How Tired I Art

(sung to the tune of "How Great Thou Art")

Oh, when I teach a class of English Grammar,

I wonder how more stupid kids can get.
They look at me as though I speak Swahili,
Or else they think I’m nuts, more than a bit.

(chorus)
It’s then I know I want to go to bed.
How tired I art.
How tired I art.
It’s then I feel much like the living dead.
How tired I art.
How tired I art.

When the alarm rings, in the morning early,
I wonder why I stayed up quite so late.
And then I go and teach those kids so squirrly.
I pray, a life of this won’t be my fate.

(chorus)

[dramatic key change]

One day, I know I’ll lose my mind completely.
Someday, I’m sure, my sanity will snap.
And then I’ll die, but please don’t feel too badly.
To me it’s just like an extended nap.

(chorus 2x)

Tyler Manners

The Rules of the Game

After three years of living in Europe and watching British news, sports and weather broadcasts, I find myself in a comfortable position to draw together my objective observations and inform the rest of the free world that which I have learned about the game of cricket. This is a game that has gone largely misunderstood and viewed with confusion. I intend to help you to understand this game and blow away that fog of confusion that surrounds it.

Cricket is primarily played by athletes not qualifying for more strenuous team sports or other sports that require a basic level of precision or endurance. The main area of ability must lie in their talent to apply zinc oxide decoratively and to match their whites. The players who are successful at this game must be gifted with coordination enough to skip without falling and the ability to throw a ball and have
it hit the ground at least four out of five throws.

In the center of the cricket field of play is a receptacle, in which (I am led to believe) are placed the ashes of some historically significant tree stump. Somewhere in relation to this receptacle--it might be on top--is the wicket. No one knows what the wicket is, since no one has
ever seen it, but the object of the game is for the bowler to throw a ball, in an attempt to dislodge the wicket from its appointed position.

Another player holds a long paddle and tries to swat the ball, thrown by the first player, away from its target. If the man with the paddle is successful in his swatting, apparently that round is finished, and a new bowler tries his hand at knocking off the allusive wicket.

If the bowler is able to dislodge the wicket, he then takes off into the playing field and runs aimlessly until the wicket can be collected and someone on the opposing team can stop him. If he isn't stopped before the ball is found, the man with the paddle is expected to give him a
brain concussion with same paddle. Now, if the wicket becomes lost in the fracas, it can be replaced easily. Since no one knows what it looks
like, many substitutions can be and are made. It is quite common to see rolled athletic socks, borrowed sets of car keys or broken pieces of pottery used in place of a lost wicket.

After several hours of play and scoring procedures that change with the wind, all play stops while the players bring their chaise lounges
onto the field and the Queen joins them for tea.

I won't try to explain the second half of the game, because no one has ever had the tenacity to watch an entire game. Suffice it to say that a
single game sometimes lasts several days. During this time hundreds of points are amassed by players completing something referred to as "runs."

Hopefully, I have cleared up some of the misconceptions about this sport. Even more than this, I hope you can sleep well knowing that people are demanding and receiving large salaries to play this game.

The Elegant Symphony

I went to a symphony concert tonight, and I have to
admit I was frightened. Not frightened as in Linda Blair's
head spinning around and around before that became something
that happens every day in your living room. More like
frightened as in, "Has civilization really descended to
THIS?"

If the symphony is anything, the symphony is elegant.
You check reality with your coat, and don't even consider
bringing your cellular or your beeper. If either went off
during the performance, you would be immediately sacrificed
to the muses, and the concert would continue in spite of the
interruption. But I digress.
Tonight, the program was filled with movements from
three Mozart symphonies and a short series of classical
guitar. During the adagio movement of the third Mozart
selection, the melee began.
The violins apparently came to a page turn in their
music, so the second violinist reached across the music stand
he shared with the first violinist to turn the page. As he
moved the loose page from the right to the left, the paper
slipped from his fingers. This did not alter the flow of the
music played by the first violinist because the page that fell
had already been finished, and the page now exposed was the
next in order.

This would have been no problem had it stopped there,
but it didn't.

The first violinist was sitting high in his seat with
his feet perched lightly below and somewhat underneath it.
The page of music that fell from the music stand landed under
the first violinist's right toes as he lifted them in time to
the music. As he put the toes of his right foot back down, the
paper between his shoe and the floor of the stage caused his
foot to slip backward.
The sudden movement of his foot effected his balance,
and he lurched forward quickly and dropped to a kneeling
position.
This change in position happened suddenly, and with a
great deal of force, but this concertmaster was a seasoned
performer, and he continued to play throughout. But this
wasn't the end. The page of music that started the trouble
was not finished.

When the first violinist dropped off of his chair
onto his knees, the music that was under his toes was
propelled out from behind him and into the face of an
unsuspecting violinist in the second row. The leap of the
first violinist and the music in his face took the man in the
second row quite by surprise, and he flinched to the left.
Of course, as one might suspect, this made him lose his
balance, causing both he and his chair to fall to the side.
The side he fell to happened to be where the woodwinds
were sitting. Amazingly, they continued to play and were
quite unaffected. It's not finished though.

The violinist from the second row who had fallen
moved into a sitting position, there on the floor beside the
woodwinds, in an attempt to follow the example of the first
violinist and continue playing. This was a noble gesture, but
as he moved, his foot bumped a glass of water sitting beside a
music stand in the woodwind section. The resulting water on
the stage floor, I am happy to say, left the woodwinds
completely unscathed, which is better than can be said for
the incredibly animated percussionist.

Normally, it is very interesting to watch the spry
movements of the percussionist from one timpani to the other.
This, however, was his undoing tonight. Of course, he slipped
on the water and headed for the floor. In a futile attempt to
grab for something stable, he put his hands onto the timpani,
which proved to be of little help.

The timpani went over onto one side, then rolled away
from the fallen percussionist and through the brass section.
The run-away drum prompted the brass players to come to their
feet and scatter. The quick movements of the entire brass
section startled one of the contrabass players. This
contrabass player looked toward the confusion and away from
the next musician in his own section. In the diversion, he
moved his bow hand in such a way as to inadvertently perform
exploratory surgery on the ear of the next contrabass player,
who must have experienced severe pain. The pain coaxed the
contrabass player to say something that the chelists in front
of him apparently took for "fightin' words."
By the time the movement was finished, several
musicians were seated on the floor, several others were
standing, a few were wet, a few were injured, and a fist-fight
was in progress.

The conductor successfully directed a majority of the
instruments to the end of the movement, and though the
audience was not expected to applaud until the next movement
was finished, there was a standing ovation.

The rest of the Mozart selection and the classical
guitar portion of the concert were both abandoned, I will
assume due to nervous trauma on the part of the conductor.

When the elegant audience left the concert hall, no one spoke
audibly about the goings on, but I can imagine that others
like myself were scarred.

Accessible Cupid

Dating can be complicated. Adding an extra set of wheels takes it to a new level. The misabled live with this as another dimention in romantic life. We can either live in a fog of annoyance, or we we can have fun with it. I usually choose the latter.

To the average man, females might be seen as a conquest. To those of us from the portable persuasion, a woman is a political campaign. You must (1) pique her interest, (2) make a show of sincerity then (3) clarify your intentions. Following this, you need to (4) establish an agenda then (5) put your plan into action. If you actually get to that point, you have entered the mutual unknown of individual uniqueness.

1. Accidentally knocking someone down or into my lap has become an ice-breaker for me. When that isn’t possible, I’ve been known to comment on a woman’s shoes. In my world, textured sidewalks, unusual doorknobs, belt buckles, and shoes as easier to remember than hairstyles and faces. The shoe thing works for two reasons. The first being that a woman thinks of her shoes as an extension of her personality, and if a man notices them, that means he’s interested in something more valuable to her than her cup size. This also works because a man showing interest in a woman’s accessories just might be gay and no eminent threat at all. She can think of you like a friend and not realize you have designs.

2. To convince a woman of your sincerity, from the vantage of a wheelchair, is the easiest part of the equation. If you start a conversation with, “From my unique perspective,” and indicate the chair with a smile, you have her both off-guard and reacting somewhat sympathetically. If you can use your handicap to arouse maternal instincts in a woman, you are not looked at with suspicion, you are in need. To some women, The needy are irresistible. Phrases like, “That was so kind,” and “You’re such a sweetheart,” place you firmly into the genuine category.

3. It’s at this point that the somewhat humorous pick-up lines start. For a wheelchair user, there are several comments that will illicit a smile, but will also make your intentions clearer. Any line that uses the term four-wheel drive is worth trying. My favorite is to ask, “Ever heard of four-wheel drive?” and cock one eyebrow. This gets a raised eyebrow from her when she realizes that, even though you’re sincere, you’re still a guy. A comment that compares your stature sitting up to your stature lying down leaves no doubt of what you’re up to. Unless the woman is a physical therapist or a masseuse, there are very few reasons to say this. As well as these types of lines, if you take things a step further into the crude factor, or you’ve both been drinking, you might suggest needing help to break in your mew wheelchair.

4. Establishing an agenda is actually the most difficult part of the romance cycle, when it involves a misabled person. For us, nothing happens on the spur of a moment. We have both appointments and equipment. An AB (able bodied) can say, “Excuse me while I slip into something more comfortable.” Rather than this enticing interlude, we might say something like, “Ignore anything you hear; I’m just rearranging some durable medical equipment.”

5. By this point, Miss Right Now must have a pretty adventurous spirit to not become a face on a milk carton. If that is the case, invite her in. May I suggest that certain medical implements used in traction can double as a trapeze.

Medical Establishment Obstacle Course

We, the misabled, fall into two categories. There are those who were born different and those who became different. Those of us who became due to a progressive condition probably see doctors with alarming regularity. Since the doctor's office actually caters to the infirmed, I sometimes wonder why it is often so difficult in terms of access.

The parking areas are interesting to me. There are a mandated number of spaces for the handicapped in most lots, due to the nature of their business. The problem here involves reality: Every cripple knows there are not enough blue spaces to accommodate both the handicapped and everyone else with a placard. Eventually, I usually just use two spaces in the south 40 and enjoy the scenery while rolling to the building in my wheelchair.

The more opulent the office is, the heavier the front door. They all automatically retract and will fight against pushing open. When a person on wheels pushes an immovable object, the very laws of physics dictate that the wheels will move rather than the object. The word push on a heavy door mocks the wheelchair user.

We learn techniques that usually work, and sometimes we resort to a running start. Now I am in the office. Some offices have been thoughtful enough to have a wheelchair parking spot marked in the waiting area. In most, you sit in the center and block traffic, but the examination tables bring us to the next level of troublemaking.

There is usually a retractable step for the able-bodied to use, so they know it's pretty far up there. For those of us who are vertically challenged due to permanent seating, that table is Everest, and we will make the attempt because it's there.

It's usually a major project, but I actually pull it off sometimes. The nurse who takes me to the room will look at the table and then look at me. She will ask, "Will you have any trouble getting onto the examination table?" I've often wanted to ask, "Do you have trouble walking on water?" I don't.

With a little help or extreme effort, I've usually made the transfer. Next stop, Radiology.

The x-ray technician is trained to put the patient into contorted positions that resemble letters from an unknown alphabet. Once posed, he will tip the patient to one side, at an impossible angle to maintain and ask, "Can you hold that position?" The able-bodied can't hold that position, so it's a cinch that the handicapped—especially if paralysis comes with the package—can't either. And to add insult to injury, he tells you not to breathe.

For many of these events, the doctor may want you in a hospital gown. This little outfit makes everyone's job easier but yours. For a user of durable medical equipment, getting dressed or undressed is a contact sport. Changing into the gown involves undressing and dressing twice. Not only does the medical staff want you in this humiliating frock, but they want you fatigued as well.

The whole visit to the doctor's office is fraught with situations that cause the handicapped visitor to experience knitted eyebrows, pursed lips, tensed neck muscles and sweat. I often avoid going altogether. During a recent, unexpected hospital visit, I learned that one of my doctors had gone bald. I learned that it had been a gradual process I missed altogether. That's how much I avoid going to the doctor

Wheels within Wheels and Wings

No matter what form of travel I choose, the wheelchair always poses problems. The problems seem insurmountable, but usually it’s only a matter of logic. Cars are awkward, airplanes are difficult, and buses are nigh unto impossible. Whatever way the misabled traveler chooses to travel will be fraught with humor for the outside observer.

Getting into the average automobile is a little like one of those puzzles, involving two twisted nails that must be separated and then linked back together….Actually, it’s a lot like that. In recent years, auto makers have been thoughtful enough to install a handle just above the door, to aid in this transfer, and it’s appreciated. Actually, I think the handle was intended to assist when Jack Spratt’s wife is being poured into the passenger window, but….

Finding a place to put the chair during transit–what with luggage, snacks, bottled water, reading material, electronic entertainment devices and various family members–is a task that requires a degree in physics. Since I am usually waiting calmly in the passenger seat for the travelogue to begin, I don’t really care. It just happens.

This process is repeated each time the itinerary calls for food stops, potty breaks or over-nighters. The one that puts a burr under my decubitus cushion is a periodic stop we make and refer to as “scratching our legs.”

Airplanes present a different problem. Wheelchairs are usually at least 25 inches wide. Airplane aisles are usually 22 inches wide. The airlines have solved this problem with what they call an aisle-chair . This is simply a narrow furniture dolly with a seat.

I transfer from the wheelchair to the aisle-chair, then the fun begins. They strap me to the dolly with two straps that run diagonally across my chest in opposite directions, and a standard seat belt. I asked once why the two diagonals were necessary. The flight attendant explained that they were required by FAA regulations. I can only guess that these are restraints in case I become violent before reaching my seat. Either that or we’re expecting a side impact from the beverage cart.

Once at my seat, it’s no great difficulty to transfer into the seat I’ve been assigned for the duration of the flight, but this seat poses another problem. The new problem involves the fact that handicapped people are almost always given aisle seats. Sure, the aisle seat is an easier transfer, but now I’m holding the people in the center and window seats as virtual hostages. If one or both need to leave their seats for a moment, they must first climb over me. And now that I’m mortared into place by my immobility, the restroom comes to mind.

The airlines are thoughtful and usually seat the handicapped near the restrooms. The problem remains that my legs just don’t work at all. A flight attendant once reasoned with me that the restroom was just across the aisle. Five steps might as well be 500 steps where my legs are concerned.

Getting off the plane is a simple reverse of getting on, but all bets are off when you discover that they’ve broken your wheelchair in cargo.

The only buses I’ve ridden on were the cross-town city variety. This is a nightmare that H.P. Lovecraft would have enjoyed writing about. Once past the complicated machinery of the wheelchair lift, they have regulations about securing the chair to the bus floor. They seem to be worried that the bus might suddenly achieve weightlessness. The complicated set of straps, hooks and latches they use for this purpose never actually work.

At almost all costs, you want to avoid most bus travel anyway. The reason being that buses, and the stations that spawn them, are incubators for the grotesque. These huddled masses yearn to breathe my free air. Some passengers appear to have spent most of a lifetime on the same bus, only changing seats whenever the bus tires are rotated.

The local bus systems are a guided tour to purgatory, and I’m always afraid that my wheelchair is strapped down for the main purpose of keeping me still when the vehicle begins its descent into the underworld. I wait for the bus driver to get on the intercom and introduced himself as Charon.

If I can’t roll there in my chair or drive there in my own car, I no longer really want to go.

Where the Keyboard Meets the Road

In order to keep a traffic ticket off my record, I recently tried traffic school online. This was a positive experience because I wasn’t forced to sit in a hotel conference room with people who obviously received both their driver’s licenses and their high school diplomas from boxes of Cracker Jacks.

I realize that my comment makes me sound like I’m being judgmental and thinking I’m better than the people with whom I previously attended traffic school. Well, that’s probably because I am, and I do. It frightens me to know that some of the people I saw there live in my same community and are probably still undiagnosed.

Online traffic school was also a negative experience because both my computer and the testing system is pitiful. If I think back a bit to before this, I can see that my attitude actually went south a few weeks earlier when I got the ticket in the first place.

I was driving on a residential street that connects two major thoroughfares, so very few people actually drive the posted limit. I was on my way to church, and I was in a hurry to work with the youth, on a program I had written for them.

I couldn’t argue because I was speeding a little, but I really wanted to blurt out, “I’m a cripple on my way to church, and I was only going five miles over the limit! What is wrong with this picture?” What I did instead was smile and say, “Thank you,” and drive the rest of the way slowly.

The questions in the online traffic school test are really quite simple, but I must question some of their validity. A question that asks what color the car was on the first page of the online and handbook is obviously there to see if you’ve read the pages before trying to take the test. The page in question was one of the pages I actually did read, but I not only didn’t notice what color the car was in the picture, I don’t remember even looking at the picture.

Another question asked what speed the speedometer showed on a specific picture of a dashboard. This turned out to be a trick question because the speedometer in the picture showed zero. Questions like this leave me wondering if the online test was written by people out of work due to the television writers’ strike. I can see the minds that write for late-night talk shows constructing tests like this.

Once you’re finished with the test, if you fail, you can retake the test as many times as necessary. You are only limited by five hours and your own endurance. They randomized the order of the questions and must have several extra questions that rotate into the test. I know this because I almost ran out of time and lost count of how many tries I made. After the first failure, I started writing down my answers and whether I got them right or wrong. The process of elimination eventually netted me the correct answers.

The whole experience was as unnerving, and I don’t think I learned anything except that I should pay attention to my dashboard and the colors of cars, rather than the road.