I’m coming home at night. There’s a skittering in the dark. It’s a skittering dog. A dog on the loose. No leash, no human anywhere. A cocker-spaniel-sized dog. But the dog’s wearing a bandit mask.
A raccoon! I freeze! In the immediate background are the lights, the neon of downtown Chicago. In the foreground, a raccoon closing in.
The raccoon darts to the left and disappears under a parked car. But I still freeze. They say raccoons are ornery, nasty. If I move it might pounce. Can my motorized wheelchair outrun an agitated raccoon? The front door of my building is only 10 feet away. Do I creep forward with caution or go full throttle?
I opt for top speed and make it to the warmth of my lobby without objection from the raccoon. I’m safe but damage has been done. There’s a permanent psychological scar. This time it was just a raccoon but what will it be next time? A coyote? A couple summers ago at the Quiznos in downtown Chicago, just a few blocks from my home, a coyote walked in. It was hot so the Quiznos' door was open and the coyote pranced in and plopped down in the beverage cooler to escape the heat. The animal control people took it away and they told the press they remove coyotes from the city about 15 times a year.
People spot coyotes in the city all the time. So what happens if I turn the corner someday and there’s a coyote? A low, slow target like me makes for a quick and easy lunch for an urban coyote on the go. Maybe my wheelchair can outrun a raccoon, but what about a coyote?
The only way I might ever feel safe on the streets again is if I carry around a rubber alligator at all times. I visited a corporate headquarters once. It was a pristine, tranquil, gated suburban compound with a placid pond as its centerpiece. But every year the serenity was shattered by flocks of migrating geese who loved to frolic on the pond and shit on the cars. The corporate hierarchy faced a dilemma. How could they satisfy the growing clamor for un-shat-upon cars while avoiding the public relations nightmare that would inevitably accompany a goose massacre? Somehow they discovered rubber alligators that serve as scarecrows for geese. They put rubber alligators on the pond and the geese stayed away.
So maybe if I menacingly shake a rubber alligator it might scare away a coyote. Or maybe it might provoke the coyote because I tried to insult its intelligence and make matters worse. Because it wasn’t long before the geese got wise to the corporate trickery and they rode the backs of the rubber alligators and shit on the cars with renewed vigor.
But even if a rubber alligator would terrify away a coyote, would it even faze a cougar? Because a couple years ago Chicago police shot and killed a 150-pound cougar that was prowling around outside a neighborhood elementary school. What happens if a slow-moving cripple like me encounters a cougar? I suppose I could find some tips on the internet on how to scare away a cougar but I won’t bother to look it up for the same reason I don’t bother to listen when flight attendants give emergency evacuation instructions. It’s all moot because if I’m on a plane and the pilot announces “Ladies and gentlemen we’re having some trouble with….” as soon as I hear that I’ll freak out and die of a heart attack right there on the spot. Even if the sentence turns out to be “Ladies and gentlemen we’re having some trouble with the latrine,” it’ll be too late. I’ll already be dead. If you ever see the headline PLANE LANDS SAFELY, MAN DIES ANYWAY you’ll know it’s me.
The same applies to cougars. If I ever find myself face to face with a cougar, I’ll instantly freak out and die.
Spring is coming, but all the joy is missing from the anticipation. When the glaciers recede I’ll be free to roam the city again. But since my raccoon confrontation I’ll always be wary of what other beasts lurk. There’s nowhere to hide, not even in Quiznos.
Life is hard when you’re both a cripple and an incurable chickenshit like me.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Beware my Joystick
I am a house of cards. I may look steady and sturdy and ready for business. But I am a delicately balanced, perilously perched creature. It’s easy to upset my fragile equilibrium. Approach me the wrong way and somebody might get hurt.
Senator Tom Harkin (D-Iowa) almost found this out the hard way. He has no idea how close he came. He approached me wrong and disturbed my equilibrium and he nearly paid the price. He was working the crowd at a political rally. He grabbed my right hand in his hefty paws and shook it. Now normally when someone reaches to shake my hand alarm bells blare in my head because I drive my motorized wheelchair with my right hand and the joystick that moves my chair is right there. Two scenarios are likely: 1) The shaker puts their hand on my joystick and my chair goes flying 2) The shaker releases my hand and my hand drops like a dead bird onto my joystick and my chair goes flying. (As part of my morning routine, the person assisting me positions my wrist on the precise spot on my wheelchair armrest from which I can operate my joystick. If something dislodges my hand from that exact spot—a sharp bump or dip in the pavement, a strong gust of wind, a surprise handshake—I may not have the wrist strength to move my hand back. So wherever my hand lands it lies.)
When I see a handshake coming, I quickly push the button behind the joy stick that shuts off the wheelchair power. But if it’s a hit and run handshake like Harkin’s was, I don’t always get to the button in time.
Harkin dropped my hand on my joystick. A joystick does not think for itself. It does what it’s told to do without regard for ridiculousness or danger. It’s like a sycophant, a codependent, a blue-collar republican or a computer. A joystick sends the chair in whatever direction the hand pushes the joystick, even if it’s off a cliff. (Case in point: My quad friend Susan was acting in a play. Every performance, she and another character danced. One night the other character leapt onto her lap. His leg landed on her joystick. They both drove off the edge of the stage. The show stopped. The paramedics came. Susan broke her leg.)
Harkin dropped my hand on my joystick and my chair shot off to the left, away from him. But had I shot to the right I would have rammed his shin and taken his legs out from under him. And he may well have landed on my lap and the two of us may have barreled through the streets of D.C. for miles on a runaway wheelchair, upending fruit carts and scattering flocks of tourists. And I would be writing this from Guantanamo.
And then there’s those grabby little kids. Someday I’m going to flatten one of them too. I can see those kids coming. They’re almost always boys and about age two or three, just old enough to run around like maniacs, grabbing everything in sight. They’ve got that fiendish little grabby-ass look in their eyes. They love to grab joy sticks. Someday I won’t get to the power button in time and one of those kids will become a statistic.
Someday someone will hug me and it will end in tragedy too. The alarms also blare when I see a hug coming at me because the hugger will inevitably lean against the joystick and send us both careening on a demolition derby ride. If you must hug me, approach me from the left. There’s no joystick there.
The woman who knows best how terrifying it is to approach me wrong is the nurse who took my blood pressure once. I thought the wheelchair power was off but it wasn’t and she snagged my joystick with the stethoscope. And when my wheelchair lurched forward she bolted from her chair and backed away. But she had my joystick snagged good so wherever she ran in a frantic attempt to escape, I involuntarily followed. She screamed because suddenly this crazed cripple was chasing her around the tiny exam room at full speed, ricocheting like a pinball. The wild chase ended abruptly when I slammed into an exam table. When she took my blood pressure it was something like 300 over 200.
I’m a dangerous, volatile man. Congress should require that I be stamped with a surgeon general’s warning: Warning. This man is a cripple. Approach with caution. Hugging him or shaking his hand can be hazardous to your health.
Senator Tom Harkin (D-Iowa) almost found this out the hard way. He has no idea how close he came. He approached me wrong and disturbed my equilibrium and he nearly paid the price. He was working the crowd at a political rally. He grabbed my right hand in his hefty paws and shook it. Now normally when someone reaches to shake my hand alarm bells blare in my head because I drive my motorized wheelchair with my right hand and the joystick that moves my chair is right there. Two scenarios are likely: 1) The shaker puts their hand on my joystick and my chair goes flying 2) The shaker releases my hand and my hand drops like a dead bird onto my joystick and my chair goes flying. (As part of my morning routine, the person assisting me positions my wrist on the precise spot on my wheelchair armrest from which I can operate my joystick. If something dislodges my hand from that exact spot—a sharp bump or dip in the pavement, a strong gust of wind, a surprise handshake—I may not have the wrist strength to move my hand back. So wherever my hand lands it lies.)
When I see a handshake coming, I quickly push the button behind the joy stick that shuts off the wheelchair power. But if it’s a hit and run handshake like Harkin’s was, I don’t always get to the button in time.
Harkin dropped my hand on my joystick. A joystick does not think for itself. It does what it’s told to do without regard for ridiculousness or danger. It’s like a sycophant, a codependent, a blue-collar republican or a computer. A joystick sends the chair in whatever direction the hand pushes the joystick, even if it’s off a cliff. (Case in point: My quad friend Susan was acting in a play. Every performance, she and another character danced. One night the other character leapt onto her lap. His leg landed on her joystick. They both drove off the edge of the stage. The show stopped. The paramedics came. Susan broke her leg.)
Harkin dropped my hand on my joystick and my chair shot off to the left, away from him. But had I shot to the right I would have rammed his shin and taken his legs out from under him. And he may well have landed on my lap and the two of us may have barreled through the streets of D.C. for miles on a runaway wheelchair, upending fruit carts and scattering flocks of tourists. And I would be writing this from Guantanamo.
And then there’s those grabby little kids. Someday I’m going to flatten one of them too. I can see those kids coming. They’re almost always boys and about age two or three, just old enough to run around like maniacs, grabbing everything in sight. They’ve got that fiendish little grabby-ass look in their eyes. They love to grab joy sticks. Someday I won’t get to the power button in time and one of those kids will become a statistic.
Someday someone will hug me and it will end in tragedy too. The alarms also blare when I see a hug coming at me because the hugger will inevitably lean against the joystick and send us both careening on a demolition derby ride. If you must hug me, approach me from the left. There’s no joystick there.
The woman who knows best how terrifying it is to approach me wrong is the nurse who took my blood pressure once. I thought the wheelchair power was off but it wasn’t and she snagged my joystick with the stethoscope. And when my wheelchair lurched forward she bolted from her chair and backed away. But she had my joystick snagged good so wherever she ran in a frantic attempt to escape, I involuntarily followed. She screamed because suddenly this crazed cripple was chasing her around the tiny exam room at full speed, ricocheting like a pinball. The wild chase ended abruptly when I slammed into an exam table. When she took my blood pressure it was something like 300 over 200.
I’m a dangerous, volatile man. Congress should require that I be stamped with a surgeon general’s warning: Warning. This man is a cripple. Approach with caution. Hugging him or shaking his hand can be hazardous to your health.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Babushkanomics
When you’re crippled and you fly on the airlines you give up your wheelchair and they haul you to and from your seat in this thing they call an aisle chair. It’s shaped like the letter L on wheels. It’s only about a foot wide so it will fit through the narrow aisle of the plane. They strap you in like you’re about to be executed. My friend Greg Smith who’s crippled and flies a lot calls it the Hannibal Lecter chair.
When they’re hauling a cripple onto a plane, it looks like two guys delivering a fridge, with the cripple being the fridge. One guy walks backward, pulling the hand truck, while the other pushes from the front, hunched.
They might as well throw you in a wheelbarrow. That’s how comfortable and dignified it feels. So boarding a plane is not for cripples with a low embarrassment threshold. When they drag you past the first class passengers, bound like a captured fugitive, you have to have a large capacity for laughing off being conspicuous.
The last time I flew, while I was being strapped into the aisle chair, I heard the flight attendant behind me talking to Rahnee. The flight attendant said, “It’s a slow life in a fast world, isn’t it?” She said it with a sad tone of head-shaking pity.
She was talking about what a shame it is that it takes me so long to get off a plane. Rahnee just said “hmmm”, or something diplomatically dismissive like that. I felt like saying, “I’m not always this slow. I move as fast as the rest of them when they don’t take my damn wheelchair away.”
But I had something bigger on my mind. I was jazzed, cautiously jazzed, because I felt like I was on the verge of a great discovery. Maybe I had finally figured out a way around paying those fascist bag fees airlines charge.
I come from an economic school called Babushkanomics. I can’t help it. It’s how I was raised. It’s my mother’s Slovak blood. Our proud ancestors are the sturdy Eastern Europeans you see riding the Archer bus in Chicago, wearing a babushka head scarf and pulling along a two-wheeled wire basket just big enough to hold a bag full of groceries.
Those of us with a babushka soul are proud of our frugality. We find great joy in stretching a buck as far as we can. We hate wasting money. We hate being ripped off. We’ll drive 50 blocks out of the way to avoid paying for parking. When I was a kid and we went to ballgames and drive-in movies, my mother smuggled in pop corn and sandwiches. To a disciple of Babushkanomics, the symbol of all that is evil is a Rolex watch: “Wait a minute! You want me to pay three grand for a watch that tells me the same damn time as a Timex?”
I get similarly riled when I see a sign in a bank window that says Totally Free Checking: “Wait a minute! You’re gonna take my money and invest it so you make even more money and not charge me for it? Gee thanks! You should put up a sign that says ‘Open a Checking Account Here and We Won’t Kick You in the Balls.’”
Sullivan likes to give me endless shit about what a cheap ass I am, but he’s got a lot of room to talk. He comes from Bridgeport, the working class, corner tavern, beef stew, Friday night church bingo neighborhood where Babushkanomics originated. When the Bulls won their first championship, Sullivan bought a t-shirt that said NBA Champions 1991. But when the Bulls won their second championship, all Sullivan bought was a black marker. And next to 1991 he drew in a comma and 92.
When they unstrapped me from the aisle chair in the jet way, the flight attendant watched on, still looking sad. I said to her, “Hey you know when the passengers couldn’t fit their bags in the overhead and you took their bags away to check them through? How do you charge them for that?”
“We don’t,” the flight attendant said. “It’s complimentary.”
My face must’ve lit up right then because Rahnee gave me a look, that don’t-you-even-think-about-it look with her downcast eyebrows. She knew exactly what I was thinking: I did it! I beat the system! Now whenever I fly I’m gonna insist on carrying everything on, even if it’s a side of beef! And when it doesn’t fit in the overhead I’ll just say Ooooops and they’ll take it away and check it through for free!
But Rahnee gets embarrassed by my incessant attempts to practice Babushkanomics. When I proudly hand the waitress my two-for-one restaurant coupon, she hides behind the menu. I’ve given up suggesting that we drive around the block once or twice before heading for valet parking.
So for the sake of matrimonial harmony, I won’t be able to put my exciting discovery into action. But you can, my friends! Carry it on and beat the fascists at their own game!
When they’re hauling a cripple onto a plane, it looks like two guys delivering a fridge, with the cripple being the fridge. One guy walks backward, pulling the hand truck, while the other pushes from the front, hunched.
They might as well throw you in a wheelbarrow. That’s how comfortable and dignified it feels. So boarding a plane is not for cripples with a low embarrassment threshold. When they drag you past the first class passengers, bound like a captured fugitive, you have to have a large capacity for laughing off being conspicuous.
The last time I flew, while I was being strapped into the aisle chair, I heard the flight attendant behind me talking to Rahnee. The flight attendant said, “It’s a slow life in a fast world, isn’t it?” She said it with a sad tone of head-shaking pity.
She was talking about what a shame it is that it takes me so long to get off a plane. Rahnee just said “hmmm”, or something diplomatically dismissive like that. I felt like saying, “I’m not always this slow. I move as fast as the rest of them when they don’t take my damn wheelchair away.”
But I had something bigger on my mind. I was jazzed, cautiously jazzed, because I felt like I was on the verge of a great discovery. Maybe I had finally figured out a way around paying those fascist bag fees airlines charge.
I come from an economic school called Babushkanomics. I can’t help it. It’s how I was raised. It’s my mother’s Slovak blood. Our proud ancestors are the sturdy Eastern Europeans you see riding the Archer bus in Chicago, wearing a babushka head scarf and pulling along a two-wheeled wire basket just big enough to hold a bag full of groceries.
Those of us with a babushka soul are proud of our frugality. We find great joy in stretching a buck as far as we can. We hate wasting money. We hate being ripped off. We’ll drive 50 blocks out of the way to avoid paying for parking. When I was a kid and we went to ballgames and drive-in movies, my mother smuggled in pop corn and sandwiches. To a disciple of Babushkanomics, the symbol of all that is evil is a Rolex watch: “Wait a minute! You want me to pay three grand for a watch that tells me the same damn time as a Timex?”
I get similarly riled when I see a sign in a bank window that says Totally Free Checking: “Wait a minute! You’re gonna take my money and invest it so you make even more money and not charge me for it? Gee thanks! You should put up a sign that says ‘Open a Checking Account Here and We Won’t Kick You in the Balls.’”
Sullivan likes to give me endless shit about what a cheap ass I am, but he’s got a lot of room to talk. He comes from Bridgeport, the working class, corner tavern, beef stew, Friday night church bingo neighborhood where Babushkanomics originated. When the Bulls won their first championship, Sullivan bought a t-shirt that said NBA Champions 1991. But when the Bulls won their second championship, all Sullivan bought was a black marker. And next to 1991 he drew in a comma and 92.
When they unstrapped me from the aisle chair in the jet way, the flight attendant watched on, still looking sad. I said to her, “Hey you know when the passengers couldn’t fit their bags in the overhead and you took their bags away to check them through? How do you charge them for that?”
“We don’t,” the flight attendant said. “It’s complimentary.”
My face must’ve lit up right then because Rahnee gave me a look, that don’t-you-even-think-about-it look with her downcast eyebrows. She knew exactly what I was thinking: I did it! I beat the system! Now whenever I fly I’m gonna insist on carrying everything on, even if it’s a side of beef! And when it doesn’t fit in the overhead I’ll just say Ooooops and they’ll take it away and check it through for free!
But Rahnee gets embarrassed by my incessant attempts to practice Babushkanomics. When I proudly hand the waitress my two-for-one restaurant coupon, she hides behind the menu. I’ve given up suggesting that we drive around the block once or twice before heading for valet parking.
So for the sake of matrimonial harmony, I won’t be able to put my exciting discovery into action. But you can, my friends! Carry it on and beat the fascists at their own game!
Friday, January 28, 2011
Making Out With Eleanor Roosevelt
My independence stick was a dowel rod about three feet long and one half inch in diameter. Protruding from the tip was a small brass hook. Covering the hook was a makeshift sleeve of soft translucent-brown rubber that looked like a snippet of catheter tube circa 1969.
Because I had my independence stick, that meant I had my elevator independence, which meant I could use the elevators unescorted. That’s how it worked at the state boarding school for cripples. I went there from 1969 to 1974. Let’s call the boarding school the Sam Houston Institute of Technology. There’s no reason not to call it by its real name. I just like the more appropriate acronym that forms. It captures the quality of the education at the cripple boarding school.
The way to acquire your elevator independence at SHIT was to prove to an occupational therapist that you could operate the elevator. If you couldn’t reach the buttons then you tried various lengths of independence sticks until you found one right for you. The hook was there so you could pull down the red switch on top that stopped the elevator. It was to be used only in case of emergency. And the catheter tube sleeve was there so the hook wouldn’t be so slippery against the plastic buttons and switch.
The shorter your independence stick the cooler you were. In this regard they were unlike penises. If your independence stick was long that meant you weren’t strong like those paraplegic basketball players with their gorilla upper bodies and limp puppet legs. Those guys could reach up to all the buttons and the switch without using an independence stick at all.
My independence stick was probably the longest independence stick in the entire recorded history of independence sticks. It was embarrassing. But with it, I was a free man. I could use the elevator unaccompanied, as long as I told one of the “houseparents” where I was going and got their permission. But my independence stick, and thus my elevator independence, could be easily taken away if I ”abused” my independence by going to an unauthorized area, using the elevator without permission or violating any other of a long list of stated and unstated rules. Using the elevator at SHIT wasn’t an inalienable right, you know. It was a privilege.
But it was right after I earned my independence stick that I started making out with Eleanor Roosevelt. (SMART ASS CRIPPLE ALIAS ALERT! Once again we will use a pseudonym so as not to out the innocent. If it was to become known in the circles of the real “Eleanor Roosevelt” that she was once an inmate in state cripple boarding school making out with the likes of me, it could do irreparable damage to her personal and professional reputation and maybe even ruin her credit rating.)
Eleanor Roosevelt was an African American girl in a wheelchair. She had a big swooping scoliosis. She was 12. I was 13. I think it was my independence stick that turned her on about me. She never talked to me much until I had one.
Once I had an independence stick she asked me if I wanted to make out. Sure! I’d never made out before. But where? How could we possibly find a secret place to make out in a cripple boarding school? Eleanor Roosevelt lured me over to the elevator. When the coast was clear, she pushed the button. The door opened. She went inside. I followed though my stomach burned with fear. Already I was abusing my independence. Not only was I going to an unauthorized area without permission, but Eleanor Roosevelt was too young to have elevator independence. You had to be 13.
But I couldn’t resist. Eleanor Roosevelt was a wicked temptress. Like a love zombie, I handed her my independence stick. She pushed a button but when we were between floors she pulled down the switch with the hook and the elevator stopped with a bounce.
And that’s where we made out. Eleanor Roosevelt was cool and in control, like she’d made out a thousand times before. But I was full of hot confusion. I was actually making out, which made me as cool as or even cooler than those paraplegics! But I was sure to pay a harsh price. Any second now the escape hatch on the ceiling of the elevator was going to open and a stern houseparent would descend in on a rope, seize my independence stick and break it over her knee.
Eleanor Roosevelt and I made out in the cripple boarding school elevator four of five times. But each time I was like a nervous cat, popping my head up and looking around wide-eyed with each little real or imagined sound from beyond.
I guess that’s why Eleanor Roosevelt soon lost interest in making out with me in the elevator. What did she expect from a guy with such a long independence stick?
And then poof, she was gone, transferred out to another school.
I never saw Eleanor Roosevelt again.
Because I had my independence stick, that meant I had my elevator independence, which meant I could use the elevators unescorted. That’s how it worked at the state boarding school for cripples. I went there from 1969 to 1974. Let’s call the boarding school the Sam Houston Institute of Technology. There’s no reason not to call it by its real name. I just like the more appropriate acronym that forms. It captures the quality of the education at the cripple boarding school.
The way to acquire your elevator independence at SHIT was to prove to an occupational therapist that you could operate the elevator. If you couldn’t reach the buttons then you tried various lengths of independence sticks until you found one right for you. The hook was there so you could pull down the red switch on top that stopped the elevator. It was to be used only in case of emergency. And the catheter tube sleeve was there so the hook wouldn’t be so slippery against the plastic buttons and switch.
The shorter your independence stick the cooler you were. In this regard they were unlike penises. If your independence stick was long that meant you weren’t strong like those paraplegic basketball players with their gorilla upper bodies and limp puppet legs. Those guys could reach up to all the buttons and the switch without using an independence stick at all.
My independence stick was probably the longest independence stick in the entire recorded history of independence sticks. It was embarrassing. But with it, I was a free man. I could use the elevator unaccompanied, as long as I told one of the “houseparents” where I was going and got their permission. But my independence stick, and thus my elevator independence, could be easily taken away if I ”abused” my independence by going to an unauthorized area, using the elevator without permission or violating any other of a long list of stated and unstated rules. Using the elevator at SHIT wasn’t an inalienable right, you know. It was a privilege.
But it was right after I earned my independence stick that I started making out with Eleanor Roosevelt. (SMART ASS CRIPPLE ALIAS ALERT! Once again we will use a pseudonym so as not to out the innocent. If it was to become known in the circles of the real “Eleanor Roosevelt” that she was once an inmate in state cripple boarding school making out with the likes of me, it could do irreparable damage to her personal and professional reputation and maybe even ruin her credit rating.)
Eleanor Roosevelt was an African American girl in a wheelchair. She had a big swooping scoliosis. She was 12. I was 13. I think it was my independence stick that turned her on about me. She never talked to me much until I had one.
Once I had an independence stick she asked me if I wanted to make out. Sure! I’d never made out before. But where? How could we possibly find a secret place to make out in a cripple boarding school? Eleanor Roosevelt lured me over to the elevator. When the coast was clear, she pushed the button. The door opened. She went inside. I followed though my stomach burned with fear. Already I was abusing my independence. Not only was I going to an unauthorized area without permission, but Eleanor Roosevelt was too young to have elevator independence. You had to be 13.
But I couldn’t resist. Eleanor Roosevelt was a wicked temptress. Like a love zombie, I handed her my independence stick. She pushed a button but when we were between floors she pulled down the switch with the hook and the elevator stopped with a bounce.
And that’s where we made out. Eleanor Roosevelt was cool and in control, like she’d made out a thousand times before. But I was full of hot confusion. I was actually making out, which made me as cool as or even cooler than those paraplegics! But I was sure to pay a harsh price. Any second now the escape hatch on the ceiling of the elevator was going to open and a stern houseparent would descend in on a rope, seize my independence stick and break it over her knee.
Eleanor Roosevelt and I made out in the cripple boarding school elevator four of five times. But each time I was like a nervous cat, popping my head up and looking around wide-eyed with each little real or imagined sound from beyond.
I guess that’s why Eleanor Roosevelt soon lost interest in making out with me in the elevator. What did she expect from a guy with such a long independence stick?
And then poof, she was gone, transferred out to another school.
I never saw Eleanor Roosevelt again.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Oprah's Death Squads
My sister called me with the terrible news. The day we’d dreaded had finally arrived.
“Oprah’s doing a cripple show!” my sister said. This was way back before Oprah was Oprah. She was host of a local show called A.M. Chicago. But before Oprah was Oprah, she was still Oprah. We knew what everybody knows today, that the only kind of cripple Oprah will ever have as a guest is the super heroic cripple.
My sister had tickets because she worked at Access Living, the center for independent living in Chicago. Access Living is run by cripples for cripples and they do a lot of activism. “Somebody’s got to go and be in the audience,” my sister said. Someone’s got to go and keep the super heroic cripple stuff from getting out of hand.
If you’re wondering what’s so bad about being super heroic, well, how would you like it if everywhere you went, everybody expected you to act super heroic? It gets real oppressive real fast. But to be fair, those people who always expect cripples to be super heroic are easy to please. They think every little thing we do is super heroic, like eating breakfast. Somehow, in spite of the obstacles we face, we still manage to find the strength and courage to eat breakfast.
My mission was to be the living breathing counterbalance to the super heroic cripple. It was a mission I was reluctant to accept because even back then I feared Oprah’s death squads. We all knew about Oprah’s infamous secret police and their sworn allegiance to upholding her image. If you crossed the line with Oprah, they might take you down.
But someone had to do it so I went down to the little gray studio at Channel 7. There were cripples of all shapes and sizes lined up to get in—people on crutches,Down Syndrome kids, deaf, blind. It looked like fucking Lourdes!
Showtime!
Oprah proudly announced the theme of today’s show: People Who Have Overcome Horrific Odds!
The first guest was a woman with no arms. They rolled a video montage of the woman driving a car with her feet, changing her baby’s diapers with her feet, doing with her feet everything the fully-limbed do with their hands.
The audience was so smitten by this courageous woman that I wondered if I was the only one here who was educated in segregated gimp schools. I met tons of people with no arms at the gimp schools and the one I remember best was an ass hole bully, a thalidomide kid named Paul. All he had was one finger growing out of each shoulder. But he could kick like a mule so he liked to kick people just for laughs. He kicked me in the knee once and it hurt like a sonuvabitch. Paul did everything with his feet too—fed himself, lit and smoked cigarettes, shuffled and dealt cards. He even gave people the finger with his middle toe. In the face of horrific odds, he still managed to find a way to flip people off.
That’s what I’ll say, I thought, if Oprah brings the microphone my way. I’ll say: “I knew a kid with no arms and he was an ass hole.” Guest 2 was in the spotlight. There was nothing obviously crippled about her. Her face was a little discolored and taut like she was wearing a mask. She had been burned in a fire but she still had the strength to be out and about in spite of her obvious scars.
There was a kid with a burn-scarred face at one of the gimp schools too. His nose and lips were smeared like he was wearing a nylon stocking over his head. But why was he sent to the gimp school? He could run and jump and see and hear. He was sent to gimp school because he scared normal people. But whose problem was that, his or theirs? Maybe those who couldn’t take it should have been sent away. Without the hypernormals around trying to make us, the obviously scarred, feel ugly, going about our daily business wouldn’t have to be a super heroic feat.
The audience was so worked up to a state of hallelujah by the enduring spirits of the overcomers that I gave up my goal shifting the tide. I felt like the harried protagonist of every zombie movie who just wants to escape before they make him into one of them. But Oprah was working the crowd. The woman in an Amigo scooter next to me was seized by the rapture and was waving her arms to flag Oprah down! Oprah approached! The camera swung our way! I was panic stricken! I might be seen! My smart ass friends will never let me live it down! But I couldn’t flee! I was landlocked in a sea of cripples!
So I ducked!
If they ever rerun that show, you’ll see in the background behind Oprah a man in a wheelchair bent full forward with his hands clasped behind his head like he’s bracing for an atomic blast. That’s me.
During the commercial break I got the hell out. It caused a major disruption because a lot of cripples had to be uprooted but I said I had to go to the bathroom bad so they moved.
So far I’ve eluded the death squads. And now that I’ve published this, if I disappear, you’ll know what happened.
(Attention Oprah fans. Address hate email to asksmartasscripple@gmail.com. We've hired extra staff to handle the flood and brought in dogs specially trained to sniff out letter bombs.)
“Oprah’s doing a cripple show!” my sister said. This was way back before Oprah was Oprah. She was host of a local show called A.M. Chicago. But before Oprah was Oprah, she was still Oprah. We knew what everybody knows today, that the only kind of cripple Oprah will ever have as a guest is the super heroic cripple.
My sister had tickets because she worked at Access Living, the center for independent living in Chicago. Access Living is run by cripples for cripples and they do a lot of activism. “Somebody’s got to go and be in the audience,” my sister said. Someone’s got to go and keep the super heroic cripple stuff from getting out of hand.
If you’re wondering what’s so bad about being super heroic, well, how would you like it if everywhere you went, everybody expected you to act super heroic? It gets real oppressive real fast. But to be fair, those people who always expect cripples to be super heroic are easy to please. They think every little thing we do is super heroic, like eating breakfast. Somehow, in spite of the obstacles we face, we still manage to find the strength and courage to eat breakfast.
My mission was to be the living breathing counterbalance to the super heroic cripple. It was a mission I was reluctant to accept because even back then I feared Oprah’s death squads. We all knew about Oprah’s infamous secret police and their sworn allegiance to upholding her image. If you crossed the line with Oprah, they might take you down.
But someone had to do it so I went down to the little gray studio at Channel 7. There were cripples of all shapes and sizes lined up to get in—people on crutches,Down Syndrome kids, deaf, blind. It looked like fucking Lourdes!
Showtime!
Oprah proudly announced the theme of today’s show: People Who Have Overcome Horrific Odds!
The first guest was a woman with no arms. They rolled a video montage of the woman driving a car with her feet, changing her baby’s diapers with her feet, doing with her feet everything the fully-limbed do with their hands.
The audience was so smitten by this courageous woman that I wondered if I was the only one here who was educated in segregated gimp schools. I met tons of people with no arms at the gimp schools and the one I remember best was an ass hole bully, a thalidomide kid named Paul. All he had was one finger growing out of each shoulder. But he could kick like a mule so he liked to kick people just for laughs. He kicked me in the knee once and it hurt like a sonuvabitch. Paul did everything with his feet too—fed himself, lit and smoked cigarettes, shuffled and dealt cards. He even gave people the finger with his middle toe. In the face of horrific odds, he still managed to find a way to flip people off.
That’s what I’ll say, I thought, if Oprah brings the microphone my way. I’ll say: “I knew a kid with no arms and he was an ass hole.” Guest 2 was in the spotlight. There was nothing obviously crippled about her. Her face was a little discolored and taut like she was wearing a mask. She had been burned in a fire but she still had the strength to be out and about in spite of her obvious scars.
There was a kid with a burn-scarred face at one of the gimp schools too. His nose and lips were smeared like he was wearing a nylon stocking over his head. But why was he sent to the gimp school? He could run and jump and see and hear. He was sent to gimp school because he scared normal people. But whose problem was that, his or theirs? Maybe those who couldn’t take it should have been sent away. Without the hypernormals around trying to make us, the obviously scarred, feel ugly, going about our daily business wouldn’t have to be a super heroic feat.
The audience was so worked up to a state of hallelujah by the enduring spirits of the overcomers that I gave up my goal shifting the tide. I felt like the harried protagonist of every zombie movie who just wants to escape before they make him into one of them. But Oprah was working the crowd. The woman in an Amigo scooter next to me was seized by the rapture and was waving her arms to flag Oprah down! Oprah approached! The camera swung our way! I was panic stricken! I might be seen! My smart ass friends will never let me live it down! But I couldn’t flee! I was landlocked in a sea of cripples!
So I ducked!
If they ever rerun that show, you’ll see in the background behind Oprah a man in a wheelchair bent full forward with his hands clasped behind his head like he’s bracing for an atomic blast. That’s me.
During the commercial break I got the hell out. It caused a major disruption because a lot of cripples had to be uprooted but I said I had to go to the bathroom bad so they moved.
So far I’ve eluded the death squads. And now that I’ve published this, if I disappear, you’ll know what happened.
(Attention Oprah fans. Address hate email to asksmartasscripple@gmail.com. We've hired extra staff to handle the flood and brought in dogs specially trained to sniff out letter bombs.)
Friday, January 14, 2011
The Richard Nixon Methodist Church?
It’s a sunny afternoon in Chicago. Your future looks bright. You’ve graduated from Lincoln Tech so you’ve purchased a Lincoln Continental and insured it with Lincoln Auto Insurance. Your license plate says Land of Lincoln.
You drive north on Lincoln Avenue through the Lincoln Park neighborhood. It’s time for lunch. Up ahead is the Lincoln Restaurant. Its sign, like the pennies in your pocket, features the famous profile bust of Lincoln.
But you crave ethnic food so you proceed through the Lincoln Square neighborhood until you see the Lincoln Noodle House. You park and go inside. Lunch is grand. Life is sweet!
Next you plan to stop at the Lincoln Liquor Store. But as you return to your car you see you are about to be towed by the notorious Lincoln Towing Service. In a fit of rage you pull out your gun and threaten to shoot the tow truck driver. A scuffle ensues. The gun goes off. You are shot. You die. Your family calls Lincoln Funeral Care to arrange your funeral. Your funeral is held at the Lincoln Methodist Church.
And the moral of the story is, even after all these years, Abe Lincoln is still hot shit in Chicago.
In the Chicago White Pages, there are 272 businesses with Lincoln in their name. They include banks and mortgage companies, a karaoke bar, an antique mall, a bowling alley, a preschool, a driving school, a chiropractor and a gynecologist.
So it seems that in the end, the ultimate way for history to judge the legacy of presidents is by assessing their ability to attract commercial endorsement. How do we determine the degree to which a given president's judgment, integrity, courage, leadership ability and strength of character impacted generations of Americans? Well, how much of all the stuff that’s named after Lincoln could ever be named after them?
Some presidents are like Tiger Woods. They’ve screwed themselves so bad that no self-respecting business wants anything to do with them. Like who the hell would name their business after Richard Nixon? Richard Nixon Savings and Loan? Richard Nixon Insurance? (The name you can trust!) The Richard Nixon Methodist Church? I suppose there could be a Richard Nixon Towing Service, since it’s one of the few businesses where it might be advantageous to have a name that scares the hell out of everyone. A company that makes paper shredders could probably name itself after Nixon too. But that's about it.
George W. Bush? Do you think there will ever be an institute of higher learning, like Lincoln Tech, named after George W. Bush? Will Texas license plates ever say Land of Bush? (I take that back. They probably will.)
Some presidents have screwed themselves out of commercial endorsements not because they were evil and/or incompetent but, even worse, because they were bland and boring. There will never be a luxury car called the Millard Fillmore Continental. Who would put dining at the Martin Van Buren Restaurant on their bucket list?
Some presidents have screwed themselves in some ways, but not in others. There probably could be a Bill Clinton bowling alley or driving school. But no sane person would ever make an appointment with the Bill Clinton gynecologists.
A few blocks from where I live, there was a hair salon named Ossama’s. Even after September 11, they didn’t change their name. Election night 2008 was a freakishly warm November night in Chicago. People cheered in the streets as if our team had won the championship.
Shortly after that, Ossama’s changed their name. They changed it to Obama’s.
And now, they’re out of business.
You drive north on Lincoln Avenue through the Lincoln Park neighborhood. It’s time for lunch. Up ahead is the Lincoln Restaurant. Its sign, like the pennies in your pocket, features the famous profile bust of Lincoln.
But you crave ethnic food so you proceed through the Lincoln Square neighborhood until you see the Lincoln Noodle House. You park and go inside. Lunch is grand. Life is sweet!
Next you plan to stop at the Lincoln Liquor Store. But as you return to your car you see you are about to be towed by the notorious Lincoln Towing Service. In a fit of rage you pull out your gun and threaten to shoot the tow truck driver. A scuffle ensues. The gun goes off. You are shot. You die. Your family calls Lincoln Funeral Care to arrange your funeral. Your funeral is held at the Lincoln Methodist Church.
And the moral of the story is, even after all these years, Abe Lincoln is still hot shit in Chicago.
In the Chicago White Pages, there are 272 businesses with Lincoln in their name. They include banks and mortgage companies, a karaoke bar, an antique mall, a bowling alley, a preschool, a driving school, a chiropractor and a gynecologist.
So it seems that in the end, the ultimate way for history to judge the legacy of presidents is by assessing their ability to attract commercial endorsement. How do we determine the degree to which a given president's judgment, integrity, courage, leadership ability and strength of character impacted generations of Americans? Well, how much of all the stuff that’s named after Lincoln could ever be named after them?
Some presidents are like Tiger Woods. They’ve screwed themselves so bad that no self-respecting business wants anything to do with them. Like who the hell would name their business after Richard Nixon? Richard Nixon Savings and Loan? Richard Nixon Insurance? (The name you can trust!) The Richard Nixon Methodist Church? I suppose there could be a Richard Nixon Towing Service, since it’s one of the few businesses where it might be advantageous to have a name that scares the hell out of everyone. A company that makes paper shredders could probably name itself after Nixon too. But that's about it.
George W. Bush? Do you think there will ever be an institute of higher learning, like Lincoln Tech, named after George W. Bush? Will Texas license plates ever say Land of Bush? (I take that back. They probably will.)
Some presidents have screwed themselves out of commercial endorsements not because they were evil and/or incompetent but, even worse, because they were bland and boring. There will never be a luxury car called the Millard Fillmore Continental. Who would put dining at the Martin Van Buren Restaurant on their bucket list?
Some presidents have screwed themselves in some ways, but not in others. There probably could be a Bill Clinton bowling alley or driving school. But no sane person would ever make an appointment with the Bill Clinton gynecologists.
A few blocks from where I live, there was a hair salon named Ossama’s. Even after September 11, they didn’t change their name. Election night 2008 was a freakishly warm November night in Chicago. People cheered in the streets as if our team had won the championship.
Shortly after that, Ossama’s changed their name. They changed it to Obama’s.
And now, they’re out of business.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
The Rosa Parks of Dildos
(The story you are about to hear is totally fucking true.)
Sherri Williams is one of the great American heroines of the 21st Century. But you probably won’t read about her in the history books, which shows you how screwed up our education system is.
Sherri Williams is the Rosa Parks of dildos. And once again the battleground is Alabama, where if you dare try to sell another adult a dildo, (I swear this is not satire) you can go to jail for up to a year and be fined up to $10,000. Yep, this law says you cannot sell “any device designed or marketed as useful primarily for the stimulation of human genital organs…” And if you’re thinking this must be one of those laws that dates back to a previous century when Alabama legislators walked with their knuckles scraping the ground, you’re right. It was passed in 1998.
Sherri Williams owns a chain of adult toy stores. So she stood up for our inalienable right to stimulate our adult genitals any way we damn well please. With the help of the ACLU, she sued Alabama to have the dildo ban struck down. It took eight years for her case to work its way all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court, which refused to hear the case, thus letting stand a lower court decision upholding the law.
But the story has a happy ending. In November, she opened a “romance” store called Pleasures in Huntsville. And because it’s in a building that was once a bank, she even sells sex toys through a drive-up window. She gets away with it because a loophole in the law allows sex toys to be sold for “medical, scientific, educational, legislative, judicial, or law enforcement” purposes. (Law enforcement? Do they set up sting operations? “Pssst. Hey buddy, wanna by a dildo?”) So before customers can purchase, they have to fill out a short questionnaire asking, among other things, if they or a partner are having difficulty finding sexual fulfillment. Doing this means their purchase can be justified as medicinal.
Isn’t Sherri Williams brilliant? But I’d like to suggest another loophole. Since the law bans items intended “primarily for the stimulation of human genital organs,” she could claim her products serve a higher primary purpose. For instance, instead of calling a vibrating dildo a sexual aid, she could call it a kitchen aid and say it’s a mixer. It would be like those stores where they sell bongs and call them “tobacco products.” I was in one that had a sign that said PLEASE REFRAIN FROM REFERRING TO OUR WATER PIPES AS BONGS. Pleasures could post a sign saying PLEASE REFRAIN FROM REFERRING TO OUR KITCHEN MIXERS AS DILDOS.
This is a foolproof loophole because if the enraged state legislature counters by banning any product that could have a secondary function of genital stimulation, this would prohibit the sale of just about everything from whipped cream and balloons to cucumbers and Spider Man action figures.
I hope Sherri Williams' spirit of rebellion catches on. I think it’s about time clear-thinking Catholics organized to challenge the Vatican’s disdain for masturbation. Pope Paul VI issued a declaration in 1975 called "Persona Humana - Declaration on Certain Questions Concerning Sexual Ethics." It says masturbation is a ”grave moral disorder" and an “intrinsically and seriously disordered act…” The Pope acknowledged that the Bible makes no direct reference to jerking off. But, he wrote, "Even if it cannot be proved that Scripture condemns this sin by name, the tradition of the Church has rightly understood it to be condemned in the New Testament…”
I remember the pain this prohibition caused me as a young Catholic boy struggling to give up waxing the whale in the name of my church. I finally decided it was easier, and more fun, to give up trying to be Catholic.
For the sake of young Catholics like that all over the world, some righteous adult Catholic needs to burst out of the closet and found The Society of Catholic Masturbators. We’re Catholic, we jerk off, and we’re proud! Get used to it!
I issue the following challenge: Who among us is bold enough to be the first to come out as a proud masturbating Catholic? It can’t be me because I’m under qualified. Like I said, I’m not longer Catholic
Sherri Williams is one of the great American heroines of the 21st Century. But you probably won’t read about her in the history books, which shows you how screwed up our education system is.
Sherri Williams is the Rosa Parks of dildos. And once again the battleground is Alabama, where if you dare try to sell another adult a dildo, (I swear this is not satire) you can go to jail for up to a year and be fined up to $10,000. Yep, this law says you cannot sell “any device designed or marketed as useful primarily for the stimulation of human genital organs…” And if you’re thinking this must be one of those laws that dates back to a previous century when Alabama legislators walked with their knuckles scraping the ground, you’re right. It was passed in 1998.
Sherri Williams owns a chain of adult toy stores. So she stood up for our inalienable right to stimulate our adult genitals any way we damn well please. With the help of the ACLU, she sued Alabama to have the dildo ban struck down. It took eight years for her case to work its way all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court, which refused to hear the case, thus letting stand a lower court decision upholding the law.
But the story has a happy ending. In November, she opened a “romance” store called Pleasures in Huntsville. And because it’s in a building that was once a bank, she even sells sex toys through a drive-up window. She gets away with it because a loophole in the law allows sex toys to be sold for “medical, scientific, educational, legislative, judicial, or law enforcement” purposes. (Law enforcement? Do they set up sting operations? “Pssst. Hey buddy, wanna by a dildo?”) So before customers can purchase, they have to fill out a short questionnaire asking, among other things, if they or a partner are having difficulty finding sexual fulfillment. Doing this means their purchase can be justified as medicinal.
Isn’t Sherri Williams brilliant? But I’d like to suggest another loophole. Since the law bans items intended “primarily for the stimulation of human genital organs,” she could claim her products serve a higher primary purpose. For instance, instead of calling a vibrating dildo a sexual aid, she could call it a kitchen aid and say it’s a mixer. It would be like those stores where they sell bongs and call them “tobacco products.” I was in one that had a sign that said PLEASE REFRAIN FROM REFERRING TO OUR WATER PIPES AS BONGS. Pleasures could post a sign saying PLEASE REFRAIN FROM REFERRING TO OUR KITCHEN MIXERS AS DILDOS.
This is a foolproof loophole because if the enraged state legislature counters by banning any product that could have a secondary function of genital stimulation, this would prohibit the sale of just about everything from whipped cream and balloons to cucumbers and Spider Man action figures.
I hope Sherri Williams' spirit of rebellion catches on. I think it’s about time clear-thinking Catholics organized to challenge the Vatican’s disdain for masturbation. Pope Paul VI issued a declaration in 1975 called "Persona Humana - Declaration on Certain Questions Concerning Sexual Ethics." It says masturbation is a ”grave moral disorder" and an “intrinsically and seriously disordered act…” The Pope acknowledged that the Bible makes no direct reference to jerking off. But, he wrote, "Even if it cannot be proved that Scripture condemns this sin by name, the tradition of the Church has rightly understood it to be condemned in the New Testament…”
I remember the pain this prohibition caused me as a young Catholic boy struggling to give up waxing the whale in the name of my church. I finally decided it was easier, and more fun, to give up trying to be Catholic.
For the sake of young Catholics like that all over the world, some righteous adult Catholic needs to burst out of the closet and found The Society of Catholic Masturbators. We’re Catholic, we jerk off, and we’re proud! Get used to it!
I issue the following challenge: Who among us is bold enough to be the first to come out as a proud masturbating Catholic? It can’t be me because I’m under qualified. Like I said, I’m not longer Catholic
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