One of my nurses e-mailed me this picture:
It begs a few questions. Exactly what kind of incident prompted the posting of the sign? Do alligators consider us a delicacy? Are the alligators trained to lie in wait for unsuspecting wheelchair users? Is the sign intended as a warning…or a suggestion?
I leave for DC next Tuesday with the rest of the Humphrey Fellows. This trip has snuck up on me and I haven’t been giving it much thought. I’m not even sure what our itinerary will be while we’re there. I do know that we get a little time to ourselves to explore. I hope to check out the Mall at night, see at least some of the Smithsonian, and visit the FDR Memorial. Depending on my state of mind, I might try to get to the Holocaust Museum as well. I’m looking forward to some late-night discussions with my new friends and meeting some interesting people, so I’m sure it will be a good trip regardless of what we do.
I’ve often considered joining a book club, but something has always held me back. This article from local magazine The Rake expresses some of my misgivings. I don’t want to join a club where people discuss the book for fifteen minutes and then talk about familial goings-on for the rest of the meeting. I don’t want to join a club that assigns something from the Left Behind series or simply apes whatever Oprah is reading. And I don’t want to be the only guy in a group of women. On second thought, that might be okay under certain circumstances. In short, I guess I want it to be like one of my seminar classes in college. But I know that I’m not likely to find something like that in the real world. Maybe I should just quit my job and go back to grad school for my Ph.D. in English. Actually, I almost did that during a particularly dark and frustrating period in law school. There are times when I’m really nostalgic for the academic life. But having a regular paycheck is also kind of nice.
Maybe I should start my own book club. It will have a membership of one, thus ensuring that the meetings are always in accessible locations and that the books are ones I want to read.
In the 17th century, a Chinese playwright was trapped in a temple with a friend for several days because of a rainstorm. They set about creating a list of the happiest moments in life. I actually do something similar; keeping a mental catalog of moments when I was truly happy that I can turn to when things aren’t going so well. Here are a few:
As I write this, iTunes is transferring about 2,500 songs to my new iPod photo. I was originally just going to get a larger iPod, but the coolness factor of the color screen was simply too much to resist. Matt at the Apple Store was quite helpful and he also set me up with a Griffin iTalk so I can record meetings at work. I haven’t had a chance to load any photos yet, but I really like the ability to look at album art as my music plays. My sister inherited my old iPod after nearly two years of pestering me to get her one. She didn’t even know what an iPod was until she saw mine, so I’m partly to blame for her technolust. Now I need to find a cool case for my new gadget. It’s all about the bling-bling, baby.
Oh, and a special note to the City of Minneapolis. When plowing the streets after a snowfall, how about NOT creating three-foot drifts in front of the curb cuts? I got stuck in one such drift on the way home from the train station and I might still be stuck there if someone hadn’t helped my nurse drag me into the street.
I’m heading out soon to spend some of my tax refund. Mustn’t keep all the new toys waiting. A more detailed report may be forthcoming upon my return.
Ack, I need to get some new glasses. The “i” and the “l” on my on-screen keyboard are starting to look alarmingly similar. It’s been about seven years since I’ve had my eyes checked, so I’m probably overdue.
We’re finally getting our first major snowfall of the season. I’m still here at work, but nearly everyone else has left to fight their way through traffic. This one of those days when I’m really glad I don’t have a long commute. Downtown Minneapolis is only a fifteen-minute drive from here, although it might take a bit longer today. Some of my colleagues may be sitting in their cars for an hour or two before they reach home. I understand the appeal of suburban living, but I don’t think I could handle spending a fifth or a quarter of my waking hours stuck in traffic.
The disability community has been talking about the recent death of a woman with a disability in St. Paul. She was going to a wedding at the Conservatory in Como Park on Saturday evening and used a taxi to get there. You can read the details here, but she apparently was dropped off next to a locked door. She tried to cut across some uneven terrain and fell out of scooter. She was lying somewhere just out of plain sight and she froze to death. Now, some people are wondering why the taxi driver didn’t make sure she safely entered the Conservatory. Or why she didn’t use regular paratransit service, which has a door-to-door policy. It’s a tragic death, but I’m not sure all this hand-wringing will do much good. People with disabilities are certainly more vulnerable than the general population, but sometimes weird things happen against which there simply is no protection. Maybe this woman should have stuck to the sidewalk. Maybe she should have asked the driver to accompany her inside. The sequence of events that led to her death were freakish and singular, which isn’t very comforting. But I’m not sure what other conclusions can be drawn from this incident.
My friend Susannah has started a new blog to promote her novel-in-progress: Porn Happy. It features excerpts from her book and assorted links to all things carnal. Obviously, some of the material may be NSFW. Go give her some love.
If I was ambitious enough, I’d set up a separate site for my own book. Instead, you’ll have to settle for another excerpt…
I looked over my shoulder and saw Erin Chambers coming out of the library. She was pushing her walker in front of her and I saw that her hair had changed from blond with blue streaks to blond with pink streaks. “Hey, Erin. Nothing, just hanging out. What about you? I thought you were going home for the summer.”
She shook her head. “Nuh. I’m ‘aking a ‘ummer ‘lass.” She pushed the walker up to the bench and sat down next to me. She wore a floral-patterned summer dress that revealed a generous amount of cleavage. I had known Erin since she started at the U three years ago and, like most people, I at first had some trouble understanding her when she spoke to me. But unlike a lot of people with CP, Erin never showed any sign that she was embarrassed or uncomfortable with her speech impairment. She once told me that the only reason people couldn’t understand her was because they weren’t listening closely enough.
“Oh, yeah? What class?”
“‘Exual Pol’tics ‘n Moduhn Amm�American Cinema,” she said with a hint of irony.
“Uh huh. I think I’ve heard of this class. It’s just an excuse to watch porn all summer, isn’t it?”
She looked at me with her chocolate eyes like I had just uttered the most obvious statement in the history of humanity. “Why eh�else would I ‘ake it?” And then she tipped back her head and laughed that convulsive, gasping laugh that every person with CP seems to have. I’ve been at parties with Erin where people almost called 911 because they mistook her laugh for some kind of seizure.
The commotion caught the attention of the two guys playing Frisbee. They turned around and I could see their gaze linger on the swell of her breasts and her bare thighs. Erin must have noticed too, because she managed to stop laughing and give them a coy smile. “‘Ay, ‘uys!” she said. They waved back and resumed their game.
“You know them?” I asked.
“Nuh,” she said. Erin gave them another glance and shifted slightly so that her sundress rode up a little higher. “No’ yeh.”
“Slut,” I said and she gave me a playful shove. Erin had never had trouble hooking up with someone, male or female, whenever she had the urge. Which is to say that Erin got laid more times in one week than some people do all year. Her sexual adventurism had earned her an awed kind of respect from a lot of the other gimps at school, including me. A lot of us wondered how she managed to get sex whenever she wanted while the rest of us were struggling to just get a date for Friday night. Sure, she was cute and all, but it was something more than that. Somehow, in a matter of minutes, Erin was able to make people forget about her slurred speech and her walker and the occasional strand of drool hanging from her lip. All they saw was what she wanted them to see. All they saw was her brilliant smile and her streaked hair and her firm tits. I’ve gone with Erin to nightclubs and watched in disbelief as men and women crowded around her within minutes of our entrance. I felt like I was observing some Gimp Goddess of Love being worshiped by her followers.
I spoke to a class of Hamline students who were doing a J-term study of disability issues today. This is the second year I’ve done this and it’s always fun. They’ll probably remember me as the guy who talked about sex. It’s been my experience that people who are invited to speak on issues of disability tend to shy away from issues concerning sexuality, so I try to work it in if the audience is appropriate. Someday, I want to be known as the Dr. Ruth of sex and disability, minus the German accent. But to be an expert, I must do a hell of a lot more field research. Must figure out how to go about that.
Every two years I have my gastrostomy tube (G-tube) replaced. So today was the day. A doctor has to do it, so I went over to the U of M Endoscopy Clinic to have it done. I use a Bard button, which works well for me. It’s basically a short piece of plastic with a silicone mushroom at the end to keep it in place. It never gets yanked out accidentally, which is good. In fact, to pull it out, one needs almost superhuman strength. It’s a bit like pulling out a champagne cork. People always ask me if the procedure hurts. I can tolerate a fair amount of pain, so I’m probably not the best person to ask. On a scale of 1-10, changing a g-tube probably rates a 4-5. I’m not saying I’m the toughest cripple on the block. Once, I was catheterized…um…you know…down there…for a brief test. That was fifteen years ago and the thought of letting someone do that to me ever again still makes me whimper.
Anyway, here’s a picture of the Bard button. Just overlook the fact the accompanying article describes its use in a, er, dog. The things you find on the Web…