Resign, Resist

I arrived at 950 Pennsylvania Avenue, also known as the Department of Justice building, around quarter to one. The protest calling for Attorney General Jeff Sessions to resign, or at the very least recuse himself from the the investigation of ties between the Trump Administration and Russia because it was uncovered that he had meetings with the Russian ambassador during the campaign and lied about them under oath during his confirmation hearing, was scheduled to go until one. I was hoping it would go longer, as these things are want to do. I was solo, with a sheet of computer paper as my sign; on one side, written with a Sharpie, it said ‘Resign’, and the other said ‘Resist’.

Maybe 200 people crowded the sidewalk, holding signs, chanting clever chants I can’t remember. Exactly the scene I wanted. A man with a megaphone at a roll-away podium announced the final speaker for the afternoon. The woman next to me was being interviewed by a TV reporter. Four or five television crews were conducting interviews with protesters. I didn’t care too much about what the speakers had to say. I was happy to be there, soaking it in, proud of democracy.

The crowd started to scatter when the speaker finished, people returning to work. The temperature was in the 40s, so not really standing around weather, unless of course you were me. I was dressed for the cold–furry hat, gloves, down jacket, prepared for a prolonged outdoor outing. I watched and smiled at all the people.

A man approached me, talking into his phone. “HI. I’m with (such and such local news organization. I forget which.) Do you mind if I talk to you a little?”

“Yeah, sure. That’d be fine.”

He had me say and spell my name into his phone. “So, why are you here today?”

“I’m protesting the entire administration; today specifically Jeff Sessions and his actions.”

“What would you say to the argument that Senators in his position should be in contact with foreign ambassadors; that he was just doing his job?”

“I think there’s too much going on with this administration, too much fishy business, to believe anything they say. That’s too convenient of an explanation. Also, why did he lie about it under oath to congress if he has nothing to hide? Come on.”

“And what would you say to a Trump supporter who says things like this are a waste of time and aren’t doing any good?”

“I’d say I have every right to be here. I’m here making my voice heard; making my opinion known. If they don’t like it, that’s their prerogative.”

“Okay, thanks.” And he moved on.

I took a few pictures on my phone and waited until every last trace of a protest was gone. It was only like 1:15 at this point. I rode my scoot down the street to the American History Smithsonian Museum, feeling super-patriotic. While perusing the Thomas Edison wing, I learned that Sessions had recused himself. Step one. I’m not naive to think our little protest had anything to do with the decision; but it felt good. It felt good knowing this administration can’t just waltz in here and play by their own rules that they make up as they go. It felt good knowing I did what I could as a private US citizen to protect my country. What a place. And we are not going to let up.

Swimnot

I go to the gym. It’s my first time leaving the house since the election, okay. So there’s that, suffocating feeling of pending doom. But, ya know, life goes on. All we can do persevere. I’m in the locker room at quarter to five. I go through the steps–undress at the locker. Shoes, jacket, eat granola bar, shirt, sweatpants. Take goggles and shammy and lock out of the backpack. Lock it up. Go through an awkwardly heavy door and pull up to the shower. Stand and step out of the scoot, while holding the grab bar in the shower with my right hand. Turn on the water and let it heat up. Step in. Get wet for a few seconds. Turn off the water. Step back onto the scoot. Back out of the shower and ride around the corner to the next heavy door, entering the pool area. This all goes routinely.

On this door, a sign reads that the pool is closed for repairs until November 30. The hot tub is open. I look in and the life guard is giving bad news to a guy. I open the glass door, and he looks over. “It’s closed?” I ask.

He comes over to me and explains that the pool closed a couple hours ago. “Donald Trump did this! It starts. No, they just have to resurface the bottom.” I had thought it would be doom and gloom everywhere, as I feel; or at least too soon for jokes. But it was just right. It feels good to laugh about it. We chat for a minute. We’re friends at this point. He reminds me to update my fantasy football team. “Well, see you in a couple weeks.” In the meantime, I’ll be hitting the treadmill. Not today, because I’m not wearing the right shoes.

I guess I never made the announcement here, if this is your source of news for all things John (if so, we have a lot to catch up on), that I’m training to swim in the 2020 Paralympics in Tokyo. It started as a long-shot pipe-dream in August. I’ve come a long way in three months towards making it a realistic goal. There’s a blog I’ve been writing about that whole process. I know, I should’ve said something sooner. But now you have 22 entries to consume at once. Swimmingtotokyo.wordpress.com. Check it out. My hope is to write here at least somewhat consistently again.

420

I googled ‘420 dc’ and read a blurb about an event called 420Fest at the National Mall, the area between the Capitol and the Washington Monument. I envisioned an extravagant production with booths and free cookies and maybe a twelve foot bong I would be willing to pay five dollars to hit. The page said the party rivals any city in the world. My imagination ran wild.

Yio and I planned to depart at 11 and meet a friend. Far too ambitious. We ended up leaving at 2:15, missing the friend altogether. We took the Red Line to Metro Center and rode our scoots ten minutes to the Mall. I was not immediately overwhelmed by pageantry. I thought I heard drumming in the distance. “That must be it. Where the drumming is. By the Monument. Come on!”

“Are you sure there will be music and everything?” Yio asked.

“Well no, I’m not sure there will be anything. I just saw ‘420Fest’ and ‘National Mall’ on a website, and here we are. If there’s revelry right now, drumming on a Wednesday afternoon, it’s for 420.” I said, indignance in my voice.

We proceeded half a mile to the base of the Monument. School kids congregated; two kites flew. “Hmm. I don’t see a festival anywhere. I don’t smell one either. In fact, I don’t smell any pot.” We circled the landmark, looking for any sign of a weed-­loving community. Nothing. I took out my vape pen and said, “Fine. I don’t need a festival. I am a festival.” I hit it. “420!” I yelled, not loud enough for anyone to hear, and rang the bell on my scoot. We found a tree to sit under while we researched observances of the day on our phones. I loaded the page that initially told me of this event, to prove I wasn’t high when I made these plans; rather, to prove my high did not confuse me when I made the plans. I showed Yio. “See. They said they’d be here. Where are they?” I army­-rolled out of the shade where I used the pen like an oxygen tank for a couple minutes and lied in the grass staring straight up at the blue sky. “At least, it’s a beautiful spring day and we’re outside in DC. That’s always fun. Are there any museums you want to go to, or anything you want to do while we’re down here?” I tried to convince myself I wasn’t disappointed. Undeterred, Yio scoured the internet.

“There’s something at a bar on New York Avenue.” We agreed a bar was not what we sought. “There’s a thing at Lafayette Park from eleven to four. It’s almost four now.”

“Let’s see.” I checked Google maps. Lafayette Park is right next to the White House. We could be there in ten minutes. “We’re going. We have to leave right now. We can do it. Let’s go.”

“But it ends at four. It’s 3:45.”

“I don’t care what it says. No 420 celebration ends at four o’clock. The peak of the day will be at 4:20. We have to check it out.”

My driving was on point, filling every gap in the herd, across Constitution Avenue, through the Ellipse, past the back of the House, over to 16th street, by the Treasury Building and into the heavily policed area in front of the House. I did not expect my day to find me here. I took a selfie hitting the pen with the famous background, and checked the time. 4:04.

Alas, I didn’t see any stoners. A couple field trips– recognizable by their matching, bright t­-shirts with a chaperone hollering names– but no other groups. “Well, we tried.” I said.

“Let’s take a bench and relax.” Yio said; and it should be noted that she does not smoke or partake in any form; a good sport about the day, and reefer in general. I had the same feeling as earlier. This is a cool place to spend 4:20, even if I’m doing this by myself. I pulled from the pen at ten past.

     Suddenly, my nose perked up. I smelled the sweet, unmistakable aroma. Nice. I’m not alone. The odor became stronger. I couldn’t tell exactly where it was coming from. My eyes darted from person to person. Twenty yards of pretty trees and a pedestrian street separated us from the gates of the Lawn. Three men stood in a clearing. They could be the source, I thought.

“I bet that’s them.” I said. Two more arrived. Then two more. “That’s them. That’s our crew!” Next thing we knew, twenty people stood around– some puffing, some rolling joints, some standing by themselves, glancing at their phones every thirty seconds. “Should we go over there? Do you want to go over there? I think I’m going to go over there, be a part of the movement.”

“I’ll go with you. Do you have any seed for the minute, or just the pen?” Rare insight into my hobby from Yio. The vape pen is nice because there’s no preparation involved. No lighter. No smell. Cannabis oil is extracted into a two inch CO2 cartridge which screws into a pen­-shaped machine that vaporizes it, effectively creating a lit joint that lasts weeks. If you want a quick buzz and no hassle, the pen will take you there. ‘Seed’ that Yio referred to was old­-fashioned plant to be burned, for all to smell. Nothing replaces the real thing.

“Yes!” I always carry a lighter, oney, and a container of nooj in my purse for just such an occasion. 4:14. Plenty of time.

I fumbled my phone, the tin and the oney at the same time and went into a brief panic, thinking, I made it this far and I’m going to miss the apex because I dropped everything. Then I calmly reminded myself there was no hurry and by 4:17 we were on our scoots headed towards my people, equipped for the holiday.

We stayed on the outer fringe, on account of not knowing anyone. At 4:20 we all lit­-up. A guy yelled, “Happy holidays!” Yio recorded a classic video of the scene. Bob Marley played on a phone. After ten minutes, the man beside us started discussing the history of racism with a bit of a tone, so I told Yio we should see the view from the other side, and we moved. As I was explaining why we moved, our pack rapidly dispersed.

“I guess the party’s over. What’s happening here?” We asked each other.

“Oh. That’s what’s happening.” Four police officers sauntered through the park, and just like that, it was as though our gathering never existed. We stayed and watched. Yio was cutely impressed with her rebellion at not fleeing when the law came; and even of being a part of an activity that would attract the law. Such had never been the case before. We hung out until quarter to five. A middle aged couple on Bikeshare bikes came back and asked where our cluster went.

“Cops?”

“Yeah, cops strolled through. Everyone cleared out real quick, like they knew it was coming. Not a single discussion.” But we had our moment, and that made my day. I’ll never forget it. Hunger set in and we meandered to Ollie’s for burgers and fries.

Runway Fun

     Yio and I fly to Sarasota for Orioles spring training, then catch a Greyhound to Orlando for Disney World and, the main event, the ataxia conference. Before we leave, I ask her what she is most looking forward to. Animal Kingdom, she says. She doesn’t realize what her first conference will mean to her. This will be my ninth and every year it feels like Christmas. Ataxia is a lonely condition. For three days we’re surrounded by people in the same fight as us; who have already survived the fight we are in now; who are about to go through a struggle we know all too well. We connect, share wisdom, cease isolation. I can’t think of stronger bond than facing the same hardship; and I can hardly think of a hardship as consistently intrusive as ataxia.

     But that’s not what this post is about. This is about a moment that occurred on the way; a humorous anecdote. We with ataxia are forced by our movement disorders to operate differently.

     We have to transfer planes in Atlanta. We’re flying Delta– which, by the way, I would discourage anyone from doing– and are in row 30. With no time for a pit stop between flights, this is as good a time as any to do the needful. We’re allowed to pre-board before general seating. The bathroom is about seven rows from us. I have no problems with this walk, balancing by grabbing the chairs on either side. Of course, when somebody of my stature goes for a walk through the cabin, the entire staff becomes aware. Seemingly all of them feel the need to let me know they are here if I need help.

     “Take your time,” they repeat. This advice annoys me.

 

     Inside the tiny bathroom, my jeans are difficult for me to fasten without some time, space and preferably a seat; none of which I have. I know that if I take too long, a stewardess will knock on the door and ask if everything is okay– an embarrassing event I want to avoid. I could let go of the handle and hope my balance holds me up for long enough to use both hands for the buttoning. The risk of a fall looms; not happening. There is nowhere to sit except on the commode. With my clean jeans and a complicated turn-around, this option lacks appeal. I could steady myself by leaning my head against the wall while I button, but that’s germy and gross and precarious yet. My plan is to zip the jeans all the way, walk the short distance back where I can fasten them and no one is the wiser. Out the door I go, where I am immediately greeted by two flight attendants, who stand in my way asking, ‘How can I help?’ I explain where I’m going, and one walks backwards in front of me, and the other directly behind me, you know, so they can catch me when I fall. A safety precaution and a confidence boost in one. I use the chairs on either side again to balance, and about halfway home I feel the dreaded: my pants are slipping. Before anybody even realizes what’s happening, my pants are around my knees. Son of a bitch, I almost made it. The employee behind me says, “Do you want me to grab your belt loop? I can pull them up that way.”

     “No, no. Let me just get to my seat and I’ll deal with it.”

     “Where?”

     “Right up here. Row 30.”

     “Oh. Why are you all the way back here?”

     “Uh, that’s where my ticket is for.” I plop down and button up and chuckle. Because sometimes you have to laugh to keep from crying.

Subway Rush

     In final preparations before Yio’s arrival, I go to the liquor store and Subway. I order a footlong Italian BMT on herbs and cheeses bread from the girl I see in this place every two weeks or so. She puts the ingredients on and asks if I want it toasted, which, of course. I advance in my scooter to the toppings portion of the line. A man with a scraggly, gray beard and glossy eyes in worn-out winter clothes stands next to me, less than an arm’s length away, invading my personal space a little. “I like that,” he says to me, pointing at my scooter. I complain in my head something like, Haven’t you been to Subway before? That’s not how the line works. You should go to the back of it. I don’t say this out loud for a few reasons: it is not my style to tell a stranger what to do, it’s not my job to manage the line, I don’t know anything about the guy; he could have a gun; maybe he has not, in fact, been to Subway before. He looks happy and warm, strangely proud, standing there reading the menu. I know the girl won’t start serving him in the middle of my turn.

     My sandwich finishes toasting. The girl retrieves it and looks at me to hear my toppings. Another woman says, “Oh he’s not bothering anyone. He’s just reading the menu.” I even think, Well, he’s kind of bothering me. I’m glad this is to myself. “I’m just getting him something to eat then taking him to a homeless shelter. He was cold. Sir, you have to go to the back of the line.” He walks around me, remaining unnecessarily close, and stops, still in front of one person in the line.

     The girl behind the counter shifts her tone to one surlier than I’ve heard her use. ”The back of the line. Behind him.” The man complies.

     “Just tell me where to go. I don’t want to upset anyone. This nice lady just said she would buy me a sub…” I focus on my choices and stop listening. The girl continues with the tone and seems to be rushing me. After each vegetable she says something in a foreign language– I don’t hear or see anyone responding to her– and I have to repeat cucumbers, green peppers, jalapenos. After paying she hurriedly hands me the sandwich bag I’m not quite ready for. I juggle the credit card, wallet, and bag, and drop all three. A miniature disaster. As I pick up my belongings I hear the homeless man order the same sandwich as me. Good taste, I think.

     He turns and asks the woman, “Can I get a footlong? Did you say I could get a footlong?”

     “Yes, and pick out some chips and a drink. Oh, and what’s your name?” An employee comes out from the back to open the door for me, as they generally do. I’m moving extra slow. I want to see this interaction play out more, to be in the presence of this woman with the special sense of empathy, compassion, heart. I make him wait. I smile at Greg, who is still selecting his fixings, and wish him a good night. I say to the woman, “Much respect. Thank you.”

     “Thank you. Be careful out there” she replies. As I go through the door I can feel her good spirit inside of me; her courage to make the world a better place. My heart is warm on the ride home, on the twenty degree night. I hope this attitude is caught by the girl behind the counter. She rushed me as a means to rush him out of the store for no discernable reason, so it’s personal. I don’t appreciate her subtle way of talking down to him, either, though I can’t say for sure I would have been better. I won’t be rushing back to that Subway. But I will never forget one of the kindest acts I’ve ever witnessed.

 

Two Things

On a recent hallway walk, or Gauntlet, as I call it, I had completed 95 percent, making better-than-average time when I came around the final bend and saw my neighbor, Consta– an 80-something busybody who lives two doors down, a woman he is often with, and a delivery man pushing a huge crate on a hand-truck in my direction. I tensed because it is stressful to ambulate when you know you are being watched, especially when you have ataxia, especially when it’s Consta. This man is so annoying, I thought. I bet he says something irksome.

“What are you doing, Johnny?” That didn’t take long.

“I’m just exercising. Taking a walk.”

“Oh okay. Exercising. We’ll wait right here for you to go in your apartment. Take your time.”

You couldn’t rush me if you had a gun, I always think when someone says this.

“Do you have a key?” Consta asked as I approached the door.

“No, it’s not locked,” I said.

“Here, let me open it for you.” He knocked on the door, turned the knob and pushed it open. All of the apartments have door closers and predictably it shut on its own. He did this twice more until I was close enough to put my hand out and stop it from latching.

It’s tricky because the threshold is a half inch high and my walker has 30 pounds of dumbbells in the basket to lower the center of gravity and increase stability. I have to position myself and give it a strong lift while pushing against a resisting door. At its best, it’s not graceful. I know this. It’s the only way I can take these walks. Thankfully being graceful is not a requirement.

I was in position. The door was in position. Consta stood there, studying me, not quite out of the way. By now the woman and the delivery man with the huge crate had come to within a few feet of me. If this is how I have to do it, so be it. I shifted my attention to the task at hand; a mistake could result in a fall or some embarrassing outcome. I curled the walker up by its backrest and started to push into the door over the threshold, as I always do, when the ever courteous Consta pushed it open again, helping me. Except, of course the door did not stay opened, because it is designed not to. It came back and bumped me, not hard; that wasn’t the problem. It caused enough of a distraction that my knees buckled and my hips went out. I was holding the walker, so I didn’t go totally down. I’m not sure if my knee touched. That’s how I determine a fall; NFL rules; knee, butt or elbow. Either way, I caught myself. I was fine. Consta and the woman rushed to put their arms on either side of me, creating a cage effect that is supposed to prevent a greater incident. They’ll catch me! This act was done out of instinct and a desire to not see the situation worsen, but if I’m going down their arms aren’t going to make a difference. I wasn’t going down. I straightened up, concerned only about going the rest of the way inside and closing the door. Consta was all, “You’re okay, Johnny. Don’t worry about that.”

I’m not worried about it, Consta. Leave me the fuck alone, please. Then the woman said one of the most irritating things a person could say.

“Who are you with?” My heart dropped when I heard this. Who am I with? Do you fucking see anyone with me? Would it matter? Are you going to tell on me? A degrading question from a woman I’ve seen a hundred times before. I’m glad I didn’t say what was on my mind. She did not comprehend that by asking such a question she was implying I should always have someone with me, that I couldn’t possibly be independent because of my disability. She doesn’t know autonomy is my biggest fight and that what she said is insulting, and a subtle threat to my way of living. It put the idea in my head that maybe I was in less control than I thought. She was projecting onto me self doubt where I didn’t have any.

“I’m not with anybody.” I finished entering the apartment and now another neighbor was on the scene, waiting for the hall to clear so she could go through to her home. “I’m a lot better when I don’t have a crowd of people watching my every move.” I looked out to see four people in my doorway awkwardly smiling. The door shut. I waited a few seconds and sighed a loud, “Fuuuck youuu,” not exactly sure who or what I was cursing. Consta for his interference, the woman for her question, my nerves for not telling them to please stand back in the beginning, FA for causing all of this in the first place, the force in my head that made this seem like a bigger deal than a harmless stumble.

––––

The next day I went swimming. Pretty vigorous– walk two laps, swim twenty-two breaststroke, walk two. I used to time myself. Not anymore. If my time wasn’t where I wanted it to be, I’d feel disappointed. That’s not fair to me. So I stopped wearing a watch.

The process for entering the pool is: scooter across mats to the ladder and steps where I park, grab the ladder with my left hand, stand and side-step into the water down three steps. Lane two is my favorite. I dive from the step with my goggles around my wrist and go to work. I come out the same way I go in. I sit on my scoot and ride it to the jacuzzi ten feet away. I park and enter the same way as the pool.

On this occasion a woman was in my preferred spot; not cause for concern, as the jacuzzi holds ten people. I was making my way down to the right of the railing, moving very deliberately, as I do, when the lady waded over into my path. I stopped and looked at her, puzzled. “There, sit over there.” She pointed to my corner. I figured she’s seen me sitting there in the past and assumed it’s easier for me to go this way. Not accurate, but a considerate thought. The only way this is complicated is if I have to stop and switch sides.

“You’re making it trickier on me. I’ve already started this way.” I don’t think she heard me over the jets and bubbles; she didn’t react. She watched me the same way Consta did the day before while I maneuvered to my corner.

I stretched my pecs, reaching my arms back, holding the wall on both sides while I lean forward with my head down for 30 seconds. When I looked up, the woman was in full prayer formation– tented hands pressed against the bridge of her nose, sometimes over her closed eyes, her face pointing down, then up to the heavens. She opened her eyes and was crying. I tried not to stare, though it was hard to look at anything else. I had a pretty good idea what she was doing before she confirmed it. After two minutes she started towards the ladder and gazed at me. “I prayed for you.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t pray for me.” I didn’t want to give this more attention than it necessitated. I cringe when people view me as an example of something gone wrong, needing fixing via divine miracle. I didn’t want to elevate my volume to be heard over the jets. I sort of wanted to say more to make a point but more so I wanted to soak mindlessly for a few minutes. What exactly did you pray for? How do you think what you’re doing makes me feel? “I’m happy with who I am. Don’t pray for me.” Pray for world peace. And get the fuck out of my hot-tub, self-righteous cunt. Pardon my language. My mind was not being very polite in that moment.

Nothing against prayer. I have faith. I may not be able to quite explain it. I don’t have to. I don’t like it when people push their faith on me; like their beliefs are better than mine; like my problems, my ataxia have anything to do with my beliefs. Even the evangelicals ask first if they can pray for you (I said ‘sure’ the first couple times. ‘If you want to include me in your prayers, have at it.’ I now know that ‘pray for you’ means ‘put my hands on you and make a public spectacle. ’I say no thanks and talk to them about life. If the individual has a free-thinking mind capable of straying from the script, the conversations can be deep. Often they’re pushy jerks, sometimes they’re cool. I talked to one lady for three hours. She didn’t know what she had proselytized upon.). This was unsolicited. We are at the gym, not church. My workout was harder than yours, I am positive. The way her face looked she might as well have been saying in plain English, “Your appearance upsets me to the point where I am overcome with emotion.” Fuck that.

One of the reasons I love to swim, not just because it’s a great physical workout, is because I feel unencumbered. With ataxia, sometimes it feels like gravity is stronger; it wants my ass on the floor. I float on top of the water and glide without any weight. Also, not much has changed in how it’s done since I was five years old. I’m slower and there have been adjustments here and there, but it’s still me wearing a swimsuit and goggles, moving through the water. If there was no such thing as ataxia and all else was equal, God willing, I would be doing the exact same thing. That lady’s bullshit almost ruined my day.

And yet, neither case surprises me. People encounter someone who seems to be, from their perspectives, struggling, in need of assistance. I didn’t need assistance but if I had and they didn’t offer any, even a prayer, it would have seemed rude and possibly negligent. That’s one way of looking at it. It could be a generation gap. For so many years people with disabilities rarely went in public, particularly on their own. Perhaps a bit of culture shock. Maybe they’re condescending bigots with an agenda to make people like me uncomfortable. Unlikely. It doesn’t matter. They’re not stopping me from doing what I want. The ableist mentality is belittling and pervasive. I don’t know what to take from these experiences. What can I do to prevent other people from making me feel like shit while providing unwanted, unwarranted aid? Humans like to help but even more we like to be thanked for helping, to feel needed. I’m easy-pickin’s for a thank-you. I am. And I’m generous with them. Give me a chance to make it a no thank-you.

Hallway Walk Drama

Today I did one of my all-too-often neglected activities; hallway walk. This is, as you might have guessed, a walk up and down the hallway, about three hundred yards with my red walker- just the right length to tire me out and work up a sweat. I enjoy it not only for the good workout; I can hear the music and television programs of the folks on my floor and smell their cooking.

I focus on a few rules.

1) Take small steps. If they are big the walker will go too far in front of me and I lose control. My shoulders may hyperextend and my rhythm is all thrown off. It’s a good way to fall on my face, and an easy habit to fall into.

2) Keep my feet apart with each step. If I’m not careful, and even if I am, I will clip my left calf with my right foot and vice versa. This can cause me to, obviously, trip. It’s also bad form. I’m not really helping myself by doing it wrong over and over. I’ve counted up to ten steps without one of these mistakes, but counting poses its own distractions so I don’t dwell on that record. The solution is small steps and to make sure I have my weight loaded on the opposite foot before the stride.

3) Don’t hunch over. Hunching moves weight from the feet to the hands clutching the walker. It’s easier, yes, but again, bad, unnatural form. Usually hunching is related to fatigue. The solution is better conditioning, more practice.

If I follow these rules and keep a relaxed grip on the walker, I finish in half an hour with no catastrophes. Today’s expedition had one tense moment. I was beyond the halfway point, maybe seventy percent, and the door just in front of me opened and a man wearing sweatpants and a tank top stormed out, slamming the door behind him, walking towards the elevator. Ten seconds later a girl in her twenties opened the door and shouted, “And you better not fucking come back!” He raised his hand without looking back, as if to say, coming back is not something I’m considering, and she slammed the door.

Sounds like he has somebody else. I don’t know. I’m the neighborhood gossip.

Roadwork

I want to give a quick shoutout to the Silver Spring road workers, on the very likely chance they are reading, One day last week there was a water main break, I guess it was, at the corner of Colesville Road and Georgia Avenue. The flood rushed down the hill by the Discovery Building causing cars to almost hydroplane turning onto Wayne Avenue. I had to reroute my whole shit.

A couple days later I passed it in a car and saw a probably thirty square foot crater where the break occurred at the corner. I figured it would be a while before I crossed at this main intersection in town. Today as I was roaming the streets something made me happy. The crater had been repaired but work remained to connect the sidewalk with the street. Cones and fencing were set up where the curb cut that allows me to cross on my scoot usually is. To the right of the fencing, a small path just wide enough provided smooth access to the street. Bravo, whoever designed and constructed this.

That’s not all. East-West Highway is currently being resurfaced. I need to cross this road to go anywhere except Giant, CVS, the barber, Peets Coffee, Mamma Lucia’s. That’s manageable but there’s a whole wide world on the other side I want to go to. Anyway, in one strip the asphalt has been laid down, creating a two inch ledge on either side. This would be a barrier. The workers built in little ramps of gravel on both sides of the strip and up the torn up curb allowing me to cross without incident. Again, bravo, and thank you.

This might be all because of the Americans With Disabilities Act. It could be because Montgomery County prides itself on going above and beyond to make the world accessible for everyone. Either way, these steps could have been ignored (see what I did there?) and the uproar would probably not have been too loud. They were taken, allowing me to live my life more fully. One of many reasons I love this town.

Brian’s Barber Shop

Another awkward situation is behind me. I had to fire my barber, sort of. You might be wondering, why not just go to a different place? I can explain.

Brian’s is on my block. If I went to another place I would have to ride by Brian’s going and returning. I’ve been coming here for five years. I know the people and the setup. I don’t want to switch.

Every two weeks one of four people cuts my hair, a number one all the way around. Simple as it gets. Three of the people do a great job and I happily give a three dollar tip. One of the guys though, and I think it’s Brian himself, is sloppy.

He rushes, and it shows; the fastest haircuts I’ve ever received.  This is not where I am trying to make up time. He never even holds the mirror up afterwards to show me the back. A couple times I’ve had to clip missed hairs or live with shoddy work around the ears. Not the end of the world I know, but not worthy of a three dollar tip. Again, I happily give the tip. Just cut the fucking hair like a professional. And let’s not forget, in November this guy lopped a good inch off the sideburn of my sweet and distinct beard. I had to go back the next day to have it evened out. He acknowledged that it was uneven, but he didn’t apologize. I don’t forgive him.

Today, I arrived and one of the good guys opened the door for me. Brian came charging in from the back and said with a more chipper than usual tone while preparing his chair, “Right here, buddy.”

The use of ‘buddy’ made what came next more painful, for both of us. I made my decision weeks ago and had been rehearsing this moment in my mind ever since. I couldn’t give in. “Actually, I think I will go to someone else.” It hurt.

“Oh. Sure, sure.” Then he said something in Korean and the guy who opened the door served me. Halfway through, a customer came in and Brian discussed with him just how he wanted it and even broke out the mirror twice in the early parts of the sitting. Maybe I motivated him to be more thorough. Maybe I crushed his spirits. Maybe it was taken as part of the business. On my way out I was hoping to make eye contact, to communicate that it’s nothing personal. His back was turned to me. It seemed intentional. What can I do? I am pleased with my haircut.

Pollen as Food

Reader, I’ve been eating my strangest food yet lately. Pollen. I sprinkle it in my ACV every day. ACV is apple cider vinegar, an ancient magical serum, supposedly. It has many reported benefits including detoxifying the organs, soothing acid reflux, helping skin and hair. I’m not making these claims. I’m not disputing them. Just repeating them. Some may write it off as homeopathic nonsense. That’s fine. The goal is immortality. It’s working so far.

My concoction, which I mix and drink after coffee and before breakfast, looks like this: about three tablespoons of ACV- the good stuff, Bragg, with the ‘Mother’ (I’m not sure what that means either), one teaspoon of raw honey, one teaspoon of coconut oil and a few shakes of pollen diluted with sixteen ounces or so of warm water.

Coconut oil and pollen are my own additions to the recipe. I’m a longtime consumer of coconut oil and tried it out one day. It’s pretty good. As for the pollen, I was perusing the honey at Whole Foods and this label on a small bottle caught my eye. The label said it’s a superfood, a supplement containing most known nutrients. I love a good superfood. I continued to read. On a bee farm in Maryland, the bees fly off and collect pollen from nearby flowers. When they return, they crawl through a tube where pollen falls off their legs, leaving it to be gathered, bottled and sold at a reasonable price. I couldn’t resist. It tastes just how you would expect pollen to taste, which is to say not great. Very earthy. Like eating the pistil of a flower, probably. It’s not too potent in the ACV drink but I’m not sure I’ll be buying it again. We’ll see.