On The Odd Chance That You Don't Know Me ...

... this is the movie that you should see. "Little Manhattan" It was filmed in 2004, and I remember reading the street notices announcing that the sidewalks and roads would be closed so the filming could take place there for the movie. I was living with George in NJ at the time, so I didn't have the luxury of stalking the movie set. I was fascinated, but I didn't follow the progress. When it was released in the theatres, I made the appropriate "Oh!" of acknowledgment. And time passed.

This morning, I saw the movie.

Me and it has two things in common.

1) The Upper West Side. The cinematography chronicles the bulk of my heart for Manhattan. It is shot on location all in, out, around, down, and through my favorite neighborhood. If you see this movie then you see where I do what I do when I do what I do.

2) It portrays the emotion maturity at which I am stuck. I cannot say with any real confidence that I'm much older in my head and heart than the little protagonist in this movie. My consolation for this, of course, is that probably most of us are also in the same place. Not 'most of us' as in 'bloggers', or just 'the readers of this blog'--but as in 'the human race'.

We are have doubts and fears that make going into relationships an absolute roller coaster. Some people like rollercoasters. Some laugh and raise hands in anticipation during the slow climb to the top. Some look at the dizzying heights with amazement and wonder. Some embrace the danger of the imminent drop.

Me ... not so much.

But I have to learn to because there just is no alternative. We all live on a rollercoaster.

Okay, so I e-mailed an invite to meet her somewhere in the NYC, where she said she comes and enjoys. And while I wait for an answer, my brain is trying to kill me. I'm thinking that I should have made it a definite place and time, but I don't know if she's even free on Monday yet. And I'm also thinking that I didn't make it a definite place and time because I'm scared poopless to ask for a real date. Plus I only have close to a hundred $$$ for wining and dining, and no credit, so I'm thinking my dating potential sucks. And I'm thinking that she is a successful, famous, amazing girl who'll have no patience for my broke ass. But too, I'm thinking that my being cautious, or just not-aggressive-enough is a fatal flaw. I'm thinking that if she responds positively to me, she'll just do so out of catching up conversation with an old friend because I'm not the kind of guy that makes the ladies swoon (except in my head, when I'm The Sexy Barista, and I'm not even that anymore). I'm just a friendly, nice, safe guy that girls just like. And even though she's the girl of my dreams, I'm thinking that I won't be the guy of her dreams.

And I'm thinking that I'm overthinking. And I'm driving myself nuts. And I think I'm already forming my coping mechanism for failure when I haven't even really failed yet. And I'm thinking how much more being safely on the ground feels so much better than this rollercoaster. But being on the ground means not being alive. But I've gotten comfortable and used to not being alive. I guess that makes me a zombie.

Some people like zombies.
I'm just a total wreck.
Please comment freely.

At Long Last, The Novel Is Begun

So this Christmas morning I was awakened by the buzz of my phone. My friend was calling to fudge the details of his plans to come into the city for a Christmas "lunch". By the time he was done, we convinced each other of the complete impracticality of his visit if he were to still preserve his early-evening plans. This is my Blind Hero (see "Sightless Hero," dunno why I changed the name). I am foolish to assume that he needs my company. He goes to a church full of Baptists, runs a company, and has an unlimited bank account. He manages to eek through his days without me.

Having amicably parted with vague promises of a New Year's Day make-up, I was now awake on Christmas Day with an open schedule. Way too early. So, time to do laundry! Except, inexplicably, the elevator does not go down to the basement where the laundromat is. It is "closed". For the holiday, presumably. As if it were inhumane to force the automatons to take the quarters and agitate my dirty clothes with water and detergent on Christmas Day in the mor-ning.

Crap. I have a life-changing interview tomorrow morning and my clothes are dirty. What to do? Catch a movie!

I made a conscious decision to go cry when I picked "Juno." A funny, quirky, and heartwarming movie about a teenager facing an unwanted pregnancy? Please, I'm no idiot.

Going in, I knew I loved Ellen Page to begin with. She was the latest Kitty Pryde of the X-Men and my love affair with mutants is legendary (see; "X-Men 2", Prologue through Epilogue) and I don't even care what else she was in.
Well I'm glad to report that the coming attractions made me cry more than the movie itself. The movie lives up to the hype, if you are attracted by any of its buzz. I loved it. Notably, you should not be deterred at all by Michael Cera as the teenage dweeb who made Juno's baby. Watching him, I had no idea he was the same guy from "Superbad" (which I didn't see anyway, nor had I watched "Arrested Development"). Cera does such an amazing job of playing this subtle and powerful part that I'm convinced once again that acting is an absolute talent, and this young man has it. Unless he doesn't. :shrug:

But if I were in high school again, I'm sure Juno would be the girl I loved. She might not have been good for me, but she would have been my type.

So the story itself was such a good one (sometimes weighed down by just a smidge too much teenage smarm, but only a smidge), that I could no longer hold off on putting finger to key on my own stab at contemporary lit. I'm encouraged also by Grizzbabe's propelling review on her writing from an instructor (since I think she's good, then surely I have good taste), and Childhood Bud's suggestion that I could add my Night Job tales to the smattering of Starbuckensian books on the market.

Add to that the PERFECT perch near Lincoln Center to write (pictures pending when I get back home and upload them*) with FREE INTERNET ACCESS, and thus I began my novel. I shall be maintaining a word count widget at my Creative Life site**. See? You can tell I'm inspired. I used the word "shall"!

*Pics uploaded now
** I'm maintaining the widget here instead of at Creative Life. It's easier.

Cry If I Want To

Alternative side of the street parking suspended? Check.
One roommate in Timbuktu, or it's geographic equivalent (in other words, Not Here)? Check.
The other roommate departed way before I awoke? Check.
Lay in bed until I dang well felt good and ready to move? Check.
Surfed channels to watch Kella Ripa, Matthew Perry in a horrible comedy, the news, Robert DeNiro in a horrible comedy, the weather, an infomercial on how to make more money than God, the traffic, snippets of the movie "Fame", and Cher as a trashy mom trying to raise her facial/cranially deformed son? Check.

Things were going well.

Then my left eye dropped a tear, and the right eye--not to be outdone--dropped its twin with cinematic perfection.

At first I was going to title the post, Shouldn't Be Crying This Early In The AM. But then I thought, nah.

See, Rocky Dennis was getting his awards in the ceremony at his Jr. High. And his trashy Mom, along with her biker boyfriend and their crew, were on their feet, all loud, being embarrassingly encouraging for the boy with the big, bloated head. And one of the bikers, who I will call Big Sad, looked especially choked up--almost tragically so.

So afterwards, when Rocky watched the girl of his dreams go off to Summer with Blonde Hunk, and his family gathered around for a second round of rowdy congrats, Big Sad biker steps again to the forefront to lay a special one on Rocky. He's fat, he's hairy, and he's got tears in his eyes.

"I'm ... v-very ... p-proud ... of ... you ... R- ... R-Rocky."

Seems the Big Sad has a Big Speech Impediment, and physical defect was something he shared with Rocky. So he saw Rocky achieve something despite his "handicap" and Big Sad decided he would achieve something too. Tears were in Cher's eyes and they were in Sam Elliot's eyes as the scene was shot. They were in Big Sad's eyes, of course, and then they were in my eyes too.

Did I cry because I was moved by that sudden, unexpected bond between the two struggling outcast characters? Did I overidentify?

And why did the actors in the scene get choked up? Were they just commanded by the director? Or do most people know what it's like to be the Big Sad guy, watching a hero triumph and then feeling the personal victory of it because the hero represents the person inside of you. The person that you want so badly to be. Especially when that hero has flaws--it brings you that much closer because they know, like you do, what it means to struggle. And when they win, not only do you win--but everyone like you wins. Everyone who has ever known what it means to be alone and lost and hopeless and scared. Everyone who ever asked the question, "why me?"

Which, actually, is everyone.

It's all of us. Why do we hide it under layers of fashion and muscles and bravado and shallow sophistication? Why do we segregate ourselves into cliques of Better Thans? We're every one of us alone. We're all inside these skins alone.

And that makes us Not Alone At All.

Tonight I go to see My Hero. I've written my expressions of admiration and gratitude in several different ways so that he and others can read, but every time we're in earshot of one another I only usually manage to say surface "Aren't I Clever, Please Don't Hate Or Leave Me" things. Treading water to keep him in my life.

Tonight, the way Big Sad did to Rocky Dennis, I'm going to stammer out my appreciation. Even if it kills me. It just feels like something I should do.

Oh, that, and get a haircut.

Last night at B&N, I made the mistake of telling Jabberjaw that my birthday was on Monday. She asked how old I was going to be. Me, thinking I had made perfect peace with it through the last series of posts and comment responses, went ahead and told her.

"No way," said she. I watched the muscles in her face systematically fall, cord by cord. "Well," she said as she attempted to recover, "You look great!"

How did my age become equivalent to brain cancer that she thought I needed consolation? "Jabberjaw. She's mostly harmless too." My ass.

Well, Crap.

Dr. King's daughter died. Thanks to my Friday Night Date, I not only knew who she was, I got to meet her. And now she's gone away. At only 51!!

And this I find on the heels of getting an explanation about a co-worker's continuing struggle with cancer. I blogged about this co-worker before, and now I've learned she's back in chemotherapy 3x's a week.

The woman's going to die. I believe she's said enough to me to indicate that she knows it, and now her co-worker is confidentially spilling the details that she herself won't speak about (I guess he sees me as her boss, since she's in my dept. and I'm the Asst. Director).

And we just keep going through these things in life. We broaden our social circles and reach out for the friendship love of good people, in an effort to grow our humanity, and something like this happens.

I don't want this woman to die. She has highschool-aged children, and a husband. She's being strong for everybody, but what happens in her home when she's gone? What happens at this job?

I saw "The Family Stone" over the Christmas holiday when George put me up in his timeshare in NYC. SPOILER. The audience is told the about the mother's illness in one powerful scene as she confronts her adult son on the choice he's making to marry an unliked girl. She says, "What are you doing?" Tears fill the son's eyes. Then she says, "Are you marrying this girl for me?" The son's mouth gapes with grief. "Getting married is not going to change my illness. You have to stop this and get a girl you actually love." By this time the son is wracked and shaking with wordless sobs.

I paraphrased the mother (played by Diane Keaton)'s words, but that was the jist. I don't know why I didn't blog about it then. I'll never forget it. The actor was the same guy who played Julia Roberts' best friend in "My Best Friend's Wedding." How that actor was able to break down like that was heart-numbing. Oh, and don't think I didn't have a good sob right along with.

So what's going to happen now? And where's my guarantee that this won't happen again? How do I know that Scott, or Alex, or Steve, or Eliel, or My Friend The Doctor, or (oh God please forbid) My Hero won't someday come home with "dreadful news"? How are we expected to survive in the screaming absence of people we love?

It's not fair damn it.

"One Night Only...."

(Originally 1/6/07)

That's one of the original songs from "Dreamgirls" which I went to go see tonight. I'd been meaning to. I decided to do so at around 8:20pm tonight, because, hey it's Friday night--just got paid--(car didn't run out of gas this morning but I still resolve never to be this broke again) money in my pocket--feeling right-- so off I went. Heading out the door I sought for what to do in the hour I had before showtime, and I remembered that something I've been waiting for for months was available now. I will have to blog about that separately, but it involves my Other Hero and I will write it for him afterwards.

But now, I want to say a little something about "Dreamgirls".

Let's go back, shall we?

WABC Radio was not always a talk station, you know. It used to play the Top 40. I would sit in my room with Harry Harrison spinning the hits. Songs I still love today. And what I used to do was sit and listen to the music and sing along while I drew my own little comic books. I remember The Space Lords but there were others. I may have done a few of these with my Childhood Bud but mostly I was alone. Me, my comics, and the music.

Just the other night, a song came on somewhere that took me back to a birthday I had on a Saturday. My mother sent me to NYC on Saturdays then, to meet an adult cousin and his kids and take Aikido in a downtown Manhattan dojo with him as the sensei. That day, when he found out it was my birthday, he gave me a 20 dollar bill! I remember leaving the dojo on my own, instead of going back to his home with his kids, and heading to Times Square to spend this money on myself. I decided I would go see "Star Wars". It was in the theaters still. The ticket seller would not let me in unaccompanied by an adult.

For some reason, the song "Baker Street" by Gerry Rafferty makes me remember that day. That song makes me remember that whole time in my life when I would be set out on the streets of New York, a twelve year old? Fourteen? Taking buses and trains, going to the comicbook conventions, getting back issues of the Fantastic Four out of the back-issue bins each time I went. Finding gold when I found the exact issue that was missing out of my growing collection. And listening to WABC when I got home and read my comics.

My mind was so alive then. I spun universes under Harry Harrison's voice. I wrote my first novel back then. Typed it out on an Olivetti. I've since lost it during my many moves. But that was when I knew I had something--that I could be something.

So, so many years later, the dream is still alive. It's so fully alive in me right now, I feel fit to burst. Yes, it's because I'm a writer. Yes, because I've been told I write good stuff. Yes because I am finally getting my stuff published, and well received. But moreover, because in August a hero told me,

"Yes - we are the same.

Thank you for all of your support, and for just being who you are. The world is a better place for it."

Watching "Dreamgirls" tonight was not really, for me, about obtaining success, or learning the lessons of pride, or even about how much I loved Jennifer Hudson in "American Idol" the year that she competed, and how I watched no further because I didn't want her to lose.

It was about the song "One Night Only" and remembering when that was the only song they used to advertise the Broadway show in television commercials, back in the day. I had completely forgotten that song was in it. And when I heard it, I went back to my early teens. Sitting on my bedroom floor, drawing the SpaceLords listening to Harry Harrison and "Baker Street". Or "Hello, It's Me" by Todd Rundgren. Or "Always and Forever" by Heatwave. Or "Even The Nights Are Better" by Air Supply. Or anything by Fleetwood Mac. Or "Summer Breeze" by Seals and Croft.

Music and comicbooks.

I cannot return to those days. I no longer really want to. The years have past and I am what I am. But I feel the dream is still alive. I feel like I'm not too old. I feel like it's okay to attempt something big--or more like, I feel that it WAS okay to attempt something big. I reached out to a television star and he answered and now he's honestly my friend. He even believes in me. In me.

Me.

I didn't cry one single time, watching "Dreamgirls", and I thought I would. I thought my heart would break with Effie White (who even had my last name!). But 1) Effie was not a sad, sympathetic character, and 2) all I could see was Jennifer Hudson, an "American Idol" reject,


stealing the movie from Beyonce Knowles, Eddie Murphy, and Jamie Foxx. Stealing it AWAY. (She even SAID she would do this part in her ET interview after she'd been rejected!)

Jennifer Hudson may not have been as brokedown as I was in my youth. She may have had a lot of love and support in her life by the time she got to "American Idol". She may have done well when she left the show and not been as brokedown as I am right now. But for her, failure turned into something unimaginably huge.

Tonight, I feel like it can do the same for me.

I have a potential of forty more years of productivity ahead of me.

I've already started.

So as far as my past doubts and fears and regrets?

"... I'm Telling You"



I'm not going.

He's At It Again

(Originally 11/5/06)

I come through the door from the gym and he's all, "Wanna go to the movies?" and I'm all "Why did I tell him I would yesterday" and he's all "I wrote a new song" and I'm just wishing for a brain anuerism, and he's all "Let's leave in an hour" and in my mind I'm thinking, "Go **&% yourself".

No marginal awareness that I exist ourside of him. Not the slightest idea that I might want to live a life of my own. No periphery AT ALL that I don't prefer his company.

This is so bullcrap.

And I have to find a way to tell him this, because he isn't going to understand unless I do. He does not have the mental equipment to connect these dots.

I remember a half year ago or more, I likened this situation to the movie "Sideways". But now it's not funny, and I am not getting any awards.

Serenity

(Original 8/9/06)

I just watched the last episode of Firefly. I had been stringing the viewings along because they are so good and I did not want there to be an end of it. I told this to the fella who gave them to me each time he asked "Did you see them all yet?" He seemed to understand, but he asks me more than once.

Now I have only the movie left. I dread having that finished and having no more of this wonderful show to watch. Chemically, I guess it's all about enjoying the endorphins, and not wanting to lose the rush. I am clearly not considering that there are other great shows out there for me to enjoy. I do not trust that other people are as brilliant as Joss Whedon.

And then there's the creepiness of my personal journey. It happens when I see relatable material. I come here and blog about it--sort of I process my experience so I can move on. I did it with Sideways, I've done it with Doctor Who, I do it with songs, and heck, I've even done it with sermons.

So Firefly is no exception. The last show was a River episode. A bounty hunter snuck on the ship and came for her. She's got a bounty on her head because she's valuable--before the show's premeire episode, she was experimented on and altered in some way that may have made her psychic, or it was done because she may have already been psychic. The movie might reveal more. But this episode was kind of an exploration for the viewer to see what it might be like to be River, in this altered state in which she lives. She hears things that might or might not be real, and it usually involves the people she is surrounded by--the people that cares about her and whom she cares about. The episode evoked the isolation she experiences and her longing for acceptance. But it also clearly demonstrated the facts of her strangeness and even the very real threat she poses to the rest of the crew. I at once was worried for her, plus worried for the crew who had to decide to live with her. Or not to.

Now add a very creepy portrayal of the bounty hunter (the creepiest yet) by actor Richard L. Brooks, with his black erudite flavor (did he come through the same school as Avery ...BROOKS?! A connection?? I must Google!) and the show becomes amazing.

And during all this I drew references to myself as I am wont to do. And it left me feeling too out there. It's no fun being the weird one when you're alone with your thoughts. Oh, it's a ball in a crowd--(cue circus music) amuse your friends, get the attention, leave 'em laughing! "They LOVE me!"

But what's left when they go home, or when you do? You are left with your regrets, your fears, your doubts. You don't know what you don't know, and you are terrified because of it. You would go somewhere else if only you were sure you'd survive the trip.

I'm not the only one this happens to, am I? No, that much I do know. Are we going to be okay?

Eventually.

Either that or our show gets unfairly cancelled.

What I'm Working On...

(Originally June 5 2006)

A Wendy's Spicy Chicken sandwich, for starters. At 9:24pm. Not good. I also had a Sausage McMuffin, Hash Brown and coffee for breakfast, but only six pieces of sushi for lunch, and drank a few bottles of water, so I justified this meal. I also jogged to the gym an hour ago, did two exercises, and had a protein shake before I went and got this sandwich. I had planned on stopping with the shake for the rest of the evening but...I mean, have you ever HAD a Spicy Chicken from Wendy's?

Despite this confession, I will be complaining and whining about my big round stomach in posts to come.

But what I'm also working on is a script for a fourth installment of the X-Men franchise. Everybody and their agent is saying there won't be anymore due to the casting coordination problems and blah blah blah, but The Last Stand has broke new records and everybody's happy with the profits. They have also agreed to produce spin-off movies that center on one character, "Wolverine" already being in negotiations, and "Magneto" spoken of, so how long will it be until they make X4?

Especially when they see my awesome script!

I love the energy I get when I'm writing. I love the ideas that accompany me all day long. The stories unfold in my head as though I'm watching the new movie that someone else has already written.

Of course I can't tell you anything about it until it gets soundly rejected because The 'Net Has Eyes! If its as good as I think it is, I need to keep it hush-hush until I've cashed the check. Then they can leak it over at AintItCoolNews.com the way they did "The Last Stand".

Back to the drawing board..!

"My" X-Men

(Originally May 31 2006)

Please see the column to the left. I have created a side blog for my fiction work, starting with a piece about the movieverse X-Men that I made in year 2000. I won't be posting new work since I might try to submit them and whatnot. But I will give you stuff that I've done before, just to get it out there and get some feedsback.

This Is Me, All Re-Inspired An Stuf

(Originally May 31 2006)

Trading a few posts with this guy has re-sparked my blogging.

I don't have much to say right now, but it will probably get more wordy as I tap away.

Anyway, I'm still going to the gym since last post and I've lost 6 pounds. My tummy is still convex, nudging the keyboard ever so slightly and creating a rest for my thumbs. I wonder what all is really in there? Fluid? Yellow waxy globs of fat? Intestines? What makes it bulge out so? Why do I have the same organs as the fellows at the gym, and yet they can carry theirs behind a vertical shield, and mine strains out like it wants to be born? I dunno either and I can't afford an ultrasound, so I'm just going to keep plugging away. The very second I can afford liposuction, I'm getting it.

I'm still letting my creditors snatch money out of my accounts. In two more months, I will have paid off two of them. That also means in two months, I will not be flirting with overdraft charges that occur when creditors take their share. My banking prowess remains legendary. I simply need to have more money IN there before I will stop overdrafting. I'm old enough now to know I have this fault that won't go away. I have a positive balance today and I'm hungry? Then I'm going to spend the money and leave tomorrow to fend for itself. Cha-ching!

I still live with My Benefactor and I still do not trust or like him. He still is a functioning, uppermiddleclass junkie. If he were a black man and lived in an inner-city, you would call him a crackhead. I still do not like his son, who smokes pot everytime he comes for a visit and barges into my room to ask if I can smell it on him, which yes, every single time I can, you $@#hole, and no for the millionth time, I don't think it's funny or cool now get away from me before I spend the rest of my life in jail because of your trifling, disgusting $@#.

I still love my job. I feel prevented to describe it as much as I would like to because of client confidentiality. But it keeps me busy and I swoon with job satisfaction at least 3x's a week. I mean lookit--it's already June. Half of 2006 is about to be over. A blur.

I saw X-Men: The Last Stand and was instantly inspired to write the next screenplay in the series which the producers say will not happen. (I did the same thing back in 2000 when the first X-Men came out. In fact, I think I'll put my old thing online now since it will never be anything more than harmless fanfiction at this point.

Okay, that's all for now.)

Anyway, As I Was Saying About "Sideways"...

(Originally March 3 2006)

Imperfect people crashing up against each other. I found myself identifying with the Miles character in the following scenes (not necessarily in order);

Every time he went for a drink to blind himself through a bad patch. The only difference is that my drug of choice is sugar. Instead of a Merlot, I dine on a Jim Dandy. A second runner-up is City of Heroes.

Every hookup he tried to accomplish with Maya. To get that close to a woman who was obviously interested, and then self-sabotage after those tragic tender few lost seconds. Those 'kissable' moments.

The not getting his book published.

Being on the outside, that is, a mere onlooker, while his buddy was getting more than some.

Eating alone in restaurants.

More later...

This Is The Way We Wash Our Face

(Originally March 2 2006)

Something about that little childhood ditty makes me so happy. I love to sing it when my cat is scrubbing her freshly licked paw across her head. Nothing seems more serene to me than an animal with it's eyes closed.

So I just finished watching "Sideways". I asked myself why, when I found myself way over identifying with Paul Giamatti's character. I asked aloud, "Why do guys like us always end up with guys like that for friends?" This on the heels of this morning's post.

My Benefactor is a stone-cold junkie, folks. Another reason I have not posted much is because I've been discovering two months worth of facets of my Benefactor's nature and I didn't want to put all his business out in the ether. I felt I owed him that much, since he went and saved my life and whatnot.

But the movie "Sideways" oh so gloriously illustrated that these stories are worth telling. Imperfect people crashing up against one another. So now I'm moved to say, think, and find something positive about the Benefactor. Like his generosity. I should be praising the fact that he took me in. But the flaws in myself keep pointing out the negatives. And the sadist in me keeps wanting to accentuate them. And the assassin in me wants to sling them as weapons against him. And I do not understand that about me.

You know what? I'm just going to go with it. It's what I know.

So my Benefactor wanted an instant friend, a cat-poop cleaner, and a babysitter (for when he brings his legal-aged teen son over on a weekend and has nothing but criticism and drunken hazed evenings to offer him. And I would've done, if not for the extremely sad condition of the boy. A condition brought on by having a father like my Benefactor).

I cannot be an instant friend. I went into this out of total desperation. That was not the best platform for friendship, in my opinion. I have never given anyone the blessings of my unconditional affection. Just ask all my ex-girlfriends. Ask my present friends. I always hold something back. I could list each person that I consider a friend and for each of them tell you what I'm withholding. I want to believe that we all do that, but I think there are some in this world who do not.

God above, how I admire those.

That in fact is the reason why I now know I have the job I'd like to keep for what's left of my life. Mental retardation is such a gift. Remember when I cried buckets upon viewing "The Other Sister"? It was the raw honesty and unbridled emotion that struck me as something priceless and beautiful. I long to be able to say everything I think. Let it all out in a flood of retarded candor. Ask for what I want without worrying what the listener will think of me then. Tell how scared I am without dreading rejection.

My job as Assistant Director of Psych Services puts me in contact with many mentally retarded people. And I find I love every one of them. I find myself not wanting to correct their flaws, but embrace them. Emulate them. For others, I will write down clinical analysis and use sterile shop terms for their conditions, but in my heart I think they are the emotional princes and princesses of this world.

I should only live long enough to have the honesty of a retarded person.