Not a ten-gallon hat. But ten hats - actually, perhaps nine - on his head. Literally.
This past weekend, I was at a gathering of a group that I have been involved in for ten years. There was a guy, a very sweet, gentle guy, that was there for the first time who turned out to have Asperger’s Syndrome, a form of autism which makes social interaction and relating to others (empathy, etc.) difficult. I soon noticed that at each meal, he would have an additional hats on his head. (The stack started with cowboy hats and was topped off with a few billed caps.)
I asked a friend what this was all about, feeling stupid for wondering if this hat-stacking is a characteristic of Asberger’s Syndrome. He explained that the guy told him that he wears the hats to attract attention to himself and away from his disability and to help him interact with people, with them asking him what’s up with the hats.
"Smart guy," I told my friend. "He’s a smart guy."
I said this, because I know exactly what he is doing. As I have written about before, I do the same thing with my overalls, as well as my mismatched high-tops, rainbow shoe laces, dreads and hats - although I wear one hat at a time. I use them to focus attention on myself and away from my disability. When, at one point during the weekend, the guy said with considerable pride and warmth, "I’m the crazy, autistic man with the hats," I totally related and was thrilled.
What’s more, I said this and also that the guy is brave, even though I usually hate it when people say this about me. Okay - I admit it - I admire this disabled guy and found him - yes - brave and
inspiring!
What’s even more, I went to the gathering with my new Vmax speech synthesizer, and it was a huge success. Not only was I able to talk more to more people, it turned out to be, once people saw how I use it, a magnet.
Like those hats for that guy.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Who would Jesus hate?
"Would you want to be adopted by a pair of faggots or lesbians?"
I didn’t find this quote in the deep, dark nether regions of the Internet. It isn’t from some ultra-conservative radio host, and I didn’t hear it from a gay-bashing skinhead scowling on the sidewalk.
No, I saw it in the Los Angeles Times two or three weeks ago, and it is from a bishop - an archbishop - Cardinal Juan Sandoval Iniguez, archbishop of Guadalajara and one of the most senior Roman Catholic prelates in the nation. He said this in reaction to Mexico City’s ordinance allowing same-sex marriages and adoptions and the Mexican Supreme Court’s upholding it. (He went on to accuse the court of taking bribes.)
Never mind how I would answer his question, and forget, for the moment, the whole gay rights issue. My question here is, how can a respected man of the church - not some fringe minister, a la Fred Phelps - spew such hateful gutter-talk ("faggots").
I may sound shocked. I should be shocked. I wish I was shocked.
But I’m not. This fits right in with the furor over the building of a mosque two blocks from "ground zero" in New York City. Never mind that it will be more of a community center open to all, that it will be run by sufi Muslims, who are the blissed-out flower children of Islam, and that it certainly won’t "loom over" the Twin Towers site. There are people calling the building of the mosque a jihadist victory, a symbol of "Islamic triumphalism."
New York City isn’t the only place where there’s consternation over a mosque being built. It is happening in several communities across the nation, including Temecula, not far from here, and there was a fire a few days ago where a mosque was under construction in Tennessee.
Then there are the increasing number of Americans who believe that President Obama is a Muslim - as if that’s a bad thing. I was at the market the other day and saw a tabloid paper at the check-out stand with a large photograph on its cover of Obama wearing a white robe and a turban - "SHOCKING PROOF THAT OBAMA IS A MUSLIM!"
Even more disturbing and sad to me is that a number of mosques are cancelling their festivals - a big deal for children in particular - marking the last day of Ramadan, which this year happens to fall on September 11. This is a bit like cancelling Christmas morning, and it is being done because they don’t want people to get the wrong idea - that they’re celebrating 9/11.
It has been observed and lamented that it appears more and more that, contrary to the official rhetoric, America (and the West) is in a War on Islam.
Not unlike those who are against same-sex marriage saying they simply want to "protect marriage" when it is all too evident that they are against queers.
And meanwhile, Glen Beck and his rallying crowd, who more or less all loudly label themselves as Christians (there might be a few Jews, but that’s okay, because they’re in the Bible, unenlightened though they are) claim that all this, all this hate, is about "honor" and God.
I recently saw a production of "South Pacific," and I keep thinking of the song, "You Got To Be Carefully Taught," about how children learn to be prejudiced. It seems to me that it took some extraordinary teaching to get people to believe that Jesus espoused or endorsed all this bigotry and hate.
Either that, or it took a lot of people being scared shitless.
I didn’t find this quote in the deep, dark nether regions of the Internet. It isn’t from some ultra-conservative radio host, and I didn’t hear it from a gay-bashing skinhead scowling on the sidewalk.
No, I saw it in the Los Angeles Times two or three weeks ago, and it is from a bishop - an archbishop - Cardinal Juan Sandoval Iniguez, archbishop of Guadalajara and one of the most senior Roman Catholic prelates in the nation. He said this in reaction to Mexico City’s ordinance allowing same-sex marriages and adoptions and the Mexican Supreme Court’s upholding it. (He went on to accuse the court of taking bribes.)
Never mind how I would answer his question, and forget, for the moment, the whole gay rights issue. My question here is, how can a respected man of the church - not some fringe minister, a la Fred Phelps - spew such hateful gutter-talk ("faggots").
I may sound shocked. I should be shocked. I wish I was shocked.
But I’m not. This fits right in with the furor over the building of a mosque two blocks from "ground zero" in New York City. Never mind that it will be more of a community center open to all, that it will be run by sufi Muslims, who are the blissed-out flower children of Islam, and that it certainly won’t "loom over" the Twin Towers site. There are people calling the building of the mosque a jihadist victory, a symbol of "Islamic triumphalism."
New York City isn’t the only place where there’s consternation over a mosque being built. It is happening in several communities across the nation, including Temecula, not far from here, and there was a fire a few days ago where a mosque was under construction in Tennessee.
Then there are the increasing number of Americans who believe that President Obama is a Muslim - as if that’s a bad thing. I was at the market the other day and saw a tabloid paper at the check-out stand with a large photograph on its cover of Obama wearing a white robe and a turban - "SHOCKING PROOF THAT OBAMA IS A MUSLIM!"
Even more disturbing and sad to me is that a number of mosques are cancelling their festivals - a big deal for children in particular - marking the last day of Ramadan, which this year happens to fall on September 11. This is a bit like cancelling Christmas morning, and it is being done because they don’t want people to get the wrong idea - that they’re celebrating 9/11.
It has been observed and lamented that it appears more and more that, contrary to the official rhetoric, America (and the West) is in a War on Islam.
Not unlike those who are against same-sex marriage saying they simply want to "protect marriage" when it is all too evident that they are against queers.
And meanwhile, Glen Beck and his rallying crowd, who more or less all loudly label themselves as Christians (there might be a few Jews, but that’s okay, because they’re in the Bible, unenlightened though they are) claim that all this, all this hate, is about "honor" and God.
I recently saw a production of "South Pacific," and I keep thinking of the song, "You Got To Be Carefully Taught," about how children learn to be prejudiced. It seems to me that it took some extraordinary teaching to get people to believe that Jesus espoused or endorsed all this bigotry and hate.
Either that, or it took a lot of people being scared shitless.
Friday, August 20, 2010
The power of theater
Here is a column of mine, published in the Claremont Courier a couple months ago, that reflects and explains, at least in part, my passion for live theater. (Okay, I’ve been very busy, and it’s really hot. Yes, this is filler, but I hope it’s good filler!)
SOMEWHERE A PLACE FOR COMMUNITY THROUGH THEATER
"You guys make the world awful!"
There was no doubt about this when, minutes later, the gunshot rang out. The bang was enormous in the cavernous theater, and, with it coming from offstage, it was all the more jarring. Of course, it was no surprise - of course, Tony was going to be shot, leaving his beloved Maria to mourn and to hate - but it was a shock nevertheless.
This was West Side Story, after all - a musical, yes, but not one ending with laughter and the peal of wedding bells. The Claremont High School production of the masterpiece by playwright Arthur Laurents, composer Leonard Bernstein and lyricist Stephen Sondheim, loosely based on Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, dealt with the age-old problem of racial hatred and rivalry, set in the gritty world of New York City street gangs in the mid-1900's and with songs that are beautiful and sometimes funny but also cynical and bitter. As Doc, the café proprietor, points out in addressing the gang members, it is about everything that makes "the world awful."
This was pretty heady stuff for the high school students. It made the year-end musical production in Bridges Auditorium a couple weekends ago just that much more big-time
No doubt it was a big weekend for Andrew Lindvall and Emily Dauwalder who played Tony and Maria. They shone onstage like the stars on the ceiling of the renowned auditorium. And so did the dozens and dozens of kids who appeared. I was especially impressed with the boys dancing with precise and daring scissor-kicks, choreographed by Daniel Smith, in the high-flying, metropolitan spirit of Jerome Robbins.
As always, these students were supported by at least twice as many others behind the scenes, handling the props and costumes and the lighting and sound, making the show run smoothly. Although none couldn’t be seen, they clearly did an ace job, looking like pros. When I attended on Saturday night, even the sound, which is usually tricky and which always presents a problem in Big Bridges, was pulled off with only the slightest of hitches.
And then, of course, there was, as usual, Krista Carson Elhai, the legendary C.H.S director who, along with Musical Director Joel Wilson, whipped these hundreds of students into spectacular shape. Yes, it may be the case that "boy, is she tired!" after having directed over 250 productions in her 26 years of teaching theater, as her program bio crankily noted, but, as was evident in this production, she hasn’t lost her touch in getting teenagers to do wonderful, magical stuff.
I also can’t praise her enough for having them do mature, provocative work. This show ranked up there with The Laramie Project, the Who’s Tommy and Metamorphisis. Ms. Elhai is confident and isn’t afraid to trust and challenge her students, as well as her audiences, with these brave shows.
Yes, there was plenty to be proud of that weekend. Yes, it was the big-time show in big-time Big Bridges. My one real complaint is that the music wasn’t live. I think these hard-working kids and the beautiful, grand venue deserved to be accompanied and serenaded by a live orchestra.
What’s more, it was a celebration of community, a celebration of a school and of students and teachers supported, encouraged and nurtured by our community. There was a large, slick program loaded with ads and sponsors, and there were lots of cheering parents and friends. This was very much something put on by the community. I kept thinking that it was like a warm-up for our Fourth of July fete.
I also saw this sense of community, of a community coming together and growing, at another play, another musical, I saw a few weeks earlier. It was in Temecula, and it was Rent and it was a delightful surprise.
What was I doing seeing Rent in Temecula? As I discovered a year or two ago when I went to the Old Town Temecula Community Theater, although it is 60 miles away, it takes no longer to get there than it takes to get to a theater in L.A or Santa Monica with the nearly constant city traffic - and the drive is considerably less stressful. Besides, this was the first time I could see this work for less than something like $65 a pop.
Still, I was quite wary. Although the relatively new theater is very attractive and state-of-the-art, the rock opera by Jonathan Larson dealing with prostitutes, druggies and drag queens didn’t seem to fit in this rural (but growing) town with its distinctly western themes, complete with wooden plank sidewalks and country music piped in on the streets. Rent is a long way from La Boheme, although it is based on the Pucinni opera, and Main Street, Temecula, is definitely a long way from Hollywood or Santa Monica Boulevard. It also didn’t help that I had been less than impressed with the previous production I saw there - a victim of a lazy director.
When I entered the theater - late, I’m afraid - I was immediately thrilled, even electrified. Not only was there a live band jamming onstage, there was a young, long-haired man, dressed in the red, plaid pants and black t-shirt of a rocker, singing to a stripper about losing his stash and how he might be falling in love with her. I certainly didn’t think I was in Temecula - or what I think of as Temecula - anymore, Toto!
The play went on from there and didn’t let up, driven by the band, with its stories of people in New York City dealing with eviction, drug use, whoring, AIDS, homelessness, etc. Many of the songs were punctuated with the strongest of profanities. No doubt some in the audience found the work eye-opening, to say the least, but even they had to admit that it had tremendous heart and was being performed, by the Temecula Valley Players, with tremendous heart. I had the sense that the challenging, daring quality of the work inspired the players to do such a fine job with it.
I also had the sense that there was a group of young people in the audience who were cheering especially often and especially loudly. I wondered if they had been to at least one or two of the other performances. I wondered also if they felt that they were finally being heard and understood.
This is the sense I have of live theater and the unique, magical power it has. It can bring a community together. It can inspire a community - all the more so when it challenges the community. And it can open eyes in a community to other communities, other worlds, other ways.
Theater brings us together to build, strengthen, nurture community. Indeed, as everyone sings in West Side Story, "take my hand, and we’re halfway there."
SOMEWHERE A PLACE FOR COMMUNITY THROUGH THEATER
"You guys make the world awful!"
There was no doubt about this when, minutes later, the gunshot rang out. The bang was enormous in the cavernous theater, and, with it coming from offstage, it was all the more jarring. Of course, it was no surprise - of course, Tony was going to be shot, leaving his beloved Maria to mourn and to hate - but it was a shock nevertheless.
This was West Side Story, after all - a musical, yes, but not one ending with laughter and the peal of wedding bells. The Claremont High School production of the masterpiece by playwright Arthur Laurents, composer Leonard Bernstein and lyricist Stephen Sondheim, loosely based on Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, dealt with the age-old problem of racial hatred and rivalry, set in the gritty world of New York City street gangs in the mid-1900's and with songs that are beautiful and sometimes funny but also cynical and bitter. As Doc, the café proprietor, points out in addressing the gang members, it is about everything that makes "the world awful."
This was pretty heady stuff for the high school students. It made the year-end musical production in Bridges Auditorium a couple weekends ago just that much more big-time
No doubt it was a big weekend for Andrew Lindvall and Emily Dauwalder who played Tony and Maria. They shone onstage like the stars on the ceiling of the renowned auditorium. And so did the dozens and dozens of kids who appeared. I was especially impressed with the boys dancing with precise and daring scissor-kicks, choreographed by Daniel Smith, in the high-flying, metropolitan spirit of Jerome Robbins.
As always, these students were supported by at least twice as many others behind the scenes, handling the props and costumes and the lighting and sound, making the show run smoothly. Although none couldn’t be seen, they clearly did an ace job, looking like pros. When I attended on Saturday night, even the sound, which is usually tricky and which always presents a problem in Big Bridges, was pulled off with only the slightest of hitches.
And then, of course, there was, as usual, Krista Carson Elhai, the legendary C.H.S director who, along with Musical Director Joel Wilson, whipped these hundreds of students into spectacular shape. Yes, it may be the case that "boy, is she tired!" after having directed over 250 productions in her 26 years of teaching theater, as her program bio crankily noted, but, as was evident in this production, she hasn’t lost her touch in getting teenagers to do wonderful, magical stuff.
I also can’t praise her enough for having them do mature, provocative work. This show ranked up there with The Laramie Project, the Who’s Tommy and Metamorphisis. Ms. Elhai is confident and isn’t afraid to trust and challenge her students, as well as her audiences, with these brave shows.
Yes, there was plenty to be proud of that weekend. Yes, it was the big-time show in big-time Big Bridges. My one real complaint is that the music wasn’t live. I think these hard-working kids and the beautiful, grand venue deserved to be accompanied and serenaded by a live orchestra.
What’s more, it was a celebration of community, a celebration of a school and of students and teachers supported, encouraged and nurtured by our community. There was a large, slick program loaded with ads and sponsors, and there were lots of cheering parents and friends. This was very much something put on by the community. I kept thinking that it was like a warm-up for our Fourth of July fete.
I also saw this sense of community, of a community coming together and growing, at another play, another musical, I saw a few weeks earlier. It was in Temecula, and it was Rent and it was a delightful surprise.
What was I doing seeing Rent in Temecula? As I discovered a year or two ago when I went to the Old Town Temecula Community Theater, although it is 60 miles away, it takes no longer to get there than it takes to get to a theater in L.A or Santa Monica with the nearly constant city traffic - and the drive is considerably less stressful. Besides, this was the first time I could see this work for less than something like $65 a pop.
Still, I was quite wary. Although the relatively new theater is very attractive and state-of-the-art, the rock opera by Jonathan Larson dealing with prostitutes, druggies and drag queens didn’t seem to fit in this rural (but growing) town with its distinctly western themes, complete with wooden plank sidewalks and country music piped in on the streets. Rent is a long way from La Boheme, although it is based on the Pucinni opera, and Main Street, Temecula, is definitely a long way from Hollywood or Santa Monica Boulevard. It also didn’t help that I had been less than impressed with the previous production I saw there - a victim of a lazy director.
When I entered the theater - late, I’m afraid - I was immediately thrilled, even electrified. Not only was there a live band jamming onstage, there was a young, long-haired man, dressed in the red, plaid pants and black t-shirt of a rocker, singing to a stripper about losing his stash and how he might be falling in love with her. I certainly didn’t think I was in Temecula - or what I think of as Temecula - anymore, Toto!
The play went on from there and didn’t let up, driven by the band, with its stories of people in New York City dealing with eviction, drug use, whoring, AIDS, homelessness, etc. Many of the songs were punctuated with the strongest of profanities. No doubt some in the audience found the work eye-opening, to say the least, but even they had to admit that it had tremendous heart and was being performed, by the Temecula Valley Players, with tremendous heart. I had the sense that the challenging, daring quality of the work inspired the players to do such a fine job with it.
I also had the sense that there was a group of young people in the audience who were cheering especially often and especially loudly. I wondered if they had been to at least one or two of the other performances. I wondered also if they felt that they were finally being heard and understood.
This is the sense I have of live theater and the unique, magical power it has. It can bring a community together. It can inspire a community - all the more so when it challenges the community. And it can open eyes in a community to other communities, other worlds, other ways.
Theater brings us together to build, strengthen, nurture community. Indeed, as everyone sings in West Side Story, "take my hand, and we’re halfway there."
Friday, August 6, 2010
The big question
"Let’s see how fast you are with that."
I was at the local Borders Books, using my new Vmax voice synthesizer to order a book which wasn’t in stock, when a guy came up behind me and said, "Hi, John!" I wasn’t quite sure who he was - not atypical around here where I’m well-known - but he seemed to know me and about the Vmax, impressing the young man who was assisting me, and who was at first a bit impatient although curious, even more. By the time I had the device voice "sweet" and "peace out," which I have pre-programed, after he gave me a receipt, he was laughing, clearly charmed and stoked.
I was pretty fast with the Vmax, which operates using a camera tracking a silver dot now attached to my glasses and which I have posted a few times about getting in recent months, this time, and this adventure with it was a big success. Some adventures, since having the Vmax attached to my chair a month ago (it is easily removable, and I have it removed when I eat, write, etc.), haven’t been so successful, but they have all been a learning experience - really a full-time learning experience - and I can tell you a lot.
I can tell you about...
...the Vmax being placed right in front of my face for the first few days and my having to peer around it when I traveled. Horrified, the therapists at the hospital set it a bit lower and at a slight angle, making all the difference in the world and enabling me to more or less see where I’m going and also to unlock my front door. Also, it turned out that the dot falls off my forehead when I sweat, and it lasts much longer and seems to give me more direct control with in on my glasses. (Also, people don’t ask me anymore if I’ve converted to Hinduism, and my glasses, which also have a bit of foil on them, are now, appropriately, my tiara.)
...going home in my wheelchair and having the Vmax start to fall forward; the clamp had loosened with the bumpy ride (I suspect that typical Vmax users don’t go out like I do). I was scared shitless that the $8,000 device would smash to the ground. The next day, a friend who works at the hospital cleverly devised a velcro strap, which appears to have done the trick.
...how I love the Vmax’s word prediction. It not only predicts the word I’m typing; it predicts, with impressive acuity, the next word, speeding things up all the more. This is one powerful program!
...discovering at a picnic that the Vmax doesn’t do well in the sun. The screen is hard to see, and the camera kind of goes haywire. Bummer - especially at those pool parties and when my wheelchair breaks down when I’m out. My hospital team is talking about devising some kind of shade.
...how I’m figuring out when and when not to have it on my chair. Should I have it with me whenever I go out - even, say, when I’m shopping with an attendant?
...people either being fascinated by it or not seeing it at all. This is weird - how can they not see and be curious about this big thing in front of me, especially when it’s on and glowing? Is it just another high-tech gadget? Are they just used to seeing John - or that guy - in the wheelchair?
...having trouble with the screen coming on at other times, instead of just when I touch it, and with the battery lasting 2-3 hours instead of the 4-6 hours that it’s supposed to last (even that is silly and frustrating to me). The Vmax takes a very long time to power up - impractical when I want to talk to someone - and, to conserve the battery, I have the screen set to go black after 5 minutes of non-use, but it keeps coming on when I look at the camera or the camera picks up something. Do I have a bad battery? Should I get or make a little cap to go over the camera? Meanwhile, I’m having the device plugged in, including when I use it, as much as possible.
There are other issues, but I think the biggest is knowing when to use the Vmax and when to speak. This came to the fore when I attended Pacific Yearly Meeting, a five-day gathering of Quakers from California, Nevada, Mexico and Hawaii at the end of July, where I got a lot of practice and feedback, where I found out I am much better using the Vmax with individuals and small groups than with a large audience (making me nervous and less able to focus) and where, despite having a note in the daily newsletter explaining the Vmax, at least one or two people thought I use it for playing games.
The big question: Would you rather be patient trying to understand my speech or waiting for me using the Vmax?
I think my experience at Borders gives an - but probably not the - answer. I think the thing to understand, including by me, is that this device is not a miracle, but it is a powerful tool that can help, really help.
I was at the local Borders Books, using my new Vmax voice synthesizer to order a book which wasn’t in stock, when a guy came up behind me and said, "Hi, John!" I wasn’t quite sure who he was - not atypical around here where I’m well-known - but he seemed to know me and about the Vmax, impressing the young man who was assisting me, and who was at first a bit impatient although curious, even more. By the time I had the device voice "sweet" and "peace out," which I have pre-programed, after he gave me a receipt, he was laughing, clearly charmed and stoked.
I was pretty fast with the Vmax, which operates using a camera tracking a silver dot now attached to my glasses and which I have posted a few times about getting in recent months, this time, and this adventure with it was a big success. Some adventures, since having the Vmax attached to my chair a month ago (it is easily removable, and I have it removed when I eat, write, etc.), haven’t been so successful, but they have all been a learning experience - really a full-time learning experience - and I can tell you a lot.
I can tell you about...
...the Vmax being placed right in front of my face for the first few days and my having to peer around it when I traveled. Horrified, the therapists at the hospital set it a bit lower and at a slight angle, making all the difference in the world and enabling me to more or less see where I’m going and also to unlock my front door. Also, it turned out that the dot falls off my forehead when I sweat, and it lasts much longer and seems to give me more direct control with in on my glasses. (Also, people don’t ask me anymore if I’ve converted to Hinduism, and my glasses, which also have a bit of foil on them, are now, appropriately, my tiara.)
...going home in my wheelchair and having the Vmax start to fall forward; the clamp had loosened with the bumpy ride (I suspect that typical Vmax users don’t go out like I do). I was scared shitless that the $8,000 device would smash to the ground. The next day, a friend who works at the hospital cleverly devised a velcro strap, which appears to have done the trick.
...how I love the Vmax’s word prediction. It not only predicts the word I’m typing; it predicts, with impressive acuity, the next word, speeding things up all the more. This is one powerful program!
...discovering at a picnic that the Vmax doesn’t do well in the sun. The screen is hard to see, and the camera kind of goes haywire. Bummer - especially at those pool parties and when my wheelchair breaks down when I’m out. My hospital team is talking about devising some kind of shade.
...how I’m figuring out when and when not to have it on my chair. Should I have it with me whenever I go out - even, say, when I’m shopping with an attendant?
...people either being fascinated by it or not seeing it at all. This is weird - how can they not see and be curious about this big thing in front of me, especially when it’s on and glowing? Is it just another high-tech gadget? Are they just used to seeing John - or that guy - in the wheelchair?
...having trouble with the screen coming on at other times, instead of just when I touch it, and with the battery lasting 2-3 hours instead of the 4-6 hours that it’s supposed to last (even that is silly and frustrating to me). The Vmax takes a very long time to power up - impractical when I want to talk to someone - and, to conserve the battery, I have the screen set to go black after 5 minutes of non-use, but it keeps coming on when I look at the camera or the camera picks up something. Do I have a bad battery? Should I get or make a little cap to go over the camera? Meanwhile, I’m having the device plugged in, including when I use it, as much as possible.
There are other issues, but I think the biggest is knowing when to use the Vmax and when to speak. This came to the fore when I attended Pacific Yearly Meeting, a five-day gathering of Quakers from California, Nevada, Mexico and Hawaii at the end of July, where I got a lot of practice and feedback, where I found out I am much better using the Vmax with individuals and small groups than with a large audience (making me nervous and less able to focus) and where, despite having a note in the daily newsletter explaining the Vmax, at least one or two people thought I use it for playing games.
The big question: Would you rather be patient trying to understand my speech or waiting for me using the Vmax?
I think my experience at Borders gives an - but probably not the - answer. I think the thing to understand, including by me, is that this device is not a miracle, but it is a powerful tool that can help, really help.
Monday, July 26, 2010
A couple lights still left on
I have broken a vow. Two times. But one time was an accident. Really! And - what’s more - I don’t know if I can say that I’m really sorry.
Last weekend, I went to Grass Valley, quite a ways up north, to camp out at the California Worldfest music festival, and I spent a night on the way up and a night on the way down at two different Motel 6's. After saying that I would never again stay at Motel 6.
As I mentioned in a previous post, I was quite happy staying at Motel 6 and paying its low prices, making travel somewhat affordable to me, until a few years ago, until it began having only one bed in its wheelchair-accessible rooms. This forced me to pay for another room for my attendant, which I felt was unfair, discriminatory and immoral (making money off the disabled). (I considered suing, but it turns out each Motel 6 is separate.) Then there was the time when two rooms were reserved for the wrong night, and I was charged for them anyway. This was the last straw, and I swore off Motel 6.
Two or three months before this recent trip, I was telling a friend who uses a wheelchair that I had made a reservation at a Super 8 Motel for the drive home but that, unlike with other Super 8 motels I have stayed at in recent years (they, along with Days Inn, have wheelchair-accessible rooms with two beds and are inexpensive and nicer than Motel 6), this motel’s wheelchair-accessible room had not been so wheelchair-accessible when I stayed there two years ago. When I told him it was in Bishop (I wanted to drive down the spectacularly picaresque Highway 395, after having a picnic lunch at Lake Tahoe, again), my friend suggested I stay at the Motel 6 there. I was surprised, but he said that its wheelchair-accessible room has two beds and is adequate and that he often stays in it.
I called the Super 8 Motel in Bishop the next morning and cancelled my reservation. Then I called the Motel 6 and reserved its wheelchair-accessible room. (You can’t do this on-line or by calling the 1-800 number - a lesson I learned the hard way years ago.) I happily imagined I had found the only two-bed Motel 6 room left that is wheelchair-accessible.
Meanwhile, I had also made a reservation at the Super 8 Motel near Santa Nella on Highway 5, which I had been pleased with a couple years ago, for on the way up to Grass Valley. Imagine my surprise when my attendant and I pulled up late at night and found that it is now a Motel 6. I was a bit alarmed but discovered the exact same, nice, two-bed, wheelchair-accessible room.
Perhaps the light is not completely off at Motel 6 for us wheelchair-using travelers with attendants. Who knew? This recent trip was a big success thanks partly - and surprisingly - to Motel 6.
Last weekend, I went to Grass Valley, quite a ways up north, to camp out at the California Worldfest music festival, and I spent a night on the way up and a night on the way down at two different Motel 6's. After saying that I would never again stay at Motel 6.
As I mentioned in a previous post, I was quite happy staying at Motel 6 and paying its low prices, making travel somewhat affordable to me, until a few years ago, until it began having only one bed in its wheelchair-accessible rooms. This forced me to pay for another room for my attendant, which I felt was unfair, discriminatory and immoral (making money off the disabled). (I considered suing, but it turns out each Motel 6 is separate.) Then there was the time when two rooms were reserved for the wrong night, and I was charged for them anyway. This was the last straw, and I swore off Motel 6.
Two or three months before this recent trip, I was telling a friend who uses a wheelchair that I had made a reservation at a Super 8 Motel for the drive home but that, unlike with other Super 8 motels I have stayed at in recent years (they, along with Days Inn, have wheelchair-accessible rooms with two beds and are inexpensive and nicer than Motel 6), this motel’s wheelchair-accessible room had not been so wheelchair-accessible when I stayed there two years ago. When I told him it was in Bishop (I wanted to drive down the spectacularly picaresque Highway 395, after having a picnic lunch at Lake Tahoe, again), my friend suggested I stay at the Motel 6 there. I was surprised, but he said that its wheelchair-accessible room has two beds and is adequate and that he often stays in it.
I called the Super 8 Motel in Bishop the next morning and cancelled my reservation. Then I called the Motel 6 and reserved its wheelchair-accessible room. (You can’t do this on-line or by calling the 1-800 number - a lesson I learned the hard way years ago.) I happily imagined I had found the only two-bed Motel 6 room left that is wheelchair-accessible.
Meanwhile, I had also made a reservation at the Super 8 Motel near Santa Nella on Highway 5, which I had been pleased with a couple years ago, for on the way up to Grass Valley. Imagine my surprise when my attendant and I pulled up late at night and found that it is now a Motel 6. I was a bit alarmed but discovered the exact same, nice, two-bed, wheelchair-accessible room.
Perhaps the light is not completely off at Motel 6 for us wheelchair-using travelers with attendants. Who knew? This recent trip was a big success thanks partly - and surprisingly - to Motel 6.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
A few thoughts on what can't be discussed
Late last month, I watched a documentary film on P.B.S called "Ask Not," dealing with the "don’t ask, don’t tell" policy which bars gay men and lesbians from being out while serving in the U.S military. I wasn’t sure if I had seen the film before, and I had, but it was worth seeing again, especially now that President Obama is trying to repeal this wishy-washy and ultimately corrosive law that, as the film makes clear, President Clinton endorsed in a moment of caving in. It is definitely provocative and certainly brings up a lot.
It is shocking - and damning - to see, as the film shows...
...gay people being turned away and even arrested when they try to sign up at recruiting stations d mention that they are gay.
...the large number of people who have been kicked out of the military for being gay.
...that some of these people who can’t sign up or have been kicked out due to their sexuality have language skills that would be most helpful in the Middle East and could have even detected and prevented the 9/11 plot.
...that the military, struggling to get enough people to sign up, has been accepting some convicted criminals - but not queers.
...the staggering list of countries that let gay men and lesbians serve openly in the military.
As a pacifist Quaker, I have wondered if I should stand against this policy, and, indeed, I have heard it argued that queers should be grateful that they are excluded from the opportunity to fight in a war. This not only misses the point - it is foolish. This is not about war and whether one should fight or not; it is about equality. It is like gay marriage, where I know gay guys who enjoy being single and have no desire to marry. And as someone points out in the documentary, how can we credibly demand other rights if we don’t demand the equal opportunity to serve in this way if so lead?
Finally, it is evident in the film that "don’t ask, don’t tell" is all about homophobia. There is amphibians footage of enlisted men, generals and politicians saying essentially that they just don’t feel comfortable being near gay men. Meanwhile, there is also brief footage of some soldiers having fun at a swimming pool. It occurred to me that, if they didn’t have their trunks on, it would look for all the world like some pool parties I attend. Mmm...
(I can’t help thinking of when I was working out recently at the local rehabilitation hospital. A young man, a patient at the hospital, was being raised to a standing position and said, "Wait, I’m not straight—I mean, I am, but my legs aren’t." Okay - you’re not gay - thanks for the heads-up, dude! Was he so insecure about his sexuality that he felt he had to make a point of clarifying it? Then again, he was no doubt wrestling with his new identity as a disabled man.)
It is shocking - and damning - to see, as the film shows...
...gay people being turned away and even arrested when they try to sign up at recruiting stations d mention that they are gay.
...the large number of people who have been kicked out of the military for being gay.
...that some of these people who can’t sign up or have been kicked out due to their sexuality have language skills that would be most helpful in the Middle East and could have even detected and prevented the 9/11 plot.
...that the military, struggling to get enough people to sign up, has been accepting some convicted criminals - but not queers.
...the staggering list of countries that let gay men and lesbians serve openly in the military.
As a pacifist Quaker, I have wondered if I should stand against this policy, and, indeed, I have heard it argued that queers should be grateful that they are excluded from the opportunity to fight in a war. This not only misses the point - it is foolish. This is not about war and whether one should fight or not; it is about equality. It is like gay marriage, where I know gay guys who enjoy being single and have no desire to marry. And as someone points out in the documentary, how can we credibly demand other rights if we don’t demand the equal opportunity to serve in this way if so lead?
Finally, it is evident in the film that "don’t ask, don’t tell" is all about homophobia. There is amphibians footage of enlisted men, generals and politicians saying essentially that they just don’t feel comfortable being near gay men. Meanwhile, there is also brief footage of some soldiers having fun at a swimming pool. It occurred to me that, if they didn’t have their trunks on, it would look for all the world like some pool parties I attend. Mmm...
(I can’t help thinking of when I was working out recently at the local rehabilitation hospital. A young man, a patient at the hospital, was being raised to a standing position and said, "Wait, I’m not straight—I mean, I am, but my legs aren’t." Okay - you’re not gay - thanks for the heads-up, dude! Was he so insecure about his sexuality that he felt he had to make a point of clarifying it? Then again, he was no doubt wrestling with his new identity as a disabled man.)
Friday, July 2, 2010
Party pooping
It’s all fun and games, all peace and love, until someone dies. Which is exactly what happened.
Last weekend in Los Angeles, the Electric Daisy Festival, called the biggest electronic music event and featuring five stages and carnival rides, took place over two days at the Memorial Coliseum and Exposition Park, with 185,000 people attending. A 15-year-old girl attended on her own, although no one under 16 was supposed to get in without an accompanying adult, overdosed on drugs and was pronounced dead a few days later. Now these sorts of these events have been "temporarily banned from the venue, which is owned by the city, county and state.
I have many questions right there - Why wasn’t the girl’s I.D checked? How did she get the drugs, or was it an accident (a laced drink, perhaps)? Did her parents know where she was? Would it have been any better if she was 16 or even 17? - but it gets more complicated, much more complicated.
Something like 125 people were arrest for using or dealing drugs. What’s more, thousands were injured when some barricades were stormed.
And - get this - right before this fourteenth annual festival, hospitals in the area went into crisis mode, like they do when there’s a train crash or earthquake. They knew what was coming.
Something is wrong, terribly wrong, with this picture.
With hospitals literally getting ready for a disaster, with doctors pleading for an end to these raves, I have to say that I support the ban. At least until the folks to put on these events figure out how to make them safer and saner.
I don’t like saying this. I am all for having fun, and I really believe in the power of music to bring many different people together in peace. I also hear those who say that the vast, vast majority, thousands and thousands, of people had a good, safe time and shouldn’t be punished because of the foolish, thoughtless actions of a relatively few. Perhaps I’m not over the anger in my last post about another celebration turning into a melee, but, with the notable violence and death at this event (and other similar ones recently), I feel irked that the talk of peace and harmony, of groovy, global love, especially by the promoters and even music critics, not only rings hollow but sounds flat-out irresponsible.
Am I the party pooper here? Or is it those who act recklessly and those who insist on intoxicating substances being in the mix? Or is it those who put on and profit from these events and then pretend not to know what will happen?
Last weekend in Los Angeles, the Electric Daisy Festival, called the biggest electronic music event and featuring five stages and carnival rides, took place over two days at the Memorial Coliseum and Exposition Park, with 185,000 people attending. A 15-year-old girl attended on her own, although no one under 16 was supposed to get in without an accompanying adult, overdosed on drugs and was pronounced dead a few days later. Now these sorts of these events have been "temporarily banned from the venue, which is owned by the city, county and state.
I have many questions right there - Why wasn’t the girl’s I.D checked? How did she get the drugs, or was it an accident (a laced drink, perhaps)? Did her parents know where she was? Would it have been any better if she was 16 or even 17? - but it gets more complicated, much more complicated.
Something like 125 people were arrest for using or dealing drugs. What’s more, thousands were injured when some barricades were stormed.
And - get this - right before this fourteenth annual festival, hospitals in the area went into crisis mode, like they do when there’s a train crash or earthquake. They knew what was coming.
Something is wrong, terribly wrong, with this picture.
With hospitals literally getting ready for a disaster, with doctors pleading for an end to these raves, I have to say that I support the ban. At least until the folks to put on these events figure out how to make them safer and saner.
I don’t like saying this. I am all for having fun, and I really believe in the power of music to bring many different people together in peace. I also hear those who say that the vast, vast majority, thousands and thousands, of people had a good, safe time and shouldn’t be punished because of the foolish, thoughtless actions of a relatively few. Perhaps I’m not over the anger in my last post about another celebration turning into a melee, but, with the notable violence and death at this event (and other similar ones recently), I feel irked that the talk of peace and harmony, of groovy, global love, especially by the promoters and even music critics, not only rings hollow but sounds flat-out irresponsible.
Am I the party pooper here? Or is it those who act recklessly and those who insist on intoxicating substances being in the mix? Or is it those who put on and profit from these events and then pretend not to know what will happen?
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