Morning Routines

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I’m a morning person— the perky, annoying kind that wakes up without an alarm. Night owls tend to view folks like me with suspicion, as if we’re asking them to join a religious cult like Scientology or Weight Watchers.

The key to a happy morning is making sure your routine contains at least a few minutes that you can call your own. If you have to wake up 10 minutes earlier, do it. I don’t care if you spend that time on the toilet while you play Candy Crush on your cell phone for so long that the edge of the toilet seat creates a red ring on your butt. It’s still worth it. You can get an ointment for that.

I love my morning routine. I wake up, eat an English muffin and check my email. Unlike Hillary’s lost classified goodies, most of my email is junk from random companies that want to sell me crap at 10% off. It doesn’t take much brain power to tap the delete button, so while I’m doing this, I watch the morning news on TV.

I love watching the morning news, but recently it has majorly sucked. It seems the entire broadcast is devoted to the presidential election and/or celebrity news. There are probably hundreds of children dying in third world countries— but we’d have no way of knowing because the TV anchors are too busy giving a recap from the MTV Video Music Awards.

When the media does choose to cover real news stories, it’s incredibly unhelpful. I’d like to know when debating a presidential candidate’s physical robustness became an important issue? I don’t care if a candidate has high cholesterol, has spray-tanned skin and small hands, or sometimes has a cough. I care if they are mentally prepared, capable and qualified.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt, one of the greatest US presidents and the longest-serving, was in a wheelchair. Polio struck him as a young man and he never regained the use of his legs. The truth of his condition was known to most journalists at the time, but they chose not to make a big deal of it. They recognized that FDR was a devoted public servant that was fit to be president.

Have we now regressed? To the ancient tribal days when the chieftain or warlord was always the brawniest guy with the biggest… err, sword?

In today’s political climate, I’m very sad to say that a person like FDR would never be elected president. It wouldn’t matter how qualified he may have been. As a person in a wheelchair myself, this makes me very disappointed to admit that. But, in a culture that only values beauty, celebrity and strength, it comes as no surprise.

For the next couple of months, perhaps I should forgo watching the news during my morning routine. I think playing Candy Crush might be a better bet…

Sport Fatigue

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After weeks of ingesting countless hours of Olympic and Paralympic (yay, Danielle Hansen!) coverage, I can easily say that I am worn out. Between events on television and those streamed online, it was nonstop action. As evidenced by my last column, I’m a huge fan of the Olympics. During these weeks, I show more devotion to watching sports than Donald Trump has to his assorted wives.

But, this kind of dedication was exhausting. I became a hermit, an anti-social, a puffy-faced recluse that ate too many Cheez-Its. Frankly, it was like North Korea’s Kim Jong-un had taken up residence in my house. When I wasn’t worried about the USA team dropping the baton in a track relay or vandalizing a Rio gas station, I was watching badminton birdies fly across my television screen like hypersonic gnats. It was all too much.

This led me to a startling conclusion. Being a sport fan is not good for my health. Maybe there’s a reason I don’t care for professional sports— it’s too damn stressful and time-consuming. Honestly, I don’t know how sport fans do it week-by-week and year-after-year. And I probably shouldn’t even mention the Chicago Cubs. Those poor fans have been waiting for a World Series for so long that they probably order Xanax by the truckload.

So, given my post-Olympic fatigue, I decided to do what most people do when they are experiencing distressing symptoms or ailments. I looked them up online. I discovered that the anxiety felt by a die-hard sport fan is a real thing.

Whether a favorite sport team wins, or not, is out of our control. Yet our brains are psychologically wired to think that we can still influence and impact the things that we care about. So when we can’t, we may feel helpless, anxious, angry or upset.

Unlike most other real-life relationships and friendships, the connection that a fan has to their team is not truly reciprocal. A fan may love and idolize their team— they can purchase game tickets, t-shirts and watch them every season. But, the team itself is not really reciprocating that adoration. How can they? They don’t know you personally. Yet, a true, healthy connection can happen— when a fan spends time with other fans in a meaningful way— and that’s great, and much more fulfilling.

Learning this made me feel better. Hope it helps you, too. Just remember, you truly can’t control whether or not your team’s quarterback scores a touchdown, fumbles the ball or refuses to stand during the National Anthem. But, you can control whether or not you are bothered by it.

Sports? You can have it. I’ll just stick to Cheez-Its.

No Parking! (throwback)

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(the following article originally appeared in The Patterson Irrigator in 2007)

We all have our pet peeves. The little habits or incidents that prickle our skin with annoyance, making us wonder if we may be developing hives. I know I have many pet peeves, and the other day, right in the Save Mart parking lot, I came face-to-face with one of them.

A woman was parked in a disabled parking space with her motor running, impatiently drumming her fingers on her steering wheel waiting for someone to exit the store. After a quick inspection, I noticed no disabled placard in sight. As someone who has been disabled since birth, I immediately felt my irritation flare at the woman’s carelessness.

So, after being forced to park in an alternate parking space, I approached her car in my wheelchair. When she saw me, her eyes widened and she quickly avoided my reproachful stare. Then, she busied herself by fumbling with the contents of her purse before finally backing out of the space. I could feel her guilt waft through the windshield, but despite her embarrassment at being caught red-handed, I was still aghast at the audacity of her actions.

I’d like to say that this is the first time I’ve seen something like that. But, it isn’t. In fact, if I had a dollar for every time I’d seen it, I could probably buy myself a nice new iPod and matching rubber case. But, its frequency of occurrence doesn’t make it any more right, or legal, for that matter.

And there are also the people who seem to think that those white diagonal lines in the boxes next to the disabled parking spots are mini motorcycle parking spaces or a convenient area to tuck their discarded shopping cart. On several occasions I’ve been tempted to back into an illegally parked motorcycle with my wheelchair hoping the metal kick stand would give way and the whole thing would topple onto its chrome-accented side. But, I have no desire to dent my own wheelchair in the process, so I haven’t given in to the urge—thus far.

Before I drive off my metaphorical soapbox, I’d like add one more thing. Even though, in my example above, the woman didn’t have a disabled placard, I have also witnessed countless abuses of the system which was designed to help people like me. Some disabled placards change hands more often than most people change their underwear. When a disabled placard is issued, it is only meant to be used by the person to whom it was issued. But, this policy isn’t always adhered to. And so, very often, people who are parked in disabled spaces with visible placards aren’t even disabled. So, that leaves less open spaces for those of us who truly need them.

If you happen to be one of these offenders, please give thought to what I have said. And if you spot someone parking in a disabled spot without a placard, perhaps give them a gentle reminder: like a note tucked in the windshield wiper. We all have busy lives, yes, but no excuse justifies breaking the law – especially when that person has two working legs that can take them the extra twenty yards to the door.

Well, I’d best get off my soapbox before it collapses under the weight of my wheelchair. I’d hate to damage my wheelchair before I get the chance to back into an illegally parked motorcycle.

Olympic drama

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At long last, the Summer Olympic Games have arrived in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. As a self-proclaimed Olympic junkie, I’m quite excited. I look forward to the Olympics in the same way that some people anticipate other life milestones.

For example, you may get a bright zing of happiness when you meet your grandchild for the first time. I get that same feeling when I see Michael Phelps swim the anchor leg of the 4×100-meter relay. While this might have something to do with the tiny Speedo he wears, I really can’t be certain.

Given the recent world tragedies and the deteriorating political tone here at home, I think we all need a hefty dose of the Olympic spirit. I’m tired of listening to politicians that sound like schoolyard bullies. I’d much rather watch athletes hurl pointy javelins across a field than endure presidential candidates slinging insults on Twitter.

In 1896, the modern Olympics were founded on the principles of international cooperation and sportsmanship. Since that time, athletes from around the world have gathered together every four years to compete.

Despite the best intentions of the Olympic movement, it has occasionally fallen prey to world events over the years. In 1916, 1940 and 1944, the Olympics were canceled because of two messy and unfortunate World Wars. It’s hard to gather together in peace and cooperation when much of the world is too busy trying to kill one another.

Even geopolitical disagreements have left their mark on the Games. In 1980 and 1984, respectively, the Americans and Soviets decided to boycott each other’s Olympic Games. Like sulky teenagers refusing to attend a birthday party, the two superpowers decided that not attending the Olympics in their rival’s country was better than attending.

This doesn’t make sense to me. If you don’t go to the birthday party, everyone else is going to eat all the cake. And Olympic cake is the best. It’s shiny and comes in three flavors – gold, silver and bronze. Why wouldn’t you want a piece of that? Silly, silly people.

The Olympics can be a powerful economic and political tool, as well. In 1936, a dude named Adolf Hitler hosted the Games in Berlin. He recognized that it was the perfect time to convince Germans, and the world, that reclaiming their nationalistic identity led to success. By getting back to their pure Aryan roots, they’d be more powerful than ever and the world would bow at their feet.

Unfortunately for Adolf, an African-American man named Jesse Owens was a hiccup in this Olympic vision. Mr. Owens’s four gold medals made him the hero of the Games – a fact that made Chancellor Hitler’s little, ugly mustache burn most annoyingly. Gotta love the Olympics.

No offense to fans of the NFL, NBA and MLB, but you just don’t get this same kind of drama and excitement.

Four years is definitely worth the wait.

Pokémon Problems

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Since the early days of mankind, games have been part of human life. If cavemen had a little free time, I suspect they huddled by a fire playing Pin the Tail on the Mammoth.

The game of chess traces back to the sixth century in India. When chess was invented, folks still thought the world was flat. Yet they nonetheless managed to create a game so sophisticated that most humans today still can’t figure it out.

I was in the chess club in elementary school. However, I never won a single match. In the ranking list on the club bulletin board, my name was at the very bottom – like the pathetic kid that gets picked last for dodgeball at recess. If I’m being honest, I must say that I didn’t mind. All I really cared about was the free pizza they gave us during the meetings.

It’s natural to seek diversion from everyday life – which can be boring and filled with annoying things like household chores, bills and presidential candidates. But I fear we might have gone too far in our quest for mindless diversion. Yes, I’m talking about the recent advent of “Pokemon Go.”

Pokemon is a popular franchise of video games, playing cards and television shows that features a multitude of little animated creatures. A couple of weeks ago, a reboot of Pokemon was launched as a smartphone app that uses GPS mapping technology to create a real-world scavenger hunt for the infamous cartoon creatures.

Armed with smartphones, millions of people are wandering around looking for Pokemon. If you see a group of folks huddled over their phone in a random place, this is most likely what they are doing. I’m happy that this game has caused people to partake in physical exercise – truly. But I’m a little concerned that, in the pursuit of Pokemon out in the real world, many people have left their brains at home.

Police departments have reported that Pokemon players are trespassing onto private property, crashing motor vehicles while playing the game and generally engaging in unsafe and stupid behaviors – like sticking their noses so far into their smartphone screens that they have no awareness of what is around them. Recently, two guys fell off a cliff in San Diego while hunting for Pokemon. I’m not making that up. Their parents must be so proud.

I’ve made no secret of my love of technology and my addiction to my iPhone, so I really have no room to judge. But a real world exists out there – full of potholes, cliffs and nasty people who would love to take advantage of you while you are too busy looking into your phone to notice that someone means to do you harm. Be smart. Be alert. And, for goodness sake, don’t wander into someone’s yard in the middle of the night looking for Pokemon. It really might not end well for you.

I think I’ll stick with chess, instead.

Brexit Woes

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I’ve always been fascinated by all things British. Shakespeare was an early literary favorite – and before he was usurped by George Clooney in my esteem, Jane Austen’s Mr. Darcy held a special place in my teenage heart.

British history is full of drama and intrigue – rivaling, if not surpassing, the bloodiest and wildest episodes of Game of Thrones. I know that may not seem possible. But without the inspiration of British history, author George R.R. Martin would have probably been stuck writing episodes for Sesame Street. Imagine that. Poor Elmo.

Anyway, before this week, I had believed that Britain’s days of strife and drama were far behind them. I mean, they hadn’t cut off a royal’s head in … well… centuries. They had matured and developed into a nation where their most dangerous export was Simon Cowell. But now all that has changed.

Last week, in a shocking national referendum dubbed “Brexit,” a slim majority of the folks living in the United Kingdom voted to withdraw from the European Union. While this may not sound like a big deal, trust me, it is. If you are a fan of analogies, here’s one for you. Imagine that the European Union is the United States, and that the United Kingdom is California. The Brexit vote is pretty much equivalent to California deciding to declare independence and be its own country.

If you were paying slightest bit of attention in 11th grade U.S. History, you should know that the last time part of our country tried to withdraw from the United States, we fought a Civil War to force them back into the fold. So you can imagine the aftermath of this Brexit vote.

In the days following last week’s referendum, the British pound has tanked in value and stock markets around the world have – please excuse the technical term – freaked the $%&# out. France and Germany, the other two most influential members of the European Union, are now treating Britain like a cheating spouse – demanding that the U.K. hurry and pack up their crap to get the hell out of the house.

The British people themselves are heavily divided on this issue – causing tension across the British Isles. I don’t think there has been this much drama in the U.K. since King Henry VIII went on a rampage and got rid of five of his wives.

In the weeks and months ahead, we will see how the Brexit vote will play out for the U.K. and the world, at large. While I hope for the best, I can’t help but quote the incorrigible Mr. Shakespeare …

“Lord, what fools these mortals be!”

Ancestry and a warehouse of saliva

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What constitutes summertime “fun?” For some, the answer would be neighborhood barbecues or camping trips to the mountains. Others might proclaim that baseball games or lounging by a pool are the pinnacle of summer fun. If you’re Donald Trump, it would mean selecting a vice-presidential running mate. Although, perhaps Mr. Trump should just pick himself to be his own VP. After all, he’s the most amazing person – surely he could do both jobs at once.

Anyway, when I was young, I eagerly awaited the summer so I could devour books from the library. I have a slightly obsessive nature, so I often stumbled upon a theme for my reading – like the summer I decided to learn everything I could about Greek mythology. Those stories had more drama than a telenovela and an episode of “The Bachelor,” combined. And here I had thought that the zestiest thing about the Greeks was their feta cheese.

For this summer’s project, I decided to work on expanding my family tree. I realize that may sound boring. But thanks to a recent explosion in genealogical resources online, it’s really rather exciting stuff. Plus, I’m addicted to those family tree shows on TV – like “Finding Your Roots” and “Genealogy Roadshow” on PBS and “Who Do You Think You Are?” on TLC. I get emotionally attached to the folks on these shows. Even if it’s only their great-great-great uncle’s neighbor that died at Gettysburg, I’m still going to cry a little.

To help with my own research, I took one of those online ancestry DNA tests – the kind where you spit in a tube and mail it in. It’s super easy to do. I just try not to think about the fact that, somewhere, there is a warehouse full of human saliva. And inside that warehouse, there are people that are paid to dissect my cooties and the cooties of thousands of other people – many of whom don’t brush their teeth as often as I do.

Using the results of the DNA test, and the information collected online, I was able to trace one branch of my family back to 1620! While I’m excited about the discovery, I doubt many of us would wish to live during that time. After all, those are the years before shampoo, penicillin and the internet. Without the internet, you’d be unable to stalk your ex on Facebook or follow the Kardashians on Instagram. We’d all be miserable.

Genealogy can be a great way for younger people to connect with their elders. This summer, encourage your kids to spend time with their older relatives and to ask them about their family history. If your kids grumble or complain, stand firm; they can go one entire day without playing video games or taking selfies on Snapchat.

I hope it brings you and your family closer.