds.  He said it would help.  Would it stifle me creativity, I asked in a Scottish accent.  He said no.  If anything, it should help focus it.  I suppose that would be the true test.  I did tell him about my 40-plus unfinished novels.  If this can help me finish one, and more importantly, follow through with the necessary steps to (at least attempt to) get it published, then I will consider the meds a success.
  Unlike some and just like other mental disorders, a certain amount of self-healing can be done.  The doc didn't tell me this, but I have figured it out on my own from what I read and from what the doctor said cryptically about other things.  With ADD, you find ways to work around things.  You learn to deal with it.  You figure out how to trick yourself into getting things done without realizing it.  You adapt, you adjust.  You craft your own tools, as it were.
  With some OCD, meds along with behavior modification work wonders, until the meds are no longer necessary.  You learn not to act so freaking crazy.  That's the medical explanation.  It is my hope that I can do that with this:  use the meds, modify my behavior, and then no longer need the meds.  Maybe that's the doctor's goal, too, but we didn't really go into long term.
  Before I was sure I had it, I was obsessed with the idea.  Now that I have some confirmation, it is oddly different.  I worry compulsively, and this is one less thing to worry about.  So, there's some relief, I guess.  But now that I *know* I find that I don't want to be strictly identified as just that, like a label.  I am more than someone with ADD.
  I am a father, a brother, a worker, a lover.  A thinker.  A smoker and a joker.  I'm a proud black woman.  I'm an old Jewish man.  I'm a carnival ride, I'm a household pet.  I'm a church choir.  I am a rock, I am and Island.  I am many things.  I am more than just my ADD.  But all in all, I'd rather be a hammer than a nail.

  We shall see, won't we?
 
  And by we, I mean all the voices in my head.

  While I am at work scanning, I frequently peruse the intarwebs and look at news.  When I find and interesting story, I forward the link to a few people, usually with commentary.  I've often thought I would like to make a website that does that, and hopefully get advertisers and make money from it.  But what name would I use?
  The Drudge Report is taken.
  So is the Grudge Report.  I looked it up.
  And the Fudge Report.
  Hmmm.  I gotta *think*...

a
b  budge?
c
d  drudge
e
f  fudge
g  grudge
h
i
j  judge
k  kudge?
l  ludge?
m  mudge?
n  nudge?
o
p  pudge?  this one has possibilities
q
r  rudge?
s
t
u
v
w  wudge?  wudge wepoht?
x
y
z  zudge?  ze zudge report.  I like that.

  And those are the ones that aren't ridiculous.  Maybe I should just call it something else? 
  I know it's been done (the idea for the site--stick with me here), but what makes it funny is my commentary.  No, really.  I'm a funny guy.  Trust me.

  Now the time has come for all good men who were working two jobs but now are working just one job to get up off of their collective asses and go out there into the jungle of the business world and find a new second job.
  And you better do it soon, mister, because you are running out of money fast.
  October has come and gone much like a pretty girlfriend that promised to fulfil all of your fantasies but bailed on you right when you were getting the jumper cables and the goat.
  I have a sense of loss, I guess.  And I guess this is natural.  Oh-by-the-way I have an appointment this week to see a psychiatrist to help determine if I really do have ADD.  I'm in the ebb period right now and therefore thinking that I don't have it, but for all I know it could be worse now than a few weeks ago when I was going through a manic period.
  On the one hoof, maybe I do have it, but on the other, I've been dealing with it so long that I may have developed on my own a few ill-conceived methods to deal with it that are similar to what a doctor treating it might recommend.
  On still yet a third  hoof (the reason I went with hooves in the first place) I've been thinking about it almost constantly for several weeks, and so now I'm bored with it. 
  I started--and deleted--to enumerate all the many things I accomplished during the month.  The list seems depressingly short even though I know I actually did accomplish much.  But they are like the Spartans, compared to the Persians that are the many things I have yet to do.
  I swear to God, when I finish dry-walling, I'm going to scream, "THIS IS SPARTA!"
  My focus--if you can call it that--is narrowly beamed on no more than half a dozen or so different things.
  Finding a new part time job
  Getting the bills paid
  Finishing the basement
  Finishing the garage so we can use it for entertaining (need to have it done before Thanksgiving; I'll explain why later)
  Doing a few things for my kids--surgery for my daughter, eye appointment and getting the truck running for my son, and spending some time with them.
  Oh, now I have to get my tax stuff together, and I have to get the thing going for the insurance money from my dad's policy.  That's going to be fun.  (In a "not" kind of way.)
  I'm entering a writing contest and I have someone editing a story for me so I can send it in.
  And finally, that thing with the gorilla.

I put this little sign up on the board at work. I hope they appreciate it.

symptom	allergies	cold	flu	zombie infection
fever		rare	common; usually high	at onset
			can last 3-4 days
headache	sinus pressure	rare	common	at onset
stuffy nose	common	common	sometimes
sneezing	common	common	sometimes
sore throat	sometimes	common	sometimes
cough	common	mild	common, can be severe
general aches/pain	sometimes	mild	common, can be severe	at onset
chest discomfort	sometimes	rare	common
fatigue/exhaustion	sometimes	mild	common, can be severe
			can last 2-3 weeks
incoherent speech		rare	mild	common
desire for human flesh	mild	rare	common	pervasive

  I think I was going to write something else when I made this title the other day.  But now I realize that this brand new thing is stress over money.
  While that is nothing new, this particular session is exciting and special.  I whipped through the money from my loan pretty quickly.  Perhaps I should have done it differently, but I felt that I had projects to do and time off to do it, so that was how I was going to spend the money.  I'll always have the bills, so I can catch up on those later.
  I hope.
  And now we are nearing the end of the month.  My decision was to take off the month of October, and then in November look for a second job.  It's just a few days away.  Although I like having the time off, I miss the security of having enough money coming in.  And I also miss the security of *knowing*.  I mean, just because I'm going to start looking for a new second job doesn't mean I'm going to find one.
  So I have just a few more days of blissful ignorance before I can go out into the world and get truly frightened, stressed-out, and frustrated.  I can't wait.
  It'll be an exciting adventure.  What kind of job will I get, what kind of people will I meet?  What bizarre schedule will they want me to keep?  Will I have a better attitude this time?
  I've learned a little.  Not much, but a little.

I said *while we're at it--*
  Miranda came to stay this weekend...she got bored and wanted to go home.  I took her back last night.  It's not all circuses and kittens, I guess.  But that meant I had today free to work on some stuff.  A few days earlier...or maybe I week earlier--I framed up the wall for a room in the basement for Detroit's oldest son.  It's one thing to have an albatross around your neck; it's quite another to give it room and board.
  I framed up the walls, and today I finally wired it.  The electrical in this house is a little comical.  I think part of it has to do with the job earlier in the year.  In March, I think, we had a new circuit breaker box installed for the house to pass code.  It's all well and good now, but the fucker just hooked the wires up however he felt like it.
  And they weren't terribly logical to begin with.  I spent over an hour last week mapping the breakers.  I had a light, a couple of testers, and some ibuprofen.  I turned off one breaker at a time, and then tracked down what turned off.  I had a couple of false starts and things so bizarre I didn't believe it until I tried it a few times.  But it paid off, because now I know what breaker every outlet, light, fixture and miscellaneous electrical appendage goes to.
  The first project was a new front porch light.  We had purchased four matching carriage lights months ago, and now that it's too late to take them back if something is wrong I finally put one up.  It didn't work.  I tried several different possibilities, but the evidence pointed to the fixture itself.  Okay.  The next one I tried worked fine.
  The dream--and everyone has a dream of carriage lights, don't you think?--was to have one on the front porch, two on either side of the garage door, and since we had four, the last one would be on the back porch.  Our dreams have some flexibility, however; we now decided that no one is going to see the back and the front at the same time.
  Then I wired the boy's room.  Not too difficult--in fact, it was fun.  I like doing this kind of work.  After that one, I worked in Alex's room, re-arranging some light fixtures and outlets and switches.  Oh My.  Wow.  Okay.  Except for the bathroom wall I need to tear out and rebuild, we are pretty much ready for drywall.  Alright.  We go and buy the drywall, and it is late afternoon but I'm still gung ho--but we get back and now it's a little later, and I was going to make my baked potato soup. 
  So that's where we are right now.  At least I've been doing stuff, I just ran out of time.  Now I'm waiting for soup.

  Oh, I was just listening to some talk radio, and it was three people--the host and two guests.  One of the guests was some famous atheist (really, is there any other kind?) and both the host and the other guest were believers.
  I turned it off.
  Not because I was in danger of having my faith become shaky.  And not because I was angry about what they were talking about.  It's important to talk about, sure, but mostly, I don't care to discuss it with most people.  Why?  Well, most people are stupid.
  I'm going to generalize because that is my gift:  most atheists that you've heard of are smug, condescending assholes.  That's not to say most of the entire lot is, just most of the ones you've heard of.  The ones that get air time or Internet time.
  And right there I can prove that atheists are wrong and there is a God.  The internet is proof of Intelligent Design.
  When I was new to my faith I was fired up and ready to battle with any non-believer who dared to cross swords with me.  I had the knowledge (I thought), I had the power (not really), and I had the spirit (a little).
  Some things over the years have managed to...not even shake my faith, but maybe jostle it a little.  That's a natural thing.  After all I've done and seen and been through, my faith is still here.  Like a grizzled veteran on the bench, it's solid, dependable, quiet.  And mildly annoyed and amused at the rookies at the same time.
  But faith is a very personal thing.  I don't want to argue with someone about what I believe.  I don't want to argue with someone about what THEY believe.  I know what I know, I believe what I believe.  I think what I think.  I piss what I piss.  What, do you think you have some compelling argument, some important proof or documentation, some intractable knowledge that there is no God?  Good for you.  And then, you want to take that information and FORCE it on me, and make me know what you know, and make me believe what you believe?  Will I then think what you think, and piss what you piss?
  I know that religionists have been--in your view, at least--pushing their wares upon you relentlessly.  In their view, you and others like you have been pushing God and religion away from everyone.
  In a country where everyone is supposedly able to believe what they want, you sure do take a marked interest in trying to get them to believe in nothing. 
  I'm just really not that interested in whatever "proof" that you may have, just as I have noticed that you are not interested in whatever "proof" I may have.  I have an answer, a reason, an explanation for all of your little feats of evidence.  No, I'm not going to enumerate them, because that would mean engaging you on the field of philosophical battle.  Although it's the only battlefield where no one dies, there can also never be a victor.
  My answers and reasons aren't as pat as "God put the dinosaurs there to test our faith."  There is deeper meaning and larger understanding in all of it.  Evolution?  Probably happened.  The Bible doesn't specifically say it doesn't, does it?  The Bible doesn't mention calculus or iPods,either.  Do they not exist?  The Bible is not a science book.  It's not a history book, even, although it does cover historical context. 
  And this is where I have a problem with the Bible thumpers.  It is the Word of God.  It's not the only Words he spake.  And it was translated and changed and distorted and intentionally hacked and accidentally spilled on.  The ones who believe it is the end-all/be-all word of God exactly as written don't understand editing, committees, politics, parables, or basic communication skills.
  Look, I know that when I talk to various people--and I was going to write about this in a different context--when I talk to different people, I talk to one of them differently than I may talk to another.  I'm treating them equally...but different.  In order to get the same results out of some people, I have to talk to them differently.  This is how it is, this is the nature of us as individuals. 
  So God spoke to the savages of that time quite differently than he might speak to you, sophisticated and jaded uptown college professor with patches on your elbows.
  My faith is sufficient to navigate the troubled waters of aggressive atheists and the tiny shallow streams of belligerent religionists.  I know that they each have some measure of truth, even the non-believers.  I know that they mean well, except I can't excuse the Muslim jihadists.  Maybe I should ask for forgiveness, for not being able to move past that--
  I'm not interested in winning an argument against any of them.  In the end, we shall all find out.  And then you will see, you will finally see...
  That I am right and you were wrong.
  Neener-neener!

  Hahaha.  Having said all that, let me leave you with these thoughts:

Islam is like the soccer of the religious world.  It's popular everywhere else in the world except America, Americans don’t really get it and don’t really want to, and it’s violent as hell.  Also, you never really see women fans in the stands.
And if you call it violent, the fans will get a rugby player to kick your ass.

I guess NASCAR is like religion in America.  The biggest day is Sunday and you can still drink beer.  You just sit on your couch and watch.  It’s really loud and it doesn't require much understanding.  The chicks are hot in a trailer-trash kind of way.

Cricket IS a lot like Wicca.  You never expect to actually see it, so when you do, you really have no idea what you're looking at.  You can’t really follow it and are really just hoping to see some naked chicks.  Whenever someone tries to explain it to me, they just sound really condescending.

Is baseball like Judaism?  The real players make a lot of money.
The men in black--rabbis or umpires--make the rules.
Steroids are optional.

Calling Scientology a religion is like calling date rape a sport.