Hope Chair?

Back when I was a wee criplet wisp, about kindergarten-sized, I had a wee wisp of a wheelchair that was called either a Hoak chair or a Hope chair. I called it a Hoak chair because that’s what I thought the adults around me called it. But when I think back, I wonder if maybe they were calling it a Hope chair. I guess I’ll never know.

The Hoak/Hope chair was a two-wheeled thing that was pretty much a hand truck, like the kind beer truck drivers use to tote beer into a store. They load cases of beer onto the hand truck, tilt it back and push the cargo forward. Except the Hoak/Hope chair was a hand truck with a seat and seatbelt attached. Yep, someone sat me on the seat and buckled me up and toted me forward like cases of beer. Or sometimes they’d reach back and pull me forward from behind like a suitcase and I viewed the passing landscape rolling by backwards, like I was watching through a car rear window.

It must’ve been called a Hope chair because why would it be called a Hoak chair? Unless maybe it was invented by somebody named Hoak. And maybe this Hoak character had a crippled kid way back in the day when the only wheelchairs were those Frannklin Roosevelt models made of wood and wicker and they didn’t make them criplet-sized. And maybe Hoak was a beer truck driver and one day while hauling in the beer a cerebral light bulb went off. And Hoak named this humanitarian invention eponymously.

But then again, it could just as easily have been invented by somebody named Smith or Chang or Kowalski and they called it a Hope chair because it brought new Hope to criplets around the world. Because back in those days, that chair was probably the state of the art in criplet hauling devices.

I haven’t seen a Hoak/Hope chair in about 55 years. Thank God things have changed a lot and cripples don’t have to be hauled around in public in such an undignified manner anymore. Well, not unless we want to fly somewhere on one of the airlines. Then they take away our wheelchairs and stuff them in the luggage hole after they transfer us into an adult-sized Hoak/Hope chair. It’s not exactly designed for optimum crippled passenger comfort. It’s shaped like the stern lowercase letter h of some rigid, no-nonsense font. One size fits none.

The airlines call this chair a boarding or aisle chair. It must have been invented by somebody named Boarding or Aisle who delights in torturing cripples. Maybe they used to drive a beer truck.


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Disagreeing to Agree to Disagree

In civilized societies we engage in civilized debate. And sometimes, in the end, civilized people agree to disagree.

But screw that. I disagree. Agreeing to disagree is fine and dandy if you’re arguing about something like whether Coke tastes better than Pepsi. Because in the end, who cares? Civilized Person A can drink their Coke and Civilized Person B can drink their Pepsi and we can all still live happily ever after.

But suppose I’m flat on my back and somebody is stepping on my throat. I tell that person to stop stepping on my throat. That person says no. Like civilized Americans, we agree to disagree.

The problem is, I’ve still got somebody stepping on my throat. That’s not very civilized. So agreeing to disagree won’t cut it. I’ve got to do something to get that person to agree with my point of view that they need to get the hell off of my throat.

What’s that? In civilized societies people don’t step on each other’s throats? Well I remember a time when public transportation buses weren’t accessible to cripples who couldn’t climb three big honkin’ steps. That’s because back then public transit buses were designed with three big honkin’ steps right inside the entrance, just because somewhere along the line somebody decided that’s how public transit buses should be designed. I’m sure glad enough cripples disagreed to agree to disagree that that’s how things must always be.

And some people have been fucked over way worse than that by civilized society. How about coal miners? Jesus, they go down in a pitch black hole every day! And they used to be paid shit for doing it and if they got sick as a result they were tossed on the fucking scrap pile. The degree to which things have improved from that is only because the miners also got together and disagreed to agree to disagree that that’s how things always must be.

And what about slavery? What if we were all still agreeing to disagree with all those civilized slaveholders?

I’m getting too worked up. I need to go sit down.


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How to Get Someone to Call You a Bitter Cripple

If you’re a cripple and no one has ever called you bitter, it might be time for you to reevaluate your approach to life.

In order to be called bitter, there are certain things a cripple must do. First, you have to speak up about something. Look at Tiny Tim. Nobody has ever called him a bitter cripple because he never spoke up about a goddam thing. No matter what kind of shit was thrown at him, he always smiled and said, “God bless us everyone.”

But speaking up isn’t enough. Whatever it is that you speak up about has to piss off and somehow bring discomfort to the people who are calling you a bitter cripple. Nobody ever calls Miss Wheelchair America a bitter cripple. But Miss Wheelchair Americas speak up all the time. In order to become Miss Wheelchair America, you have to have a platform on which you take a stand on something. But pissing people off is suicide if you want to be Miss Wheelchair America, so that on which you take a stand has to be something which no one could possibly object to on paper. It has to be something like, “I believe in equal opportunity for all.” No shit, amigo. Who doesn’t? It’s when you start digging down into the specifics of the how-to that people get pissed off. So just keep it superficial and you’ll be all right.

Now let’s find a proper definition for bitter, vis-a-vis a bitter cripple. I like this Oxford definition: “angry, hurt, or resentful because of one's bad experiences or a sense of unjust treatment.” The people who call you a bitter cripple just because you spoke up about something always assume that what you’re angry and resentful about is that God made you crippled. They think you wish you could be uncrippled, like them. You are jealous of uncrippled people like them. It never occurs to them that maybe what you might resent is that you can’t speak up about something of substance without some shallow assholes feeling pissed off and uncomfortable and calling you a bitter cripple. Now there’s something to be bitter about!

Anyway, I’m proud to say I’ve been called a bitter cripple many times. I’ve earned the title. I display it front and center on my sash full of cripple merit badges.

If you’ve succeeded in being called a bitter cripple without first completing the necessary steps mentioned above, I applaud you. Please tell me your secret.




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The First All-Robot Nursing Home

I’ve found the perfect can’t-miss investment that’s sure to keep plenty of steady of income rolling in for me for the rest of my life! It’s the first nursing home that’s completely staffed by robots!

We all know that nursing homes are lucrative investments. Lots of people who own and operate them make millions. The only bummer is those pesky labor costs. That’s why the first all-robot nursing home is the answer to every investor’s most fervent prayer. I mean, when you think about it, what do humans who work in nursing homes do that robots can’t do nowadays?

The first such facility recently opened and I attended one of the weekly open houses/tours for potential investors. The only humans in the facility are the patients. I was particularly impressed by the work of the robot physical therapist. That no-nonsense robot marched right in, did a full range of motion on its human patient and marched right out. Very efficient.

The robot CNA was also remarkable. It gave its patent a sponge bath that would rival any human-administered sponge bath. It was also quite adept at giving enemas.

A robot nurse performed the more skilled medical tasks, such as inserting catheters. There was even a robot activities director, a perky little thing that was programmed to lead sing-alongs and call bingo games.

Some of the robots even multitask. One works as a cook, janitor and receptionist. Even our tour guide was a robot.

But the most amazing thing about these robots is that they work in 24/7 for no pay! Working is their sole purpose. They don’t take vacations. They don’t get sick or pregnant. They are unwaveringly dedicated to fulfilling the mission of the nursing home, which, of course, is to make money for the investors.

I know that this may seem like a risky investment in that all this impersonal automation could be a recipe for a whopper of a lawsuit. What if, for example, some sort of glitch happens in the physical therapist and while doing range of motion it rips the poor patient’s leg off? Stranger things have happened.

But don’t worry. All of us potential investors were assured that the lawyers defending the all-robot nursing home against lawsuits are still all humans, and cutthroat humans at that. This is the one job that’s too important to turn over to robots.

So I don’t know about you but I’m getting in on this opportunity on the ground floor. No doubt it’s the wave of the future.





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How Would I Breathe?

Every night I sleep hooked up to a ventilator. My sleep doctor says if I don’t do that my brain might get deprived of oxygen in my sleep and I might have a heart attack or stroke. That would really suck.

But you know what else really sucks? It costs $800 a month to rent my ventilator from a medical supply company. Fortunately for me, I’m married to a fine woman. She has everything a man like me could want. She’s smart, wise, kind. She has a killer sense of humor and a job with good health insurance.

But what if I wasn’t so fucking lucky that she lets me tag along in her life? Or what if that bit of luck runs out? Or what if she loses her job or whatever? How would I breathe?

If I wanted to keep pursuing my goal of not having a stroke or heart attack in my sleep, I’d have to figure out a way to come up with 800 a month forever. Because I can’t buy the ventilator or rent to buy it or anything like that. I can only rent it month by month forever. Those are the rules.

So I would probably adapt a strategy of saying fuck it. I’d just stop paying the rent. And I wouldn’t feel the teeniest bit guilty about it. My insurance company has probably given the medical supply company enough money to pay for 15 ventilators by now.

What would the medical supply company do? Would they send the ventilator repo man after me? Would he don clever disguises in an attempt to fool me into answering the door? “Congratulations! You’ve won $10 million dollars from Publishers Clearing House!”

Or maybe it works like an eviction. Maybe the sheriff shows up with a warrant to confiscate my ventilator.

But in order to avoid the bad optics of snatching away a crippled old man’s ventilator, the medical supply company would probably bide their time and wait for my machine to break. I'll come crawling back, just like they planned. And then they’d say if I want it fixed, pay up first! And if I don’t pay up they’ll bide their time again and wait for me to have a fatal stroke or heart attack. Either way, they win.

Maybe I should be proactive and get a big, mean dog to guard my ventilator.

Don’t you just love capitalism?



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Black Out

I’m sure we all have those scary moments when we look back on our lives and realize there are some things we did that we have no memory of doing. It’s like when you mysteriously wake up naked in bed next to a naked stranger and you’ve got a fresh new tattoo on your butt.

That kind of thing happened to me recently when I realized that even though I have absolutely no recollection of it, back when I was in high school I apparently took and passed a test on the U.S. Constitution. I mean, back in those days, the state required that in order to graduate high school, every student had to pass a test on the U.S. Constitution. I graduated high school so that must mean that somewhere along the line I did just that. The school from which I graduated was a state-operated boarding school for cripples which I affectionately refer to as the Sam Houston Institute of Technology (SHIT). Even the inmates of SHIT weren't exempt from learning about the U.S. Constitution before we could graduate. That was quite ironic because considering the crappy quality of the education at SHIT, we probably could have otherwise graduated from there without learning that 2 + 2 = 4.

But like I said, I don’t remember a damn thing about any Constitution test or about the Constitution itself. Ask me any question at all about the Constitution. I guarantee you I won’t know the answer. Go ahead, I dare you. Ask me! Article 3? Don’t ask me. I think the only person that knows less about the Constitution than I do is Clarence Thomas.

Having no recollection of that test or studying for it or anything is pretty scary. Because I wonder what would’ve happened if I hadn’t passed. Would I still be an inmate at SHIT? Would I be a 62-year-old sophomore? Would they have refused to let me go? That’s no joke to me because I have a recurring nightmare that I’m still stuck at SHIT. I’ve been there like for 50 years! All the other inmates are the same kids that were there when I was but they’re all still like 17-years-old.

I also get pretty scared when I wonder what other things I might have done while blacked out. So if I've done anything shitty to any of you out there that I probably don’t remember please let me know right away, especially if, as a result, I owe you money or I might be your dad. It will be good for me to realize that I owe you restitution, so I can make every effort to avoid you.



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Selling Your Metaphorical Cheeseburger and the Philosophical Importance of Pez

There’s one thing all human beings have in common. Sooner or later, we all have to get out there and sell our cheeseburger, so to speak.

It’s sure true that not all metaphorical cheeseburgers are created equal. The divine creator endowed some people with cheeseburgers that are more succulent and alluring than others. All they have to do is put their cheeseburger out there and everyone jumps all over it. Their cheeseburgers practically sell themselves.

But for the rest of us, we have to figure out how to convince others to buy our seemingly ordinary cheeseburger, whatever our particular cheeseburger may be. What strategy shall we employ?

It’s like Pez. Pez is just a shitty little hunk of sugar nobody would buy if it was wrapped in a package like gum. But if you put Pez in a plastic dispenser with the head of a clown or a Marvel comics superhero on top, kids eat it up. I would say Pez proves that what matters most is not what you’re selling but how you sell it. But that blanket conclusion may not withstand deep philosophical scrutiny. Would the dispenser be as effective if it was full of broccoli?

But for the most part, successfully selling your cheeseburger is in the delivery. Here in Chicago we have one of those Rainforest Cafes. Right outside the entrance are a couple giant plaster toadstools. Inside the Rainforest Café it’s a climate-controlled jungle, with plaster elephants and such. It’s all the fun stuff about being in the jungle without the scary stuff. There aren’t venomous snakes slithering around your feet or anything like that. The Rainforest Cafe is pretty hoaky, but who can blame whoever thought it up? It's all just an elaborate strategy for selling a cheeseburger. Desperate times require desperate measures.

It’s like this Abe-Lincoln-themed restaurant I went too once. The décor was pseudo 1860s and the menu items all had a Lincoln twist, like Mary Todd fries. I resisted the urge to ask the hostess if I could sit in the John Wilkes booth. I figured she’d heard that one a million times before. But in an Abe-Lincoln-themed restaurant, you can call a cheeseburger something like an emancipation burger and that makes it special, even though it’s still just a cheeseburger.

Comparing living life to trying to sell a cheeseburger may seem like a cynical outlook to some. But I disagree. At least I didn’t compare it to trying to sell broccoli.




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