Why I Feel Sorry for Arthritis People

I’m sure glad there isn’t a pill or injection that’s an easy treatment for that which makes me crippled. Because if there was there would probably be a happy-ass commercial about it and I’d really hate that.

That’s why I feel sorry for arthritis people. Apparently there are a lot of pills or injections that are easy treatments for arthritis because I see a lot of happy-ass commercials about that. In the latest commercial there’s a woman remodeling her home by swinging a sledgehammer and knocking holes in walls and there's another woman out in a field taking pictures of a galloping pack of wild horses. Both women are all happy-assed. I guess they are supposed to be people with arthritis who are now feeling so good that they can finally do stuff like swing sledgehammers and photograph wild horses. But none of the arthritis people in these commercials look like they have arthritis any more than the guy next door does. So I guess the implication is that this treatment is so amazing that if you take it, not only will you suddenly feel like you don’t have arthritis but you suddenly won’t look like it either.

Those commercials must make arthritis people feel like if they’re not out there swinging sledgehammers or photographing wild horses they must be some kind of big time loser. I’m sure I’d feel the same way if it was a commercial for a treatment for what makes me crippled. The happy-ass actors probably wouldn’t look any more crippled than the guy next door does and they’d probably be doing stuff like riding wild bulls at a rodeo or rock climbing. And that would drastically change society’s view of who cripples like me are and what we’re capable of doing, which would really suck. Because I’d be under enormous pressure to keep up or get left behind. Cripples like me who weren’t riding wild rodeo bulls or rock climbing would look like lazy freeloaders. That would probably be used as an excuse to cut us off of our public cripple benefits. But if we were out there riding wild rodeo bulls or rock climbing that would probably be used as an excuse to cut us off our public cripple benefits too because if we can do stuff like that then why the hell do we still need public cripple benefits?

It’s a terrible no-win situation and I fear arthritis people will find themselves in it all too soon. I’m sure glad it ain’t me, yet.


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The Sexual Conquests of Calvin Coolidge

When I was a teenage inmate at a state-operated boarding school for crippled kids, which I affectionately refer to as the Sam Houston Institute of Technology (SHIT), the people who helped us get dressed and out of bed and stuff like that were called our houseparents.

There was one housefather whom I particularly admired, at least for a little while anyway. I don’t know if he’s still alive. Probably not. But I will give him a Smart Ass Cripple alias and call him Calvin Coolidge.

Anyway, like I said, there was a period of time when I admired Calvin Coolidge and wanted to be the kind of man he was when I grew up. I felt that way when, as he helped me or my roommates get dressed, he regaled us with detailed accounts of his sexual conquests of the previous night. He was married but he said he’d step out at night and "creep" to the homes of other women whose husbands weren’t home. One time, Calvin Coolidge said, a husband came home by surprise so he had to escape before the husband could detect him by climbing out of a second floor window, buck naked.

I thought all that stuff was so cool. I was about 14, which was old enough to know deep down inside that I could never be the kind of man Calvin Coolidge was because I was crippled. I probably wouldn’t even be able to get into most women’s houses because most houses had stairs at the front door. I would never be able to climb out of second-floor window buck naked either. Hell, I couldn’t even get buck naked unless I had someone like Calvin Coolidge to help me get undressed. What fun was that?

So even though I wanted to be a cool man like Calvin Coolidge I knew I never could be and that hurt.

But then something happened to Calvin Coolidge and he suddenly stopped creeping around. No, he didn’t get the clap. He got into Jesus. Big time. Head over heels. And instead of taking about his sexual conquests, he’d talk about Jesus.

I didn’t want to be like him anymore.


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When Party City Opens Again

We drove through the parking lot of the strip mall. It was pretty much empty. Most of the cars were parked outside the grocery store. People hustled in and out.

Party City, right next door, was closed up tight. But someday, I told myself, that'll all change. There’ll be a lot of cars parked outside of Party City and people will be hustling in and out of there.

When all this quarantine shit in over, there’ll probably be a sudden huge surge in demand for party supplies. And the companies that manufacture supplies for Party City will probably have to retool their lines. Because Party City probably has a ton of stuff in stock that expresses standard celebratory sentiments such as Happy Birthday and Merry Christmas. But I doubt that they have anything that adequately expresses the sentiments of the outbreak of parties that will occur once this quarantine shit is over. The party supply manufacturers will probably have to make a bunch of decorations that just say WHEW!

And there will probably be new shortages. During the quarantine, the stores that are still open are usually out of toilet paper, cleaning products, rubber gloves, etc. But after it’s all over, Party City will probably soon run out of party decorations that just say WHEW!

But maybe not. A lot of people might not feel like partying, especially if they lost a loved one. Nobody would blame them for that. So maybe partying will be considered to be inappropriate, disrespectful or in bad taste and therefore will become an anachronism. Maybe Party City will never open again.

But maybe not. A lot of people died in World War II and when it ended there was dancing in the streets. I wasn’t there but I’ve seen pictures. People hugged and kissed and drank champagne. There were ticker tape parades. So maybe Party City will open again.




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Customer Service Music, Chain Pizza and Democrats

I was on hold with customer service and the music that was playing was so annoying that it reminded me of the democrats. Because what annoyed me most about the music was how hard it was trying not to be annoying. And it was doing so by being painstakingly neutral and non commital. It embraced no genre. No spices, no seasoning. It was desperately afraid of taking a definitive stand, for fear that if it did someone might not like it. It occupied that middle ground in the land of the bland and wouldn’t dare take a step beyond. It didn’t want to lead the way toward any new direction. It just wanted to play it completely safe. The democrats annoy me in the same way.

And you know what kind of other music really gets me wound up? It’s that music that’s specifically designed to help people relax. I’m talking about that stuff where they mix in gongs and wind chimes, maybe some flutes. And you’re supposed listen to it while you’re trying to unwind. But it gets me all wound up because why not just listen to a good jazz piano trio or something like that? There's plenty of music already out there that’s soothing as hell without beating you over the damn head about it. That gong and wind chime music has the same effect on me as someone picking me up and shaking me and shouting in my face, “RELAX GODDAMIT!”

But anyway, back to the democrats. Chain pizza also reminds me of the democrats for the same reason customer service hold music reminds me of the democrats. I’m offended by chain pizza because it, too, goes way out of its way not to be about anything so as not to offend anyone. And I find that to be very offensive. Just like the democrats.


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Holed up Ruminations

Tim’s birthday party was a fine affair. His friends came over and decorated the party room in the basement of his apartment building real nice. About 30 people came. Lots of old friends. Lots of food. Lots of laughs.

That was way way back in those carefree days, when people wantonly mingled and hugged. That was two weeks ago. And now I look back on going to that party with the same consternation as if it had been a cocaine–fueled orgy full of unprotected sex. How could I have engaged in such reckless behavior? Will I soon regret it? Ollie was there. I ran into him a few months back at the Bulls game. He works in the stadium ticket booth. Holy shit! That means he comes in contact with a shitload of people! Was Ollie infected with the virus?

And Donna was there. She hugged me hard! Twice! On the way in and on the way out. Donna is a big time hugger so she might have been infected too because I bet huggers like her are among the most susceptible. Ollie and Donna are upstanding citizens who would never knowingly infect anyone, but that doesn’t mean a damn thing. I mean, the virus infected Tom Hanks for fuck’s sake, just to show us all that it will stop at nothing.

There was leftover pizza so I took it home and ate it. Holy shit again! How could I have been so cavalier? How many infected party guests touched that pizza or breathed all over it or sneezed in its vicinity?

But maybe I dodged that bullet because like I said, that was two weeks ago and they say that two weeks is how long it takes for the virus to get you if it’s gonna get you, maybe, so far as we know so far.

But what about the reckless behaviors I’ve engaged in since then? I went to the grocery store. How many infected people did I brush up against there? How many of them touched that can of beans I bought?

I’m not going to the grocery store anymore, but maybe it’s too little too late. Surely the virus hitched a ride into my home somehow. Why should I be any different from all those other poor saps that got infected? There is no God. The fact that Tom Hanks got infected proved that. Maybe I should call in some of those people who will give your home a deep cleaning. But what if they’re infected?

This is the kind of shit you think about when you’re holed up in the dark all day trying to hide from a virus.




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Proactive Ramps

When I drive through my boyhood neighborhood, where there are blocks and blocks of working class family houses circa 1950s with square front lawns, I can tell where all the cripples live. Their houses are the ones with the crazy, winding wooden ramps on the front.

Because nobody builds a ramp on their house just in case they or someone who lives there becomes crippled or so some crippled visitor can get in. Hell, if anybody tried to put a ramp on their house just in case somebody might need it someday, the neighbors would probably think they’re crazy. A petition would probably start going around. If there’s a homeowners association involved, they’d probably fine the homeowner with the proactive ramp up the ass. Neighbors and homeowners associations can accept ramps as long as there’s a good excuse for them. But suppose Neighbor X builds a ramp on their house and so neighbor Y, as a display of sympathy that somebody who lives there is now crippled, brings over a batch of homemade chocolate chip cookies. And suppose Neighbor X then says thanks a lot but there’s nobody crippled living here. We’re just being proactive. Imagine how betrayed Neighbor Y will feel.

And the only time anyone builds a house from scratch to be fully cripple accessible is if a known cripple is going to live there. And that’s dumb because people become crippled every day. There’s a guy who lives upstairs in my building whom I hadn’t seen around for a while and then one day I saw a guy who looked exactly like him hobbling with a cane and his arm was shriveled up like he had a stroke. So I figured either he had a stroke or he has a twin brother who had a stroke. It turns out that sure enough, the guy who lives upstairs had a stroke, which is why I hadn’t seen him. And I said to myself well hell, I bet that guy’s grateful that by dumb luck he ended up in a building that’s cripple accessible. It’s a helluva lot easier adjusting to life as a cripple when you don’t have to call the fire department to haul your ass down the stairs every time you want to leave the house. The guy in who lives upstairs could be a spokesman for that.


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Free Beer from Jesus

Duke and I settled in at our table and ordered a pitcher of beer. At the other end of the room, there was a party of about 15 consisting of two adult men and one adult woman and a flock of kids of a wide range of sizes, ages and colors. Their table was crowded with pizzas and pitchers of soda pop.

After a little while, the two adult men and the oldest boy approached our table. “Excuse me,” one of the men said. “Are you two related?”

I knew what that was all about. They assumed Duke was my son. I get that a lot. People see a crippled old man like me out and about in public and their first conclusion is that my companion/assistant must be my nursemaid. But Duke sure didn’t look the part. He wasn’t dressed like a nursemaid and he was holding up my stein so I could drink beer through a straw. Nursemaid’s don’t do stuff like that. So once the possibility of nursemaid was ruled out, the next possible conclusion was that my companion/assistant must be my offspring. Who would hang out with and feed an old cripple just for fun?

“No,” I said. “We’re just friends.”

And then the man said, “Well we just wanted to let you know that Jesus loves you.”

Oh God! I get that a lot, too, when I’m out and about in public. I find it insulting because I assume the reason that person is singling me out to receive extra love from Jesus is because I’m crippled and I look sad and bedraggled to them and they think they’re making my day.

And then the man said, “And we’re picking up your tab.”

Duke looked at me and I looked at him. Wow! Free beer! There are fewer greater gifts in life! But I still felt a bit insulted. Strangers often pick up my tab, too, and when they do I assume they’re only doing it because I’m crippled and I look sad and bedraggled to them and they think they’re making my day. I always feel like I should reject their generosity and take advantage of this teachable moment.

But this was different. Like I said, I get that Jesus loves you stuff all the time, but no one ever backed it up with free beer. I also had an obligation to Duke in this situation. After all, this was his free beer, too. If I was going to refuse it, I needed a damn good rationale.

So Duke and I just said thank you. The Christians smiled satisfied smiles and returned to their table.

Duke clinked his stein against mine. “You’re a good wingman,” he said.




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