“All I needed was a sense of someplace to go.”
-Travis Bickle, from the movie, Taxi Driver.-
When the powers that be made the decision to demolish a block of successful businesses to make way for a 40-story tower, called the CenterPoint Development, not only did The Dame loose its home, but a slew of youthful hotspots were forced to relocate.
And for what? For nothing. That monstrous structure isn’t coming up anymore than I’m going skipping down Main St. whistling the theme from Green Acres (The new grass looks great, by the way).
The last thing Lexington needed was another enormous hotel soiling our skyline. And while The Dame and Mia’s quickly found new residences, Busters just opened up last week down on Manchester St. in the distillery district. Opening night was last Friday and featured three fantastic local bands. I was there for the inaugural evening and here are my impressions:
Great! Spacious and 100% handicap accessible. Even better than the original.
The only problem for me is that it is way the hell down on Manchester St. Last week when I went, I left around 2 a.m. and, because there’s no late-night transportation in Lexington, I did have to wheel-it all the way home; I live off East Main so it took me like an hour! But honestly I don’t mind trekking downtown that late at night, traffic has died down, a lot of the bars are just letting out and drunken chatter bounces off buildings and finds my audible cavities. It’s sort of serene.
I did write a poem about that first night. Check it out:
Work Perks
Once in the bathroom stall
my mind's only focus was RELIEF..
Before taking time to aim
I was pelting an empty, upside-down beer can
with my clear, fierce stream.
The tin cylinder rattled back the sound of rainfall
and clogged the hole in the bowl
causing the toilet to nearly overflow.
Later when I went in
and saw the blockage gone
I couldn’t help but wonder
how much the bar staff makes
in this place.
Well, I really must really like the new Busters because I’m headed back tonight to see The Derek Trucks Band. In fact, I’m headed there now!
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
Busy Day
Whoever said Sundays should be a day of rest? It was probably the same person who came up with that old adage, “Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise.” I dismiss both of these. Then again, I’m an anomaly; I’m not your Average Joe, your 9-5, 40-hour weeker. I get off on pushing the boundaries of time and space, especially when everything works-out favorably.
Having said that, two Sundays ago was an eventful day rife with activity—both routine and somewhat whimsical. First of all, the weekly routine of going to the Y.M.C.A.: My aunt and I always venture to the Beaumont Center Y on Sunday morning. I prefer going at this time because it’s practically empty there and there’s no waiting to use certain aspects of the facility, e.g. a lane in the pool, a changing room, a piece of exercise equipment.
And it’s not that I’m impatient (okay maybe about some things), but when I go to the gym I want to get in and get out, do my thing, as quickly and as smoothly as possible without any hold-ups or hassles. Plus, I do have to adhere to a time schedule since we always take the Wheels Bus and they operate by appointment—one must schedule their pick-up and drop-off times at least a day in advance.
But the day’s activity actually began before we went to the Y. There was a thing, a poetry thing, billed as “The Wild Women of Poetry,” taking place at this bar, The Green Lantern, at 7 o’clock that night. I knew that it was something I wanted to go to; I’d known about it all week. But the problem was I didn’t have a ride, so right out of bed my intention was to get a lift that night. So I set the wheels in motion, I posted a message on Facebook that I was hoping to make it out to The Green Lantern that night but that I still needed a ride, “Any takers?” I said.
Then I got suited up for swimming and drank some coffee and ate some fruit. The Wheels Bus arrived; we loaded up and were off. That was at 10:45.
Business as usual at the Y: 20 laps in the pool, then a little standing in the water, 20 minutes on the hand bike, and a couple big sets on the torso-twist machine. I felt good, albeit physically exhausted. Wheels picked us up around 2 o’clock.
When I got home, I saw on my phone that my friend Katherine called and left a message that she would come pick me up around 6:30. Feeling elated, I went to the kitchen to relay the news to my aunt and inhale a sandwich. Then it was back to the PC, I had work to do; I wanted to write something to read at the open-mic at this thing tonight.
So I spent about the next three hours crafting this poem about swimming. Look:
Swimming
When I’m swimming
I’m all business
Don’t even try to talk to me
when I’m swimming
Can’t you see
I’m concentrating?
Trying to stay in rhythm—
stoke, breath in
arms in, let it out
All the way down
Then once I’m at
the shallow end
I’m standing and reclining,
then I’m headed back again.
When I’m swimming
most likely I’m counting—
always keeping tabs
on the number of laps
Or thinking about the clock
Wondering how I’m doing
with respect to when
the ride’s coming
Mostly my eyes stay down—
focused on that big bold black line
on the bottom,
trying to stay centered
Except sometimes I’ll catch a glimpse
of some tight thigh walking by
Perhaps I’m reciting
the Presidential Rhyme
from eighth grade:
“Wash, Ad, Jeff, Mad, Mon, Ad, Jack, Van Har, Ty, Po, Tay, Fil, Pierce, Buke, Con…”
It gets fuzzy after Lincoln
Or, maybe I’m singing the state song:
“Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, California, Colorado, Connecticut…”
Sorry, I never really learned “My Ole Kentucky home
Or, I could be constructing a poem
Either way, it’s tiring
yet refreshing,
confining yet liberating
It makes me feel free
cause in the pool
it’s flowing and moving
and…it’s all me
There is always something to write about. The secret is capturing it quickly, before the feeling subsides. Few young people have the freedom to take the necessary time to do this. Like I said, I’m an anomaly.
When I had finished, I read it to Sherry. Then I got dressed, folded and stuffed the poem in my pocket, hastily scarfed down some dinner, shot down a 5-hour energy, puffed on a Camel, Katherine showed up and we left
Going to a new place is slightly nerve-wrecking: Will there be steps? Will I be able to get in the restroom? If not will anyone help? I soon discovered – yes – there were two steps at the front, no – there was no way of fitting inside the restroom, yes - two guys helped me get inside and back out, and – yes – a lady pointed me to a room I could use as a “restroom.” I peed in a bottle by a cooler in the backroom.
It’s a good thing I don’t shy away from inconvenience; otherwise, I’d never do anything!
Having said that, two Sundays ago was an eventful day rife with activity—both routine and somewhat whimsical. First of all, the weekly routine of going to the Y.M.C.A.: My aunt and I always venture to the Beaumont Center Y on Sunday morning. I prefer going at this time because it’s practically empty there and there’s no waiting to use certain aspects of the facility, e.g. a lane in the pool, a changing room, a piece of exercise equipment.
And it’s not that I’m impatient (okay maybe about some things), but when I go to the gym I want to get in and get out, do my thing, as quickly and as smoothly as possible without any hold-ups or hassles. Plus, I do have to adhere to a time schedule since we always take the Wheels Bus and they operate by appointment—one must schedule their pick-up and drop-off times at least a day in advance.
But the day’s activity actually began before we went to the Y. There was a thing, a poetry thing, billed as “The Wild Women of Poetry,” taking place at this bar, The Green Lantern, at 7 o’clock that night. I knew that it was something I wanted to go to; I’d known about it all week. But the problem was I didn’t have a ride, so right out of bed my intention was to get a lift that night. So I set the wheels in motion, I posted a message on Facebook that I was hoping to make it out to The Green Lantern that night but that I still needed a ride, “Any takers?” I said.
Then I got suited up for swimming and drank some coffee and ate some fruit. The Wheels Bus arrived; we loaded up and were off. That was at 10:45.
Business as usual at the Y: 20 laps in the pool, then a little standing in the water, 20 minutes on the hand bike, and a couple big sets on the torso-twist machine. I felt good, albeit physically exhausted. Wheels picked us up around 2 o’clock.
When I got home, I saw on my phone that my friend Katherine called and left a message that she would come pick me up around 6:30. Feeling elated, I went to the kitchen to relay the news to my aunt and inhale a sandwich. Then it was back to the PC, I had work to do; I wanted to write something to read at the open-mic at this thing tonight.
So I spent about the next three hours crafting this poem about swimming. Look:
Swimming
When I’m swimming
I’m all business
Don’t even try to talk to me
when I’m swimming
Can’t you see
I’m concentrating?
Trying to stay in rhythm—
stoke, breath in
arms in, let it out
All the way down
Then once I’m at
the shallow end
I’m standing and reclining,
then I’m headed back again.
When I’m swimming
most likely I’m counting—
always keeping tabs
on the number of laps
Or thinking about the clock
Wondering how I’m doing
with respect to when
the ride’s coming
Mostly my eyes stay down—
focused on that big bold black line
on the bottom,
trying to stay centered
Except sometimes I’ll catch a glimpse
of some tight thigh walking by
Perhaps I’m reciting
the Presidential Rhyme
from eighth grade:
“Wash, Ad, Jeff, Mad, Mon, Ad, Jack, Van Har, Ty, Po, Tay, Fil, Pierce, Buke, Con…”
It gets fuzzy after Lincoln
Or, maybe I’m singing the state song:
“Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, California, Colorado, Connecticut…”
Sorry, I never really learned “My Ole Kentucky home
Or, I could be constructing a poem
Either way, it’s tiring
yet refreshing,
confining yet liberating
It makes me feel free
cause in the pool
it’s flowing and moving
and…it’s all me
There is always something to write about. The secret is capturing it quickly, before the feeling subsides. Few young people have the freedom to take the necessary time to do this. Like I said, I’m an anomaly.
When I had finished, I read it to Sherry. Then I got dressed, folded and stuffed the poem in my pocket, hastily scarfed down some dinner, shot down a 5-hour energy, puffed on a Camel, Katherine showed up and we left
Going to a new place is slightly nerve-wrecking: Will there be steps? Will I be able to get in the restroom? If not will anyone help? I soon discovered – yes – there were two steps at the front, no – there was no way of fitting inside the restroom, yes - two guys helped me get inside and back out, and – yes – a lady pointed me to a room I could use as a “restroom.” I peed in a bottle by a cooler in the backroom.
It’s a good thing I don’t shy away from inconvenience; otherwise, I’d never do anything!
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Building Empathy
Owners of businesses that have not made the necessary modifications in order to accommodate the physically disabled must not be hurting for our business. If we cannot even get in or use the facilities, it’s nor a very welcoming environment. Most people in wheelchairs probably refrain from going to places that are not handicap accessible. Then again, I’m not most people.
Wednesday, Aug. 23rd, there was another Holler, which is the poetry series that’s widely considered the primo literary event in Lexington. The reading takes place at Al’s Bar and if you’re in a wheelchair, getting inside Al’s Bar is quite a daunting task. And forget about using the restroom there, the doors are way to narrow to fit through.
But despite these impediments, I am a regular presenter at Holler, having read at at least half of the 16 Holler’s thus far. It’s also no secret that there does need to be some renovations to the building so that it is accessible and can be enjoyed by all. I read a prose-type piece entitled Shedding Light at the Open Mic back at Holler 5 (?), I think it was, directly addressing the need for a ramp and/or an accessible restroom. But that plea has gone unanswered.
Now that I think about it, I have never even seen anyone else in a wheelchair inside of Al’s Bar But is it any wonder? I mean, why should they go to all the trouble? Me, on the other hand, I enjoy overcoming adversity.
So at Holler 16 a couple weeks back I read two fairly short poems. Here they are:
A Mission
Downtown, mid-day
lunch rush
Carefully careening
through crowds
of white-collar workers
The bumpy, brick-lain sidewalks
of Main Street causing
a sloshing of bladder matter
Spotting a parking lot
I went in and unzipped,
then I let it rip
let go
let it flow
When you gotta go,
you gotta go
Upon turning, saying
“Ahhh, mission accomplished”
“Pissing accomplished?”
Confirmed my crony
Whatever works
If public urination
is a crime
then I’m
a repeat offender
Male Point of View
Who knew
electrical plugs
had genders
The outlets
on walls
are females
The prongs
at the end
of chords
are males
Who knew
electrical plugs
had genitals
When you stick prongs in outlets
enough times the outlet walls expand
and loose contact with the prongs
And when that happens,
through repeated penetration,
all you can do is
find another outlet
to stick your prong in
So when you find one that fits
stick with it
The first poem is a true story—not surprisingly, if you know me. The choice between taking a leak in the open or taking a leak in my pants ain’t no choice at all; like the poem says, “When you gotta go, you gotta go.” Maybe having read this at Al’s will trigger some action to remedy the “bathroom situation.” I doubt it, but at least, hopefully, I’m beginning to build some empathy. It’s a process.
The other poem is about my being enlightened of the different types of electrical plugs. It’s like another dimension to the Battle of the Sexes. Once again, true story: I took my power wheelchair into the shop because there seemed to be some sort of short in the battery charger. As it turned out the charger was fine; the problem was actually in the chair—more specifically, the place where the charger plugged into, the dock had gotten worn and the plug wasn’t holding a firm connection to the prongs (as was explained to me). Once I had the idea, writing it was simple; reading it while keeping a straight face was the real challenge.
Like with almost anything, no matter the gravity or complexity of the curveball that life hurls your way, you have to be able to find the comedy in it—even in tragedy. I am a living testament of this.
Wednesday, Aug. 23rd, there was another Holler, which is the poetry series that’s widely considered the primo literary event in Lexington. The reading takes place at Al’s Bar and if you’re in a wheelchair, getting inside Al’s Bar is quite a daunting task. And forget about using the restroom there, the doors are way to narrow to fit through.
But despite these impediments, I am a regular presenter at Holler, having read at at least half of the 16 Holler’s thus far. It’s also no secret that there does need to be some renovations to the building so that it is accessible and can be enjoyed by all. I read a prose-type piece entitled Shedding Light at the Open Mic back at Holler 5 (?), I think it was, directly addressing the need for a ramp and/or an accessible restroom. But that plea has gone unanswered.
Now that I think about it, I have never even seen anyone else in a wheelchair inside of Al’s Bar But is it any wonder? I mean, why should they go to all the trouble? Me, on the other hand, I enjoy overcoming adversity.
So at Holler 16 a couple weeks back I read two fairly short poems. Here they are:
A Mission
Downtown, mid-day
lunch rush
Carefully careening
through crowds
of white-collar workers
The bumpy, brick-lain sidewalks
of Main Street causing
a sloshing of bladder matter
Spotting a parking lot
I went in and unzipped,
then I let it rip
let go
let it flow
When you gotta go,
you gotta go
Upon turning, saying
“Ahhh, mission accomplished”
“Pissing accomplished?”
Confirmed my crony
Whatever works
If public urination
is a crime
then I’m
a repeat offender
Male Point of View
Who knew
electrical plugs
had genders
The outlets
on walls
are females
The prongs
at the end
of chords
are males
Who knew
electrical plugs
had genitals
When you stick prongs in outlets
enough times the outlet walls expand
and loose contact with the prongs
And when that happens,
through repeated penetration,
all you can do is
find another outlet
to stick your prong in
So when you find one that fits
stick with it
The first poem is a true story—not surprisingly, if you know me. The choice between taking a leak in the open or taking a leak in my pants ain’t no choice at all; like the poem says, “When you gotta go, you gotta go.” Maybe having read this at Al’s will trigger some action to remedy the “bathroom situation.” I doubt it, but at least, hopefully, I’m beginning to build some empathy. It’s a process.
The other poem is about my being enlightened of the different types of electrical plugs. It’s like another dimension to the Battle of the Sexes. Once again, true story: I took my power wheelchair into the shop because there seemed to be some sort of short in the battery charger. As it turned out the charger was fine; the problem was actually in the chair—more specifically, the place where the charger plugged into, the dock had gotten worn and the plug wasn’t holding a firm connection to the prongs (as was explained to me). Once I had the idea, writing it was simple; reading it while keeping a straight face was the real challenge.
Like with almost anything, no matter the gravity or complexity of the curveball that life hurls your way, you have to be able to find the comedy in it—even in tragedy. I am a living testament of this.
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