Life - and other excuses

 

   No.  I’m not dead.  Not yet, anyway. 

   You would be excused for wondering if I was dead, since my last post here was in the Spring. Fall is now nearly two-thirds over.  (Yikes! Really?)  

   Perhaps this is, on my part, inexcusable in the blogosphere.  At least in my concept of the blogosphere – that is, in which people post daily or at least two or three times a week.  But I want to say that I have an excuse or a few of them.

   One is that I have felt so overwhelmed, bombarded by what President Trump and his administration and allies have been doing that I don’t know where to begin, to know which one of the dozen of outrages to write about.  Yes, as I’ve even written about in a few of my Claremont Courier columns, that’s exactly what they want – for us to be overwhelmed and not fight back.  I sadly plead guilty to falling for that at least most of the time  

   We saw in this month’s election that this isn’t necessarily the case, that we can make our voices heard – and in a meaningful way.  This has been a shot of energy, a bit of hope that sure feels good (and perhaps is part of what inspired me to write this).

   Perhaps I should just not write here about Trump and all that and instead write about other stuff, small stuff.  Like, again, being at Stater Brothers and seeing signs asking for our understanding when it would close early – 5 p.m – on Thanksgiving Day so that employees “cab enjoy the holiday with their families” – after closing at 11 the night before and opening at 6 that morning. God! Really? We Americans are so addicted to money and buying stuff and making it convenient to do so.  When I spent time in Europe, everything was closed every Sunday and sometimes, like in Italy, in the early afternoons.  (Maybe this is writing about Trump, Trumpism….)

   The second excuse is that I’ve been doing a lot, or, really, have been preoccupied by some things.  Among other things (see below), I’ve been preparing a presentation to give at Pacific Yearly Meeting, an annual gathering of Quakers, in July.  I was one of three panelists asked to speak on how Spirit has lead me to find my balance, over and over, and move forward in my life.  This was a real honor and a real gift to be given this opportunity to look back over and share about my life. 

   Finally, when I began this blog, I never intended to post every day or several times a week.  For a while, I posted every two weeks, but I can’t, or don’t want to, commit to that now.  Perhaps I can post every month or every other months – like I tend to write now for the Courier.  Perhaps. 

   Meanwhile, here are the last two columns I wrote. The first came out in September; the second earlier this month.  They will give you some idea of what I’ve been up to or, rather, what has been taking over my life, so to speak. 

                NO WAY!  THERE HAS TO BE A WAY! 

   “You can’t get thar from har.”

   I met John when I was at UCLA for the Spring 1984 quarter.  He was from Maine and was a big guy, like a dairy farm boy, with a big grin.  But he was no country hick. Not only was he at UCLA as an out-of-state student, he was majoring in bio-chemistry or some such, way outside my English/humanities lane. 

   So it would always crack me up when he would break out his best heavy Maine accent and proclaim, “You can’t get thar from har” – apparently a common Maine saying, at least in the rural parts.  It was like a favorite line from a movie that we shared. 

   I was recently reminded of the line, except, this time, I wasn’t cracking up. At least not in that sense.    

   Last month, after a four-year hiatus due to increasing disability, I flew to the Bay Area for a three-night visit.  It was something of a triumphant return, after having told myself that I wouldn’t return, made possible with lots of work in physical therapy and a critical and  clever logistical update. Getting up there and being up there, while not easy, was no problem.

   The problem turned out to be getting to the Ontario airport, the nice, quiet airport not even a half hour away.  My van was driven up some hours before in order to get to the Oakland airport in time to pick me up, so I needed to find a reliable wheelchair-accessible ride to the nearby airport. 

   This turned out to be quite difficult, ridiculously, insanely difficult. 

   The key word here is “reliable.” In the past, I had had some horrendous experiences with the wheelchair-accessible cab service, being all-but-too late or not showing up, which left me rattled to say the least.  I couldn’t deal with this.  I just couldn’t. 

   The big bugaboo was that Ontario airport, as close as it is, is in another county – San Bernardino.  When I called Dial-a-Ride and Access, which offer cheap, subsidized wheelchair-accessible transportation, they said they can’t, won’t, cross the county line.  If I was flying out of LAX, Access could take me, no problem, but who wants to fly out of LAX? 

   Things only got crazier. 

   AgingNext gave me a few numbers of private non-medical transport companies to call.  (I called the agency after the Services Center for Independent Life, which I helped found decades ago, had, much to my dismay, no advice for me.)

   The first place I called wanted $260. One way.  For a ride that’s barely half an hour. 

   WT---! 

   The second company I called wanted something like $220. One way, again.  A bit better – but, REALLY?  A half-hour ride cost more than a flight to the Bay Area???      

   I stopped calling.  I was getting too angry.  This was insane, highway robbery (literally). This was wrong!   

   Would I get up north?  I was wondering. 

   A friend saw how desperate I was and recommended a company she knew about.  $200. Round trip.  This was way more than I wanted to pay – nearly as much as the round-trip airfare for two – but I took it, figuring the trip may have been off otherwise.  (The service was great, right on time.  Better have been!)

  If I had the energy and the time, I would try to put together an organization that provides affordable, reliable, wheelchair-accessible transportation regardless of municipal or county lines.  Somebody should. 

   There has to be a way, a better way, to get thar – er, there – from har – er, here!   

     A RENEWED GRATITUDE FOR CLAREMONT ACTIVITY, ACTIVISM

   I didn’t go to the No Kings Protest last month. 

   Not because I didn’t care.  Not because I didn’t agree with the protesters. 

   It wasn’t  because I’m not outraged by masked thugs and goons deputized as federal officers grabbing people who are of certain color, have accents, work at certain jobs – some of whom are citizens – and whisked away in unmarked vans to be detained and often deported.  It wasn’t because I’m not alarmed by the dismantling of agencies to help the poor here and internationally and promote the rights of racial minorities and LGBTQ folks as well as cultural diversity.  It wasn’t because I’m not horrified by President Trump’s attempts and efforts to shred the Constitution and destroy our history – vividly on display in his projects at the White House, our White House - and our very democracy. 

   I would have gone.  Sure thing.  Just as I went to the huge protest radiating out from the intersection of Indian Hill and Foothill in June. 

   Yes, I was plenty riled up, raring to go and protest what’s going on.  Instead, I was down, not going much of anywhere. 

   Literally.  Because of a sore, a pressure sore, I had gotten, I was stuck lying down.  I did get out now and then, but it was like I was sneaking out, escaping prison, since I was told that lying down is the fastest if not the only way to get rid of the sore. 

   “Fastest” is a relative term here.  There’s nothing fast about getting rid of a pressure sore. I had been lying down, stuck in bed-jail as I call it, since early September.  To make matters worse, this was happening in October, my favorite month with its cooling days and nights and colorful leaves and fading light, and I was missing it. 

   Even worse, this happened two years ago at exactly the same time, and I swore at the time it wouldn’t happen again. Ouch! 

   I’m here to say that lying down all the time isn’t all, or at all, what it’s cracked up to be. We all wish we could lie around all day with nothing having to be done – right? But having to lie down all the time, when one feels perfectly fine, is not only no picnic or day at the beach. It’s exhausting!

   What’s more, it leaves one feeling overwhelmed, at least when everything is going wrong and/or crazy.

   It’s hard to lie there and read or hear about children and wives wondering what happened to their father and husband after he was snatched and whisked away by anonymous ICE agents, about queer folks like me wondering if they’re safe anymore and if they should go back in the closet, about poor people in other countries and then here not getting the assistance they need to eat and stay healthy, about dangerous health advice and policies being established and disabled people like me nervous about maybe not getting the funding they need to live full, productive lives in their own homes. 

   It’s hard to lie there when a torrent of dangerous, unjust, cruel and undemocratic actions are being taken day in and day out.  I have felt overwhelmed. I have felt trapped, paralyzed. 

   Trump and his team have said they want to overwhelm, to do so many things so fast that it’s difficult to stop.  Boy, it sure looks that way when stuck lying there day after day!    

   I have missed being able to get out and do something, to be part of getting something done, not just lying there alone, feeling helpless, hopeless.  I was missing all those opportunities in Claremont, not just to protest but to be at a meeting or to just hear a talk. 

   Or what about going to the many concerts and performances here?   Yes, some entertainment is important to get our minds off all the crazy stuff going on – and books, podcasts and streamers, as infinite as they are, only go so far. Even going out to the local cinema makes a difference.

   I have missed being part of the community, being in community. In this challenging time, I have missed feeling not on my own, not alone. 

   As the season of gratitude and goodwill approaches, I am thankful that I’ll soon be up to not only enjoy what’s left of our beautiful Fall colors. I’ll be even more thankful for being part of the rich, vibrant community that is Claremont. 

Keeping hope alive

 

   It’s getting harder and harder to be hopeful, not to mention sane, these days with the cascade of overwhelming news coming out of Washington, D.C.  Every day, we hear about men, including, according to 60 Minutes, a gay hairdresser, being shipped off to a notorious prison in El Salvador for barely any reason and no chance to defend themselves; thousands of federal workers, including those who do vital health research and provide warnings about the weather, being laid off with no explanatio; Social Security offices being closed and people finding that their benefits have been abruptly cut off.  The bad news goes on and on. 

  How do we keep our heads above water, so to speak? Or, as Jesse Jackson might have asked, how do we keep hope alive?  One way, I think, and as I explore in my latest Claremont Courier column published on Friday, is to focus on what we can do closer to home.  We may not be able to solve the nation’s problems, but we can help to make things better in our town, in our neighborhood. 

                TUNING IN – IN A SMALL TOWN

   “TURN THE T.V OFF”

   “TURN THE T.V OFF”

   “TURN THE T.V OFF”

   “TURN THE T.V OFF”

   The signs in the front yard not far from my house are, if nothing else, insistent.  They yell out at me every time I go by. 

    I could see them as a gentle encouragement, a friendly reminder.  I could see them as a neighborly nudge, a good-natured entreaty.  What I see each and every time I pass by is an urgent wake-up call.  I literally hear alarms going off. 

   Perhaps it would be better to see the gentle encouragement, the neighborly nudge.  But with the four signs lined up one after another, coming at me as I go by, I can’t help but get concerned, hear sirens blaring. 

   Every time I go by these signs, I see another warning.  I want to say that they protest too much.  Or, more to the point, that they protest in the wrong way. 

   For one thing, is the message really that we shouldn’t watch television at all?  Are the signs saying, screaming, that there is nothing good on T.V? 

   Sure, there is a lot to be said about the “boob tube,” about how television is a “vast wasteland.” But what about Sesame Street and The Crown, Murders in the Building and The White Lotus, I, Claudius and The Residence? 

   Should we really not watch these excellent shows and dozens of others I can list?  I’m all for reading and the joys of curling up with a book, but is watching a show or two on T.V so bad.  God knows we can use some distractions these days. 

   But not too many distractions – which is my point. 

   I suspect, or would like to think, that the signs are referring to the news on T.V.  While this is more understandable, the signs are still wrong.  Perhaps a friendly suggestion would have been okay, but definitely not this alarming demand.  Even the friendly suggestion would have been a mistake. 

   Look, I get it.  Running away from the news on our televisions, turning it off, sounds pretty attractive.  The 1news coming out of Washington, D.C, has been more than overwhelming, a daily onslaught of mind-blowing changes, a constant barrage of shattering7moves.  Even some of those who voted for this regime are at least taken aback, caught off-guard. 

   I have friends who have decided to retreat, who have stopped looking at the news, and who tell me I should do the same for my sanity.  And I hear them.  Hiding away, curling up with a good book, chilling on, yes, Netflix sounds awfully nice, really good. 

   But that is the last thing we should be doing.  That is exactly what the current administration wants, what it is hoping for and trying for.  It wants us to be overwhelmed and to give up and not care.   Now is not the time to not watch what’s going on, and it’s really not the time to give up and not care. It is not the time to be complacent and especially not the time to despair.

   If we give up and don’t watch what’s going on, this administration can, as it’s hoping to do, get away with doing all sorts of things, ultimately including things they weren’t elected to do.

   So how do we not feel overwhelmed and powerless when we are in a small town far from the tirade of norm-breaking decrees?  How do we do more than sit and watch – or not watch - what’s going on?

   We can make Claremont an even better small town in which to live.   

   I am thankful these days that I am in a small town where I feel encouraged to express myself and be creative.  I am grateful to live in a small town where being a community and a better and better community is so important. 

   Being able to so directly participate in and support the arts and cultural institutions the library and the community and community-making (including with this non-profit newspaper) here in Claremont is a reminder of what I can do, of what we all can do.  Being able to come together and work together to hear each other and to make this community even better and more enjoyable gives us power. Hashing things out in city hearings, joining in local protests, helping immigrants and the homeless instead of demonizing them or taking part in such civil-dialogue endeavors as the Circle of Chairs reminds us that we can get things done, that we don’t have to just watch what is happening. 

   In a town like Claremont, we can find ways to do what another sign in the yard rightly encourages us to do: “Stay strong.” 

Staying alive (close by)

 

   One evening last week, there was a concert featuring middle-eastern music nearby at Pomona College.  I was very interested and had planned on going. 

   But, in addition to being pretty chilly, it was also raining that evening.  It was a steady and pretty hard rain. 

   I thought about the considerable distance from where my attendant could park my van to the hall’s accessible door, a distance that included a long ramp leading up to the door.  I thought about going through the cold, hard rain to get to the door and probably back to my van when my attendant came to pick me up when the concert was over. I thought about how my arm might lock up in the cold, making it difficult to drive my chair and slowing my progress in the pouring rain.    

   I couldn’t.  I couldn’t do it.  Or I deci5d I couldn’t do it. Even with my rain poncho on and my attendant following along holding an umbrella over me, likely getting wet.  It just seemed so unattractive, seemed like too much work, like it was not worthwhile – at least on a cold, dark night. 

   This realization, or this decision, was difficult, as right as it felt.  It was painful.  It hurt.  Yes, I had FOMO fear of missing out.  But, more significantly, there was the fact that, for many years, I went out, on my own, in my wheelchair, in the rain with no hesitation and the awareness that this will no doubt happen more and more often in the coming years. 

   As I’ve mentioned before, I need to be or learn to be more content with staying close to Claremont and perhaps not doing so much.  Still, although I’m no longer venturing very far, like to Los Angeles, to attend plays and other events, I find there is plenty – too much? – to do right here in Claremont, as I explored recently in a Claremont Courier column. 

          LIVE PERFORMANCES LIFT CLAREMONTERS EVEN HIGHER

        Michael Jones looked like she was fighting back tears.  In fact, it looked like she was pretty much crying.  Meanwhile, Fred Theders-Arteaga was all but jumping up and down, clearly proud that he had made it and proud of what he had done, what he had accomplished.

   Both, along with the others taking a bow, had accomplished a lot, indeed.  The tears and the exalting were, as with the standing ovation, quite justified, quite understandable. All the more so because these were kids in high school. 

   It was the end of the last performance last month of Next to Normal at Claremont High School.  The play, by Brian Yorkey, Tom Kitt et all, is a rock opera, with hardly any spoken dialogue, in the tradition of the Who’s Tommy, Green Day’s American Idiot and Rent.  This meant that the actors were singing, often at full volume or at least with maximum emotion and backed with live music, for the entire two-hour-plus performance. 

   And, not unlike Tommy, Rent and American Idiot, and arguably more so, Next to Normal isn’t some sunny, happily-ever-after musical. It’s more like a tragic opera, dealing with particularly heavy issues. 

   The musical is about a suburban family that looks normal – but isn’t.  Ms. Jones played the mother, who is mentally ill and communicates with a son, powerfully played by Jude Ready, who died after becoming ill some years earlier. Theders-Arteaga played Henry, a high school student who befriends Natilie (Mairead Lucke), the family’s daughter who is barely hanging on, feeling responsible for and resentful of her mother.  Avon Bisano played the father, desperately trying to hold the family together, and Ryan Fass played both therapists who guides the mother through various treatments, including electro-shock therapy. 

   Yes, this was heavy stuff and certainly not the typical milieu for a high school production.  (What’s more, there were plenty of f-bombs.) This was difficult stuff for any theater ensemble – and all the more so for high school students.  No wonder Jones was in tears and Theders-Arteaga, the only cast member not in the school’s thespian troupe, was pumping his fist. 

   It is good to see that Mohammed Mangrio is settling into his job as CHS’s theater director and following the bold example of Krista Elhai, trusting the students with works that challenges them and us, the audience.  This was right in line with such Elhai-led productions of Tommy, The Laramie Project and Avenue Q, and it left me all but in tears and pumping my fist. Like Elhai, Mangrio gave his students and the audience a dramatic and emotional work-out.

   This production was a great example of the power of live performance.  For years, I went into Los Angeles and environs to see high-quality live theater, mostly at tiny, on-a-shoestring theaters.  But I got tired of sitting in traffic, especially coming home at 11 at night as well as when trying to get to the theater on time, and, in these past years, I have come to appreciate that there are plenty of opportunities to experience the power of live performance in and around Claremont. 

   Not only is there, surprisingly enough, the theater at Claremont High.  The colleges have put on some very impressive shows in recent years.  There is also the Inland Valley Repertory Theater. 

   Then there is Ophelia’s Jump.  This Claremont-bred theater company continues to put on professional-grade productions in its modest industrial park space right across the border in Upland, even if Beatrice Casagran et al haven’t quite hit their usual stride since the pandemic (who has?). As I keep saying, going to an Ophelia’s Jump show is like going to L.A without the traffic. 

  Live performances also includes music, which can also be quite moving and of which there are plenty around Claremont.  These include a bounty of free concerts and recitals at the colleges featuring students, faculty and guest artists, not to mention a bunch of musical offerings around town.

   I recently attended a Sunday afternoon concert by the Claremont Concert Choir, with Claremont McKenna, Harvey Mudd, Pitzer and Scripps College students, and the High Notes of the Pasadena Chorale, a girls ensemble.  It featured lovely singing by the choirs plus a stunning rendition, in two parts, of William Byrd’s Mass for Three Voices by the choirs’ directors, Charles W. Kamm and Jeffrey Bernstein, and guest soprano Lika Miyake. Right here, the performance transported me some place far.

Relaxed fit

 

   A friend has told me told me several times that he grew up on a farm and now has a pair of overalls – “bibs” he calls them – that he wears around the house.  He says this is because “they aren’t so fashionable.”

   What does this mean?  Is he saying I’m out of fashion wearing overalls?  Why does he only wear them at home and not want others to see him in bibs, like they are something bad, like he’s ashamed of them? 

   Before my spinal surgery, overalls were all I wore for many years, sometimes literally without a shirt. (As someone who always worked at home or in the theater, I had the luxury of being able to do so.) Since my surgery, with overalls being much harder to put on and take off, I try to wear them often (more on this later). I like to think I’m fashion-forward or above fashion.   

   I see bibs, as I also like to say, on plenty of women, but, from what I see, guys in overalls are pretty rare.  This isn’t to say I never see guys wearing bibs, but it’s usually in certain settings like construction sites, farms, rock and folk music concerts and perhaps parties.  I have had friends borrow some of my more unique striped and tye-dyed bibs to wear at parties and concerts – one guy reported that people raved over him in the bibs – but they didn’t feel comfortable or right wearing them in other settings or on an everyday (non-workday) basis.  The same guy was even uncomfortable wearing the plain blue overalls that a friend gave him (although he looked quite good in them). 

   I do sometimes see guys walking around, just going about their day,  in bibs, but they are almost like rare bird sightings.

   What is it about guys in bibs that isn’t “so fashionable?” Is it a class thing, a status thing – the idea that overalls are for laborers and farmers?  Is it about overalls being for toddlers (and women?), not for big boys and grown men?  Is it that, as I have heard, overalls are “gay?”

   I don’t know, and, frankly, I don’t care.  I enjoy being in bibs and being seen in them*.

-----

   After my spinal surgery, wearing overalls became considerably more difficult, because I can no longer assist in putting them on and taking them off. In the two or three years after my surgery, I donated or sold literally bags full of overalls – yes, I had that many! – which were too tight on me, too frail, etc. As silly as it sounds, this was quite difficult.   

   But I still wanted to wear them and did so, thanks to my and my attendants’ patience and persistence.  Even so, I have, for the first time in my life, put on weight in recent years (being paralyzed instead of in nearly constant motion since the surgery), and it has become too difficult to wear even some of the bibs I have remaining. 

   I still want to be in bibs, though.  So, I have been replacing some of my favorite pairs with used, relatively cheap pairs that are bigger, much bigger.  Call them relaxed, way relaxed, fit!  Some are ridiculously large, but, hey, it doesn’t matter, because I’m sitting down, and, anyway, I like the baggy bibs look on guys. Plus, they’re super comfy, and it doesn’t matter at my state in life. 

-----

   Over the years, I have been told that, when it comes to wearing bibs – especially ones that are more unique or colorful - or mismatched Converse high-tops with rainbow laces or sporting braids, dreads, a mohawk or a shaved head, I “pull it off.” I thought of this recently when I watched Booksmart, a hilarious and smart, albeit raunchy, movie about academically competitive high schoolers. 

   In a party scene late in the film, a guy is shirtless in white painter’s overalls which he wears backwards, Marky Mark style.  As stupid, dorky and crazy as it sounds, the guy pulls it off!  I am not saying that guys should do this, and I don’t know what, if any, fitting magic was done (I would love to know how this costume design came about and was enacted), but, for this guy at least, the backwards bibs, while funny, aren’t as silly as they sound and do nicely showcase his chest. (To those who say why not have him be bare-chested, I refer to a friend who once told me that a bit of clothing, carefully placed, can be considerably sexier than no clothes.  Also, why don’t painters wear white, or any, overalls anymore?)

 

*I like being seen in overalls in addition to or, ideally, instead of as a guy in a wheelchair, as I explored in a series of YouTube videos I created some years ago, before the spinal surgery, entitled, “The Guy in the Overalls (and the Wheelchair).”