What time is it? Time to change clocks? Really? Who cares?

Most of you, I'm sure, are looking forward to my annual tirade about changing the clocks. By now you know I prefer year-round daylight-saving time. My second choice would be year-round standard time.

But changing clocks back and forth every spring and every autumn is nuts.

Once again, I salute those courageous Americans who thumb their noses at the clock craziness. Those would be the good people of Arizona, Hawaii, Puerto Rico, the Virgin Islands, American Samoa and parts of Indiana.

(By the way, the only other time you ever hear of some of these places is during roll-call votes at national political conventions.)

These folks stick to standard time year-round.

Here's something I'll bet you didn't know: There is no federal law requiring any state to participate in the daylight-saving time madness.

There is, however, a federal law that says if you switch to DST, you must do it on the first Sunday in April -- and switch back on the last Sunday in October.

Then there is Indiana.

I think what the Hoosiers are doing is the craziest of all, but I admire their spunk for doing it their way, the rest of the country be hanged.

There are 92 counties in Indiana. There are 77 counties on the eastern side of the state that are on Eastern Standard Time year-round -- except for the two counties closest to Cincinnati and Louisville, Ky., which switch back and forth every April and October.

The other counties on the western side of Indiana are in the Central Time Zone and switch back and forth like the rest of us.

Yes, keeping track of time in Indiana is a mess. But give those eastern Hoosiers a big pat on the back for doing it their way.

No state has tried what I'm proposing: Go on daylight-saving time next April -- and never turn back.

Think about it. Missouri could be a national leader in something. We could be the only state with year-round DST.

That's a whole lot better than being No. 1 in methamphetamine production.

See, if we had options we would never choose to be the biggest meth state.

But we choose to switch our clocks twice a year like mindless robots.

Enough, Missouri!

Salus populi suprema lex esto!

(Let the welfare of the people be the supreme law.)

I wish I had thought of that.

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In the weeks since Sept. 11, it has been difficult to focus on anything that doesn't involve terrorism. There has even been criticism of efforts to deal with any other topic.

What? You're whining about daylight-saving time when we're all going to get anthrax from our Christmas cards and die? Where are your priorities?

I am among the many Americans who are torn between avoiding news reports about terrorists and finding all the information I can get my hands on. It's like looking at a home video of a suicide. You can't stand to watch, but your morbid fascination makes you look.

Life goes on. Just because madmen put their insanity to no good use doesn't mean I have to like switching clocks. Again.

I have taken some time this past week to observe Americans being ... well, Americans. Here are a couple of examples:

Example No. 1 -- It's a puzzle why a new convenience store would open practically next door to another convenience store, and it's even more of a conundrum why both stores would be the same chain. But that's what happened on North Sprigg Street.

I'm a fairly regular customer at the original convenience store because it's ... well, convenient.

The other morning I decided to visit the new store to see how it was different from its sister store. To be honest, the coffee tastes the same to me.

At the checkout, however, I was surprised when the cashier leaned over the counter and kissed the fellow in front of me.

Smacked him right on the lips.

Well, I thought, there's one big difference. No one at the other store ever got fresh with me.

When it was my turn to pay, I asked the pleasant young woman if every man got a kiss.

She had a good response: "Only if he's my husband."

So that's how I distinguish between the two convenience stores: kissing and non-kissing.

Example No. 2 -- My wife and I took advantage of the glorious fall day last Saturday and drove to the magnificent Arcadia Valley. If you haven't been recently, you ought to go see what's happening in Arcadia, Ironton and Pilot Knob. The towns are drawing artisans and artists, and there are plenty of interesting things to see.

But what I saw wasn't what I expected.

We stopped to eat at the restaurant across from the old fort in Pilot Knob. After paying, I went out to the parking lot while my wife went you know where.

There was a wonderful motorcycle parked near the door -- a three-wheeler with lots of shiny chrome and a teddy bear perched on the back.

While I was admiring the bike, an elderly gentleman with plaid trousers and a baseball cap came out of the restaurant. If he was a day under 80 I'll eat his baseball cap.

The old man walked over to the bike -- I thought to admire it like I was doing.

He took off his cap and reached into the bike's storage compartment and pulled out a helmet, which he put on.

"This is your bike?" I asked with amazement.

"Yep," he said.

Don't you just hate it when people you've never met before just want to talk, talk, talk?

I managed to learn he was from Herculaneum, Mo., which is on the Mississippi River north of Festus, Mo. -- a fur piece, as we say in Kelo Valley. He had been over to Steelville, Mo., that morning, just riding around and enjoying the day.

"Since the attack, I've been riding everywhere just to get away from the TV," he said.

Turns out he was a kindred spirit.

I'll bet he doesn't mess around with his clocks.

R. Joe Sullivan is the editor of the Southeast Missourian.