Category: Personal

Alexa, Cancel Ryan O

Dear Colleagues:

I am writing to explain to you why you should probably pull me from all on-air breaks, as well as my voice tracks from the automated rotation here at the radio station.

In October 2001, while attending the state convention of the National Federation of the Blind of Nebraska, I participated in an auction fundraiser in which I dressed up as a woman for the purposes of raising money to contribute to the state’s efforts to send people to the Washington D.C. gathering of the NFB the following February. Although I was surrounded by laughing, cheering fans who wanted to gain both a visual and tactile appreciation of my atypically feminine garb, I now realize (18 years later) that what I did was wrong. Even though this controversy happened over a decade before The emergence of Caitlyn Jenner and controversies over separate bathrooms, I realize that what I did cannot be forgiven. Therefore, we should purge my voice from all aspects of our daily operations.

This doesn’t mean I should be fired. Mags needs to have her vet bills paid for. Yet, my profile should be drastically lowered so as to avoid any possible controversy that may be engendered by an overly aggressive reporter from some newspaper somewhere Who may take a capricious disliking to me.

I just realize that I use the word, “purge,“ in this letter. I would like to state for the record that it is intended only as a verb for cleansing, not as a disparagement of anyone with an eating disorder.

While I’m at it, I should acknowledge that, as a child, I went through a phase in fourth grade when I stole Transformers from my fellow students. This does not mean that I condone thievery. I also acknowledge that the Transformers were a product of the Reagan era. Even though I probably would have voted for Reagan both times had I been an adult, I acknowledge that the Transformers were and still are a blatant symbol of capitalism that, to some, may be offensive. Perhaps my need to steal the toys of others, even though I lived in relative economic comfort, was a sign of childhood guilt. Not really sure, but feel I should cover all bases, even though it occurred 35 years ago.

If it will help to balance the scales of economic justice, I will lend credence to the possibility that Optimus prime, leader of the auto bots, was a socialist. Why else would he be famous for his quote, “Freedom is the right of all beings.“ Obviously, he was talking about economic freedom.

My current confession streak is compelling me to tell you that, on numerous occasions, I stole from my parents. My father would often bake chocolate chip peanut butter cookies to take on his hunting trips. I would find them in the basement freezer and usually eat them late at night while watching Star Trek. When dad asked me if I ate them, I lied about it. I do hope that I can be forgiven for my thievery and dishonesty. I feel that these transgressions are balanced by the fact that I watched Star Trek, which should demonstrate my commitment to diversity.

I also stole chips, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, fried chicken, Cap’n Crunch, pizza and other snacks that I cannot now remember from my parents refrigerator and pantry late at night. I sometimes hid the empty wrappers behind my bed in order to conceal my nocturnal gluttony. This said, I am committed to a clean environment and I am not in favor of littering, pollution and urinating in the snow without being obscured by a tree.

I hope it makes up for it when I tell you that my parents did buy a water filter when I was in high school and encouraged me to drink water, rather than soda. I also hope the fact that I was and still am a compulsive overeater does not display my insensitivity to those who are food insecure.

I just realized that I used the word, “Confession.“ I hope this doesn’t display an inappropriate animus toward Catholics. I respect the fact that our executive director is Catholic. I was raised Catholic, but no longer consider myself part of the faith. Yet, I hope that any participation that I had in Catholic youth groups does not imply that I condone the violation of children, even though those scandals didn’t break until 2001. I respect all protections of the first amendment, particularly any and all minority religions, and any religions that don’t exist yet, but may exist 30 years from now when I might possibly be in a position of influence or prominence.

I mentioned that my father was and is a Hunter. I respect the Second Amendment as well as hunting, but I also respect those who choose to live a vegetarian or vegan lifestyle. There was this one time at an NFB chapter picnic in 1995 when I attacked an entire group of people with a Super Soaker 250 water gun. This does not mean that I endorse mass shootings of any kind and I expressed complete empathy and sympathy to all victims of gun violence. However, I will defend (to the death) the rights of all blind and visually impaired people to own and use water guns, both in public and private, whenever they so choose.

At certain periods, I did drink too much in college. I don’t have a full memory of everything I did and said under the influence (or sober, for that matter), but I want to reaffirm my respect for women, minorities, animals (particularly sheep), nature, the flag, an African-American James Bond, Mom and apple pie. Anything that might be unearthed that would seem to indicate the contrary should be taken as an isolated incident, probably fueled by alcohol. Any photographic evidence that may emerge of my time in college was taken without my express knowledge or consent.

One photo that may surface might be of me floundering around in Broyhill Fountain amidst a huge cloud of soapy suds. This would have come from an entire box of Tide laundry crystals. I hereby acknowledge that many soaps and detergents, previously unknown to be harmful to the environment, were in fact poisonous to mother earth. I respect mother earth and try my best to be a good steward.

After a bad break up in the summer of 2006, I began to smoke cigars on a semi-regular basis. I would like to state for the record that I like cigars and have no intention of giving them up. That being said, I do acknowledge that some of the behavior of big tobacco is unethical at best, evil at worst. But then again, former President Barack Obama, supreme social justice warrior, was a chronic cigarette smoker. Even his wife couldn’t make him quit. I should also go on record as saying that vaping E-cigarettes is probably unhealthy and wrong. Since President Trump has now come out against it, there doesn’t seem to be much harm in being anti-vaping, so I am. During my time in Colorado, I did partake of marijuana several times. Even though it was legal, I realize that it is not legal in Nebraska. To that end, I acknowledge the sovereignty of Nebraska and the general goodness of states’ rights. However, I also acknowledge that the federal government has a positive role to play in the lives of many who are considered to be oppressed.

I honestly can’t remember everything that I have posted on social media. Perhaps I should handover my passwords for Facebook and Twitter to Bekah, so that she may perform a full biopsy on all of my content to gauge its suitability for current cultural and professional standards. There is a chance (albeit a small one) that a picture of me from 2001 could surface. In the interest of equal access, I would like to request that Bekah give me a full visual description so that we can judge how ravishing I was in my red dress, red wig, feather boa, high heels, pantyhose, golden earrings and glittery chest hair.

You know what… You guys better forward this to the entire board of directors, as well as everyone on the general mailing list, so that we can get out in front of this thing well ahead of any crisis. Maybe we should also draft a press release, and perhaps even hold a news conference. Do you guys wanna call the mayor, or should I do it?

Thank you for your attention and your non-judgmental, non-reactionary approach to the situation.

Love,

RyanO

PS: I realize that I just used the word, “Love.“ I stayed for the record that my use of the word was in a platonic, non-sexual sense. As a male working with a predominantly female staff, I state categorically that I respect the #MeToo Movement, but I also respect the due process rights of the accused.

PPS: earlier in this message, I used the term, “Political tornado.“ This was intended as a metaphor for political chaos or backlash that is unexpected. It was in no way subliminal commentary on climate change. I thoroughly respect science. I respect the environment. On the other side of it, as a man who loves our free and open society, I support the right of those who choose to be skeptical of any prevailing wisdom. Even Alex Jones has rights. So do stray cats.

#CarsonKing

#CancelCulture

Hell on Ice

I wonder if any of you reading this have ever experienced real terror. I don’t mean the kind of terror you feel while watching The Walking Dead, or riding the Top Thrill Dragster at Cedar Point. I’m talking about genuine, piss-your-pants terror, in which you are suddenly forced to confront your own mortality. It might be the kind of terror a reporter would experience in a war zone, or that of a police officer confronted by a mass shooter with an upraised gun.

I experienced such terror on February 19, 2018, one day after my 43rd birthday.

I did not hear of the harsh weather conditions on the radio because it was tuned to KOA out of Denver. My first hint that things were amiss came as I exited my apartment building to go to work and slid across the wooden front porch toward the steps. Still, I felt that I had the situation under control.

That self-assurance evaporated as I walked down the steps, slipped, and collapsed in a heap like a sack full of used kitty litter. My white cane went flying from my hand and I scrambled on the slippery ground, trying to retrieve it and get my feet back under me. It was a monumental effort. Sure, I’d fallen many times before, but this was the first time that every single surface was covered by a glaze of ice.

Eventually, I found my cane, got up and began to walk down the middle of the street to the bus stop.

Let me correct my last statement. The place where I pick up the Metro bus is not officially a designated bus stop. It’s a spot along the street where the bus drivers very charitably ignore Metro policy and pick me up, so that I will not have to walk in the street for a block-and-a-half to the actual bus stop. The walk is hazardous because there are no sidewalks along the route to the bus stop; only sloping grass and a curb that indicates the street.

So, I collected myself and off I went, trying to recall what an O&M instructor once told me about walking on ice. I think he told me to keep my knees slightly bent and to slide my feet, rather than taking actual footsteps. I tried this approach and was about as elegant as an elephant on a balance beam. Twice more, I fell before I got to the intersection of my street. Twice more I hefted my considerable bulk and soldiered onward to my intended destination.

Finally, I made it to the street crossing that I had to forge in order to catch the bus to work. I lined myself up, waited for a break in traffic and started across…

… And almost immediately, went down again. My cane flew out of my hand and rolled away. I began scrambling for it, but couldn’t find it. I tried to get up, but couldn’t regain my footing. Every time I managed to become half-upright, I would slam back down on to my hands and knees on the icy pavement.

And then, I heard the car rolling toward me. It didn’t sound as if it were slowing down. I scrambled like a gerbil on a hot griddle, but couldn’t seem to get any traction. The car rolled closer, then sounded as if it hit the brakes. I heard the unmistakable sound of tires skidding on wet pavement. I knew I was dead.

The two thoughts that flashed through my head like hurriedly-sent texts were:

God, don’t let Mags end up in a shelter!!! Please let one of my friends take her!!!

And.

Why the hell didn’t I just take Amy to bed that night after my house-warming party?

It’s funny what we think about in times of mortal peril.

The next thing I remember was a lady’s voice saying, “Sir, you look like you’re having a hard time.”

“No shit!” I bellowed.

“Can I help you up?”

“Yeah!” I said. I threw my hand up, she grabbed it, hoisted me to my feet and helped me over to the curb.

“Here’s your stick,” she said. I felt such relief at holding my cane again that I didn’t bother to correct her on the terminology. It’s called a cane, not a stick.

“Can I help you get somewhere?” she asked.

“Nah, I’m good,” I said.

“You sure?” she asked.

“Actually, can you help me across the street? I’m gonna catch the bus.”

She took my hand and walked with me across the street. I don’t remember if I thanked her properly or not. She got in her car and drove away. I didn’t think to ask her for her name. I couldn’t look at her car to note its description, or memorize her license plate number. My head was full of an odd buzzing sound; actually more of a sensation than a sound. It seemed to reverberate throughout my whole body, making the tips of my fingers and toes vibrate like a tuning fork. After she was gone, I sheepishly felt the front of my pants, not certain if the moisture was entirely that of melted ice.

I waited for 20 minutes, but the bus never showed. So, I clinched my sphincter extra tight and skated back home, aided this time by another resident from my apartment complex who just happened to see me flailing around in the street.

When I moved from Denver to Omaha in October of 2017, I knew there would be adjustments. I knew the cost of living was lower. I knew public transit sucked. As a native Nebraskan, I knew that the winters were more brutal than those in Colorado. But I was not prepared for the lack of sidewalks in my living area.

In Denver, you can walk almost anywhere. Convenient to me in my neighborhood in Denver were all of the necessities; a bank, a grocery store, a vet for my cat, a post office, and at least half a dozen restaurants, bars and coffee shops. Here in Omaha, my coworker informs me that sidewalks become more and more scarce once you get west of 72nd Street. I live within walking distance of Westroads, but can’t walk there due to lack of a pedestrian-friendly route. Once a month, I attend meetings of our local NFB chapter at the Swanson Library, located only a few blocks from my home, but I can’t walk there because most of the trip would be in the street. Some NFB hard-liners would read this and say, “Just shoreline the curb, dumbass!” I tried that at first, but many drivers came way too close for comfort. When I learned cane travel in the early ‘80’s, I was taught how to navigate streets where sidewalks were not present. That was long before the existence of terms such as, “Distracted driving.”

Even so, curb-hugging is all well and good in the warmer months, but what about winter?

Imagine walking in my neighborhood last February, when we got one snowstorm on top of another and the drifts were piled high along the curbs. Sometimes, they can push me out into the middle of the road. Then, there’s the time of thawing, when we get slush. Cars drive by and I often get an unwanted shower, courtesy of their spinning tires.

Worse yet, the problem extends to my apartment complex. We don’t have sidewalks here either. We only have islands of grass that serve as boundaries for parked cars. When I first toured the facility, it never occurred to me to ask the manager if they had sidewalks or not. It just seemed like it would be good common sense to have them. Now, every day, come snow, rain or shine, I walk in the street to catch the bus.

The absence of sidewalks may seem a small quibble to all of those who have the privilege of driving automobiles, but I can testify that it carries a real impact on those of us for whom walking serves as a primary means of conveyance. It is far easier to either take a bus, or more often than not, to call for a Lyft or an Uber to take me a short distance to a meeting, to the mall, to dinner, etc. The problem has become so enormous, and my sense of isolation has grown so vast that I find it necessary to move from my complex when my lease expires.

There are other reasons, of course, the most glaring being that of the family of raccoons that lives part time above my head.

… But that’s another subject for a future blog entry.

In conclusion, let me deliver a heartfelt thank you to the kind soul who stopped and helped the struggling blind guy regain his feet on the cold winter morning of February 19, 2018, at the intersection of Burt Street and North 94th Plaza. Thanks to you, I got to celebrate my 44th birthday this year. I apologize if I spoke rudely to you and didn’t properly express my gratitude. God bless. The meager staff of the Radio Talking Book Service thanks you as well. Without your kindly interference, they would have had to start another search for a new station manager.

To the rest of you drivers, GET OFF YOUR FUCKIN’ PHONES AND WATCH THE FUCKIN’ ROAD!!!

Reality Check

… Good morning to all of my blind peeps; it’s post Easter, so peeps is no longer a dirty word.

When I’m 60, I expect to still be working. By then, I should be back in Colorado, my first million cooling in a bank account in the Caymans. I’ll live in a small town in the Rocky Mountains somewhere. I’ll take my self-driving car to work every day, kick my employees around all day, stab them in the back when they are not in the room, and set them against each other for my own amusement in my own little micro version of Game of Thrones. But they’ll all love me anyway because I give them incredible cash Christmas bonuses every year that they don’t have to claim on their taxes.

I’ll go home to my wife at night. She’ll be at least 30 years younger than I, but I’ll have lots of money, so no one will care. In fact, she’ll be a trophy. She’ll slip some Viagra in my beer, wait 30 minutes, then we’ll devour each other on our palacial patio in full view of the neighborhood. The hired help may be offended, but I won’t know it because they’ll all trash-talk me in Spanish. Many of my male neighbors will secretly envy the fact that I can bag a former porn star. Later, she’ll nail the gardener, but I’ll be too exhausted to care. In fact, I’ll be disappointed if she doesn’t catch at least one bone on the side.

Since polygamy will be legal by then, my other wife (the older, wiser one) will bring me a cigar and a snifter of brandy later in the evening, light it for me, and then we’ll discuss the events of the day. She’ll think she is the dominant one in the marriage because, “Girls rule, boys drool.” I’ll think I’m the dominant one because, “Men think, while women feel.” Like most typical marriages, we’ll lie to each other and ourselves, but the status quo will be so comfortable as we live behind curtains of hundred dollar bills, none of us will care.

This is pretty much what I expect my life to look like when I’m 60, which will be in 2035. So… What are y’all’s plans when Social Security becomes insolvent?

Join the Club

Today, my thoughts are with a man named Coby Mach. Most of you who live outside of the area of Lincoln, NE wouldn’t recognize the name. Coby was the host of Drive Time Lincoln, an afternoon talk show on AM 1400, KLIN radio. He was also the president of the Lincoln Independent Business Association for many years. Mr. Mach passed away this past Friday afternoon, a victim of an apparent suicide.

I didn’t know Mr. Mach personally. I never met him during my 14-year residency in Lincoln. I did speak to him several times when I would call into Drive Time Lincoln to voice my opinions on an issue, which was usually the inadequate state of public transit in the city. I found his attitude toward me and my views to be contemptuously dismissive. He ended one phone call with me by saying, “Ryan, the only thing that is a waste of time here, is this phone call.”

That served as the extent of my interactions with Mr. Mach. My only other vivid memory of him comes from a public hearing for Startran in June, 2007. The purpose of the hearing was to discuss sweeping changes to Startran bus routes that were being proposed. Mr. Mach was the first speaker at the hearing. He got up, delivered his remarks on behalf of LIBA, which took all of two minutes, then walked out of the hearing. The essence of his remarks were thus; those who rely on public transit should move into the core of the city so that they may still avail themselves of the service. I was dumbstruck by Mr. Mach’s cavalier attitude to an issue that impacts so many of us with disabilities in such a profound way. Even Dr. James Nyman, who recently passed away as well, and who was gifted with a razor-sharp intellect, voiced his bafflement to me at how someone so educated could be so oblivious to the effect of his own words on others.

In reading of Mr. Mach’s death, I discovered that he was afflicted with tinnitus, which is a disorder that affects one’s hearing. This disorder is very common among those who work in radio, due to the fact that they must wear headphones for long periods of time every day on the job. Mr. Mach’s passing is only about 48 hours old and there is still much we do not know about the circumstances surrounding it. If Mr. Mach did indeed take his own life, and if tinnitus was a major factor in his decision, then this is a tragedy beyond all measure. It is a tragedy that I find sadly ironic. When Mr. Mach chose to dismiss those with disabilities, he didn’t know that he was dismissing a club to which he would ultimately become a member. But then, every able-bodied human being eventually becomes a member of the PWD club, merely by getting older.

It may seem as if I am dancing upon Mr. Mach’s grave. I don’t mean to give that impression at all. I wonder if we in the disabled community ever reached out to Coby and others in the community to educate them on the richness of life that can still be experienced when one is disabled. He delivered his remarks in June of 2007. Three months later, I left Lincoln for a life in Denver, so I certainly didn’t try to initiate a dialogue with him. I doubt any of my brethren in the National Federation of the Blind of Nebraska did either. Sometimes, we are as guilty of an ‘us and them’ mentality as we accuse our opponents of being. It can cause us to entrench ourselves and harden our hearts toward others, forgetting that they are three-dimensional human beings with their own lives and burdens to carry. This short-sightedness is our failure and our cross to bear as well.

The cross Mr. Mach’s family must now bear is unfathomable to me. I follow several people on Facebook who have relatives and friends who have committed suicide. Facebook offers me merely a narrow gap into their pain. Mr. Mach has set the survivors of his final act upon a long, arduous journey. Some of them may never be able to complete it. I have no words for them, or for anyone enduring such pain, other than to say that my heart is sad for you. Mr. Mach was 53 years old when he died; just nine years older than I am. I cannot believe that a man who was so vibrant and alive did not have much more to contribute to his family and his community, no matter what his physical state may have been.

As for the broader body of society, I can only state that everyone has choices. When you are faced with a disability, you can either choose to adjust to it and carry on for the sake of yourself and your loved ones, or you can surrender to the darker angels of your nature and end your journey. I believe in life. On that basis, I hope you will choose the path of living.

This was a long read. I thank those of you who chose to finish it.

If Only Cobra Commander Had Recruited Santa

Well, here we are at the Christmas season again. Too much eating, too much drinking, too much spending and too much bitching from the Scrooge types who are sick of the same 10 Christmas songs being recycled over and over again by everyone from Bing Crosby to Lady Gaga. I wonder if said Scrooge types understand that the only thing more tiresome than Christmas music, which we’ve all been hearing since a week before Halloween, is them bitching about it. Probably not. It’s not that said Scrooge types aren’t self-aware, but rather that they don’t care about being self-aware.

Anyway, I don’t know what the hell that had to do with my topic, which is toys.

I ran across a YouTube channel called, RetroBlast, which is some nerd and his wife who review ‘80’s toys and the cartoons that resulted from Ronald Reagan and said ‘80’s toys. The guy (I don’t know his name) says that the “big three” toy lines that every miniature human with a developing penis either owned or wanted were Transformers, G.I. Joe and the Masters of the Universe.

As a witness to the events between President Carter’s unceremonious departure from the White House and the dismantling of the Berlin Wall, I can state unequivocally that this is a fact. I was big on Optimus Prime and his merry band of talking robots, as well as Cobra Commander and his incontinent hiss. All of my friends were also big on Transformers and G.I. Joe. Strangely, none of us collected the He-Man toys. Some of us watched the cartoon, but that was just filler until Transformers came on at four. Besides, you have to admit that, even by today’s standards, Skeletor was a pussy compared to Megatron.

My first Transformers toy came to me Christmas of 1984. Up to that point, I was big on toys called, Super Powers Collection. These were basically action figures based on the Superfriends cartoon. A Superman figure that could actually punch the air was cool, but a tape recorder that could be changed into a robot was way, way more awesome. I played with my Joker toy for about five minutes, but kept going back to Soundwave and his little buddy housed in his chest compartment, Buzzsaw. Buzzsaw was just like Laserbeak, but with a less cool name.

I forget the name of my second toy, or third, or fourth. I do remember collecting Cliffjumper, Megatron, Skywarp, Prowl, Brawn, Slag, Inferno, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Blitzwing, Ramjet, Ironhide, Longhaul, Shockwave, Blaster, Smokescreen and the entire Airealbots team throughout the years of ‘85 and ‘86. But my biggest prize was Jetfire, a huge jet that turned into a robot that stood at about a foot tall. Mom got him for me but said I had to wait until Christmas of 1985 to open him. But then, she bribed me by telling me that if I practiced piano every day for a month without complaining, she’d give him to me. I did it, and playing that stupid E-scale was never so painless. It was the first lesson I learned about how positive rewarding can work with a kid, as long as the reward is Jetfire.

I should testify truthfully that I tried to steal a few Transformers from my classmates at school. I pilfered Swoop, Bombshell and Windcharger, but I always got caught in the end. I wasn’t a particularly clever criminal.

I will also testify that my enthusiasm for the Transformers toys was directly influenced by my love of the cartoon. Yup… I was a product of those evil capitalists who wanted to sell toys to kids. G.I. Joe and He-Man were already around in September of 1984 when the first three-part Transformers miniseries hit the airwaves of KOLN-KGIN, the CBS affiliate that covered the cities of Lincoln, Grand Island and Kearney. He-Man was kind of meh for me. Even as a kid, I always thought that John Erwin sounded like a wuss trying to pass himself off as an alpha male. Duke, Flint and Destro were more interesting. For the first time, I saw cartoon characters engage in fistfights and gun battles. Of course, none of them were ever shot and or wounded by gunfire, but who cared. Imperial Storm Troopers never hit anyone either, and Star Wars was real life action, man! So why would it matter? Still, none of those characters impressed me as did Optimus Prime as he stood atop Hoover Dam and did battle with Megatron.

I have to stop my meandering stroll down memory lane to pay homage to the guys who did the voices of The Transformers cartoon characters. Most of the boys in my tiny 4th grade class watched the show, but the other guys could see the robots change into cars, planes, dinosaurs and even a handgun. I could only hear it. Thus, guys like Peter Cullen, Frank Welker, Chris Latta, Casey Kasem, Michael Bell, Don Messick, Dan Gilvezan and Corey Burton were the stars of the show to me.

Oh sure, I collected G.I. Joe toys as well. My love for them sprang up more in the summer of 1985. I had Cobra Commander, Duke, Quick Kick, The Baroness, Shipwreck, Flint, Ladyjaye, Zartan, Ripcord, Blowtorch, Airtight and all of the Dreadnoks. For Christmas of 1985, I got the Crimson Twins (Tomax and Xamot), as well as Perceptor and Redalert. I went through a love affair with the Joe toys for about nine months, but my affinity for The Transformers lasted for over two years.

Sidebar: My first stab at sex education came, not from the stupid, awkward lecture from the school principal and nurse, but from my futile efforts to place my Flint and Ladyjaye action figures in various positions that were meant to simulate copulation. It was a sorry effort that was also inspired by the cartoon series. If Bill Ratner or Mary McDonald-Lewis ever happen to stumble upon this blog, #SorryNotSorry.

My passionate romance with The Transformers officially ended at the premier of that accursed Transformers movie. The writers killed off Optimus Prime, along with most of the original toys that were scattered around my bedroom floor at home. I’ve heard tales of some kids crying in the theater. I didn’t cry. I was alternately mad and sad. As pathetic as it is to admit, Optimus Prime had been a major hero to me. He was a character that had unwavering morals, a strong sense of loyalty to his followers and a courageous mechanical heart. Sure, guys like Duke, Flint and Roadblock were American patriots, but Optimus Prime seemed to carry something larger with him. I can’t explain it, other than to say that he gave those of us lonely kids who felt empty something to look to when times got rough. Recess was full of physical and emotional bullies, but I took heart in knowing that Optimus Prime would be waiting for me when I got home, always ready to do the right thing. Sure, I took visceral pleasure in watching the Joe Team beat the crap out of those hapless Cobra troops, but Prime employed a measure of compassion toward the innocent. Decepticons were contemptuous and violent toward humanity, calling them names like, “Earth germs.” Prime always defended humanity, arguing that freedom was the right of all beings.

It seems strange to think that, of all the toys I collected, the Optimus Prime toy was not one that ever made it into my basket.

AND THOSE ASSHOLES KILLED HIM!!! They scrapped him and replaced him with freakin’ Judd Nelson, Robert Stack, Leonard Nimoy, the Micro Machines guy and… Orson Welles!? Citizen Kane as a planet-eating monster. What a way to go out. I can understand why Orson did it. He wasn’t getting a lot of other offers and he had to pay for his expensive wine habit, but why the hell would Leonard Nimoy take a voice role like that? He was doing just fine and Star Trek: The Great Whale Chase, was about three months from hitting the screens.

Anyway, I tried to keep up with the TV cartoon, more out of habit than anything, but Rodimus Prime and Galvatron were poor substitutes. Meanwhile, G.I. Joe brought Sergeant friggin’ Slaughter, a professional wrestler, on board to do battle with Serpentor. Cobra Commander was kind of a clownish terrorist, but he was fun and colorful. Serpentor, by contrast, was just boring. Think about it! Serpentor had the DNA of Vlad Tepes in his makeup, but he never got around to sticking Cobra Commander up on a pole.

In Christmas of 1986, I got Ultra Magnus and Kup. I also got the Cobra Night Raven. Galvatron was my last toy, given as my 12th birthday gift in February of 1987. I played with them for a time, but the magic was fading. By the summer of ’87, I was watching crime shows like The Equalizer, Mike Hammer and Simon and Simon. I had also been introduced to old-time radio and had quickly become a fan of The Shadow and The Green Hornet. The cartoons seldom got turned on and my toys were relegated to a plastic basket in my closet, eventually to be taken downstairs and stored somewhere in the basement. The surviving toys would come out again years later, when my little nephew Hunter discovered the same love of Star Wars and The Transformers that I’d had as a kid. Yeah… We’re getting too close to Toy Story territory here, so I’m gonna move on.

I think my parents had hoped that I would grow out of toy cartoons in the sixth grade as many of my peers were doing. Honestly, I didn’t fully turn my back on the show until early in the seventh grade when the whole Headmaster thing hit and I realized that reincarnated Optimus Prime had outlived his usefulness. My parents breathed a huge sigh of relief. Maybe I was gonna finally grow up and go out for wrestling and hit puberty. Their rest bit was short-lived, because about a year later, I discovered Star Trek on VHS, available for rental at Video Kingdom. Mom and Dad stood aghast at the fact that they had sired, not only a blind, chubby, reclusive middle kid, but a nerd as well.

I did, of course, buy the DVD’s of both the G.I. Joe and Transformers cartoons in the early 2,000’s. I humbly admit that it is my prerogative to break them out and sample them every now and again. They are hopelessly dated, of course, but I get a warm feeling when I watch them. You’re entitled to judge me if you want, and I’m entitled to tell you to kiss my fat Polish ass. I’ll tell you this… Optimus Prime and Megatron have aged a hell of a lot better than Hostess Cupcakes and Twinkies. There was a time when I couldn’t imagine one without the other.

I particularly admire the voice artistry of the actors I listed previously. Peter Cullen said it best when he spoke at some Comic Con panel or other. “The only way you can do a job like this is if you really, truly love it.”

It is interesting that, in hindsight, I find The Transformers to be more compelling than G.I. Joe. It’s also interesting that, of all the Christmas gifts I received during my childhood, the ones that stand out most in my memory are the Transformers toys, as well as the cassettes of old-time radio programs given to me by my grandparents at Christmas, 1987.

My final thought is that I find it odd that Transformers and G.I. Joe have gotten several major movies, while Masters of the Universe has not. Maybe the 1987 film with Dolph Lundgren did what Skeletor never could and killed He-Man, dead. Then again, if you look at how the modern Transformers movies turned out, maybe He-Man and Skeletor got the better end of the deal.

If only Cobra Commander had brainwashed Santa Claus, he would’ve had all of the kids saying, “Merry Chrisssssssssssssstmasssssssssssss!”

PS: If you guys aren’t able to read this blog in about two weeks or so, it’s because Steve Sawczyn, the guy who gets the bill, was a He-Man fan.

Little ears! Big ears! Sensitive ears!

The following is a guest editorial from the Denver Post from 2011. I heard local conservative commentator Mike Rosen read it on his radio program and wrote an Email in response. I will paste the editorial first, followed by my response.

I find it darkly ironic, since I now endure Omaha’s mass transit system. Yet, I would not change a word I wrote.

Guest Commentary: A car-free life in Denver
By
Special to The Denver Post
June 7, 2011 at 3:17 pm

We are raised on cars. For many Americans, the idea of riding a public bus or train seems foreign and inconvenient. Car owners who have no experience with
public transportation may believe a car is always the necessary method to get from here to there.

Two years ago, I moved to Denver from Chicago, well practiced in public transportation and committed to life without a car. To me, there is independence
in the car-free lifestyle. It is freedom from hefty car payments and dealings with insurance companies. It is the freedom to walk any way I want down one-way
streets, to cut through fields of untouched snow on the way to the store, to observe the moving city around me without worrying if I am holding up traffic
or about to cause an accident.

It is the opportunity to get more exercise and support a cleaner environment.

The year after college, I lived in a suburb of Seoul, South Korea, where public transportation was not just abundant, it also was efficient. Digital postings
at stops and stations told me exactly when the next bus or train would arrive. (They arrived often and crowded.)

Few of my peers owned cars in Chicago. We all took the “L” or bus to work or play — always a faster and cheaper alternative to driving.

So when I moved to Denver, I searched for an urban neighborhood that had all necessary conveniences within walking or busing distance. I settled on Uptown,
where, unlike other neighborhoods, I could walk to the grocery store, the movie theater, restaurants, cafes, shops, and the bus stop.

In Denver, when I tell people I don’t have a car, I get varied reactions of bewilderment: “You live without a car?” “Isn’t it dangerous?” “Isn’t it inconvenient?”
“Doesn’t it take longer?”

To these questions, I ask: Have you experienced the pleasure of reading a novel all the way to work? Do you know the convenience of finishing work on the
commute home? Do you know the peace of mind in not worrying about ice and snow? Have you watched the world move from day to night during the 5 o’clock
rush while someone else stresses about traffic?

This freedom, however, comes at a cost. Without a car in Denver, it takes longer to go just about anywhere. It takes more planning and more patience. The
appeal of owning a car is not lost on me, especially in Colorado, where cars are necessary for trips to the mountains and Sunday rides in the foothills.
Like most American cities, Denver’s adequate but inefficient public transit system will never reach its full potential without more citizens who use it.
Denver could lead the country in greener, community-oriented practices that encourage lifestyles where we walk, ride and bus more often.

Denverites, in general, love the environment, are committed to healthy lifestyles and will do anything to be outside. So why does it seem like the number
of Denverites who support those ideals is disproportionate to the number who use public transportation?

Denver needs improvements: safer bike routes, more comprehensive light rail, more bus users so routes run more frequently and at a lower cost. The city
needs more neighborhoods like Uptown, whose conception begins with, “How can we make this neighborhood as self-sustained as possible?”

The other day, when I got on the No. 10 bus on the way to the Highlands, I found it full of middle-schoolers on a field trip. For many, it must have been
their first experience on a bus. I applaud their teachers for exposing them to public transportation. On this trip, the kids no doubt learned where to
catch the bus, how to pay their fair and how to act.

We may be raised on cars, but we can learn to move in other ways. The first step, truly, is to try.

Elizabeth Costello of Denver is a writer at Children’s Hospital Colorado in Aurora.

June 9, 2011

Dear Mike:

I listened to your program today on public transit with great interest. I am a blind guy who relies on public transit on a daily basis. I’m currently unemployed, though I recently worked as a cashier at Lowrey Airforce Base; a job I could not have done without the aid of RTD. I’m also a rarity, a blind man who is a conservative. I’m stating this directly so you won’t misunderstand the intent of my message.

Elizabeth Costello’s guest editorial seems to serve RTD very well. It’s full of the same puffy propaganda that I read every day, courtesy of RTD’s Twitter feed. If Ms. Costello is as fulfilled as she claims to be, living life without a car and at the whims of RTD, then I am truly happy for her. More to the point, I’m amazed by her.

Most of us who use RTD services do it, not because of any moral obligation or intrinsic desire. Quite the opposite. We do it because we are compelled to avail ourselves of bus and light rail to get where we need to go.

I relocated to Denver four years ago from Lincoln, Nebraska, and RTD is a big step up from the pathetic transit system I was forced to endure there. RTD is a good bus system with good hours and adequate coverage of the Denver area. Having said that, if I could wave a magic wand and restore my ability to drive a car, I would do so in a heartbeat. I hasten to add that I’m not whining about my blindness. I live a comfortable life. I’m merely acknowledging that a car is a far more convenient mode of transportation than is RTD.

During your program, you stated a number of sound objections to public transit in favor of the automobile. The most persuasive argument for me was the time factor. This past Memorial Day, some friends and I decided to visit a local restaurant for lunch. If we were to have hired a driver to take us, the ride from my front door to the restaurant would’ve taken approximately 10 to 15 minutes. Since my friends and I are all blind, we naturally took the bus. From the time I walked out my front door to the time we arrived at the restaurant, an hour and five minutes had elapsed. This was due to a phenomenon I term, The Domino Effect.

An RTD route often involves one or a series of transfers from one bus to another, or from bus to light rail and back, in order to reach one’s final destination. If one of those buses happens to be even a minute or two late, it can cause a disruption that can result in the collapse of the traveler’s intended schedule. In our case, the driver of the originating bus was a few minutes late. The connection we needed to make was tight, so I asked him to radio ahead and ask the driver of our connecting bus to wait until we got to our first stop. I was within my rights as an RTD passenger to request this as it was in compliance with RTD policy. However, the driver either couldn’t or wouldn’t make the call. I’m not entirely certain as to his reason, since the driver’s thick accent made it virtually impossible to discern what he was saying. Whatever the explanation, we missed our transfer and had to stand at the bus stop an additional half-hour and wait for the next bus to arrive. I am hard pressed to think of a comparable inconvenience we would’ve faced had we been driving a car.

I mentioned previously that I used to work at Lowrey Airforce Base and that I used RTD to get to and from work. The commute home to Littleton usually took approximately an hour and 40 minutes. Near the end of my employment, I hired a driver to come pick me up after work and take me directly home. It cost more money, but it cut my travel time by over half. The cash I spent was well worth the extra hour I got to spend at home unwinding from the day.

As a regular RTD passenger going on four years, I had to chuckle at some of Ms. Costello’s assertions. She talks of happily trudging through snowy fields to get to the store. Such a scenario would constitute an annoyance for me at best and a nightmare at worst. Snow travel is often difficult for blind people and usually results in wet clothes, cold feet and in some cases, bruises or even broken bones. Moreover, I don’t know a single sighted person who would enjoy such an activity when they could more easily drive to the store.

The biggest laugh I got from her commentary came when she wrote about a joyful trip on the number 10 bus with a group of middle school students. I’ve taken many a long and arduous voyage with children of middle and high school age. I’m not a puritan by any stretch of the imagination, but I wouldn’t perform a sex act on my worst enemy with the mouths of any of those juvenile brats. The cacophony of yelling, swearing, extraneous cell phone conversations and blaring electronic devices results in stress that is only made worse by passive drivers who refuse to enforce RTD’s policies of civility and low music volume by all bus passengers.

Furthermore, if I could get back all the time I’ve wasted waiting on buses and light rails in my life, you and I could take three back-to-back cruises together. By the conclusion, maybe you will have broken down “A Conflict of Visions,” to a comprehensible level for me.

I’m not writing this to disparage RTD. They have a job to do and they do it fairly well. But Ms. Costello’s premise is that a car-free lifestyle is what she prefers and that more people should join her in this mentality. This is utter nonsense.

Recently, the National Federation of the Blind unveiled a car that could be operated independently by a blind driver. This was just a test run and I don’t suggest that a car will solve all of our problems, but if such a thing becomes a mainstream reality, I will kick, beat and claw my way to the front of the line to buy one in order that my life may become more convenient. You’ll be my first stop, Mike. We’ll go out and lift a jar or two and you can begin your translation of Thomas Sowell for me. Until that happy day arrives, thanks for taking the time to read this.

Yours truly,

Ryan Osentowski

That was written in June of 2011, three years before I took a job in Boulder that required me to spend over four hours a day commuting to and from work via RTD. It was also three years before ridesharing services like Lyft and Uber became a reality in my life. With that experience in mind, plus the downgrade to Omaha’s meager bus system, let me add a few additional thoughts to Ms. Costello’s assertions.

She says, “Have you experienced the pleasure of reading a novel all the way to work?”

A lot of people read novels while driving a car. Ever hear of audio books?

She asks, “Do you know the convenience of finishing work on the
commute home?”

Nope. I leave work at work. Based on some of the cell phone conversations I heard from my fellow RTD passengers, I wish they would have as well.

She further asks, “Do you know the peace of mind in not worrying about ice and snow?”

Umm, I presume you mean while riding the bus? I spent many a harrowing walk to and from the bus stop during Denver’s cold winter season worrying about ice and snow. And we won’t even talk about Nebraska’s brutal winter season. I nearly got killed more than once while worrying about ice and snow.

She says, “Have you watched the world move from day to night during the 5 o’clock
rush while someone else stresses about traffic?”

Yes, the buses in Denver were much more crowded during peak hours. However, if traffic or weather were severe, the passengers did not simply chill out and ignore it. The collective stress level would go up exponentially if we were in a traffic jam or an ice storm. See my above remarks about The Domino Effect for clarification.

IN closing, it’s been seven years since I wrote that Email to Mike Rosen. I miss Denver. I miss RTD. I miss Mike. Sorry, Elizabeth, but I still want a car.

The Future is Obdurate

Is the future really feminine? It’s a popular slogan right now, but as usual, it’s a slogan that does not stand up to scrutiny.

I will readily admit that the best boss I’ve ever worked for is my current boss, Jane. She is fair, firm and friendly. Most of all, she doesn’t cramp my style. She allows me to
implement that creative spark that makes my job such a joy. My two coworkers are women and I get along with both of them swimmingly. Bekah is a Sith lord and she’ll force choke me if I don’t write that, but never mind…

You might read that and say, “See, ass-kisser!? The future is female!”

Whoa there, Trigger!

The worst boss I ever worked for was also a woman. Her name was Tonya and she was the manager of a BEP location where I ran a cash register in Colorado.
She wasn’t technically the boss of the company. Her blind husband ran the place (on paper), but she was definitely the power in charge. Tonya was rude,
brash, conniving and unscrupulous. I spent months in a cold war with her, documenting all of her transgressions, before I quit one step ahead of being
fired. She actually sexually harassed me one day on the job. I’m not being flip. It really happened. One of the happiest days of my life was the day I
heard that Tonya and her husband were frog-marched out of their location with termination papers from the state. All of their employees (including me)
testified against them at a state hearing. When they walked out of the hearing, the city of Lakewood was waiting to slap tax leans on them. I have no idea
where she is now and I don’t care.

So, which female future are we in for? Jane, or Tonya?

The 21 Lessons I Learned From Facebook

Nine years ago today, I joined Facebook. So what have I learned in those nine years?

I learned that Donald Trump is Hitler, and that Barack Obama was the anti-Christ.

I learned that parents love to post photos of their kids on Facebook far more than they love teaching them how to act appropriately in public.

I learned that Hollywood stands firmly with the #MeToo movement, even though they are the ones who sparked it.

I learned that Denver has a far superior public transit system to anything in Nebraska, but Nebraska has nicer coworkers.

I learned that the words, “None of you will share this,” is code for, “All of you suckers should share this!”

I learned that Breaking Bad and The Sopranos have aged far better than 24 and Lost.

I learned that Mark Zuckerberg is able to provide half-ass descriptions of photos for blind people, but he can’t answer a simple question from a senator about the definition of hate speech.

I learned that the death of a friendship may occur, not after an angry confrontation, but when one person suddenly realizes that the other person has blocked them on Facebook.

I learned that Rush Limbaugh was a conservative… Until he wasn’t.

I learned that the phrase, “It’s complicated,” really means, “None of your damn business.”

I learned that the term, “Fake news,” has evolved from one used after a Halloween prank played by Orson Welles to a verbal hand grenade selectively deployed depending upon whether or not Jake Tapper or Bret Baier is currently on the screen.

I learned that far more people will “like” this post if I include a picture of my cat. I don’t blame you.

I learned that America is as divided as its ever been, and that the Civil War was this thing that happened in another century.

I learned that the words, “Delete post,” are a lie. Nothing on the internet really ever goes away.

I learned that love is love is love is love, unless you happen to be expressing love for an unseen god.

I learned that a birthday wish hastily written on your virtual wall has taken the place of a card or a phone call.

I learned that a series of novels with a running character really should end after 10. It’s time for Lucas Davenport and Joe Pickett to retire.

I learned that a person’s true nature will emerge when they are hiding behind the anonymity of a keyboard or touch screen.

I learned that Star Wars should have died when Darth Vader did.

I learned that you can claim over 500 Facebook “friends,” yet be the loneliest guy in the world.

I learned that Barack Obama represented the second coming. I also learned that Donald Trump is a political genius.

PS: I know none of you will share this.

The Deep Shadow

1 There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens:
2 a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot,
3 a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build,
4 a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance,
5 a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them, a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,
6 a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away,
7 a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to speak,
8 a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace.
Book of Ecclesiastes – Chapter 3

2017 was the year of the deep shadow. It feels as if the entire world is on the edge of dusk; as if God’s great hand were partially obscuring the sunlight that warms us. Maybe that’s my way of saying that it feels like we’re living in the Twilight Zone.

In some ways, it does. If you had told me six months ago that I would be living in Omaha, Nebraska, I’d tell you that you needed a good, strong psychotropic drug. Yet, here I am, sitting in my apartment near 90th and Dodge while the gas heater fights off the draft coming in from my sliding glass balcony door wrought by a -20 wind-chill. Welcome to Nebraska winter.

It’s more than just my situation at hand. Everything around me feels as if it has a bluish hue to it. Strange that a blind guy would be using a visual reference, but then, we live in strange times. Maybe psychologists would call it projection. Perhaps I’m seeing the world through a tinted lens of sadness. I wonder…

Take one of my closest friends, Alicia. She just lost her husband to cancer after a two-and-a-half year battle. He went home to be with his lord and savior the Sunday before Thanksgiving. At one point, they thought they were winning the struggle, but their hopes were short-lived. I remember the rhythmic beeping of the life support apparatus in the background when she told me of his failing health the night before he died. I remember the high, keening noise she made when I spoke to her three hours after he passed. It is a haunting sound that I will never forget.

Rest in peace, Mark. I hope it’s Texas warm where you are, brother.

Then, there’s Marty. She continues to battle her M.S. She hasn’t had a flair-up in quite some time, but the reality of her health always lurks like a grizzly just outside the light of the campfire. Worse than that, Monty’s health is failing. It is only a matter of time before she is forced to send him over the rainbow bridge. She knows it. In his own doggy way, I think he knows it. She will be devastated when that fateful moment arrives and all I will be able to do is hold the telephone and tell her how sorry I am. Just words.

Talking about Marty makes me realize that I went through, not one, but two breakups in 2017. Most women think that guys have it easier when you break up with a woman. This is categorically false. You sit in a room across from each other, or on the telephone, and you say the words that transform your relationship from an active bond of energy into a sad, hollow place inside of yourself. If you pay attention, you can feel the air around you die as the relationship dies. It’s like feeling the coming of a snowstorm in late autumn. Things around you still live, but the air turns colder and you suddenly find yourself carrying the knowledge that something is dying. And somewhere in the night, you wake up and realize that yet again, it is a part of your own soul.

One of the two breakups to which I refer was an Irish girl who is a tactile artist. We ended it in her living room. She said, “Can you please leave?” So, I did. I left Colorado.

The reasons for taking this new job seemed right and proper at the time. More money. More responsibilities. Live on-air breaks. Granted, it wasn’t AM talk radio, or even FM radio, but it was as close to a dream come true as I ever could have hoped. Yet, if I boil down my motivations, I see in retrospect that I was propelled by greed and vanity. I had a fine life in Denver with a job that, while a source of irritation at times, was comfortable and afforded me a decent living. Why did I take an unnecessary risk and shuck the status quo like an old raincoat?

This isn’t to say that I hate, or even dislike my job. Quite the contrary. My job is, by far, the best part of living here in Omaha. My boss is the best boss for whom I’ve ever worked. She is honest, fair, personable and perspicacious. She is firm when she needs to be, but she belies the stereotype of the harsh, frosty female authority figure. My two other coworkers are both professional, but casual and friendly. I have very large footprints to fill in the wake of my predecessor and I think many of the volunteers doubt my abilities, but everyone has been encouraging and compassionate toward the new guy.

I’ll tell you a story about my boss that will illustrate my point. About a month ago, a sour old dowager (who has been reading for us for decades) came into the control room and used a tone with me that I will describe as, tart. I felt the hot anger rippling through me as she waggled her acidic tongue, but I suppressed it behind the veil of professionalism. My boss overheard a portion of her tirade and, later that afternoon, she called the cranky old spinster and said, “I don’t like the way you talked to Ryan. I won’t have it.”

This is significant because, in our industry, the first rule of order is that you never, ever piss off the volunteers. I don’t begrudge this reality. There are sound reasons for this. Next to the listeners themselves, volunteer readers are the life blood of a radio reading service for the blind. Without them, we simply couldn’t function. We can’t have them becoming angry because they might leave, and while they’re at it, they might trash talk us to other people, thereby poisoning the well of benevolence from the public. Too much of this would send a non-profit organization into its death throws. Yet, my boss had my back, thereby guaranteeing my loyalty to her.

No, the job is fine. The city feels wrong. You know that episode of Columbo where his wife gives him a brand new raincoat and he tries to wear it so as not to hurt her feelings, but he can’t get his murder-solving mojo to full strength until he chucks the new one and goes back to the old, rumpled one? Five minutes after he dawns the ragged old coat, he busts Jack Cassidy. That’s how Omaha seems to me. Something here feels wrong.

Denver was like my comfortable old winter coat; the one that’s missing the front zipper. It’s black and yellow. I call it my bumblebee coat. It’s not in the best shape, but it fits my ample torso nicely and it’s warm and comfy. It is part of me, just as Denver was part of my identity. I’m Ryan. I’m from Denver.

This may be a period of adjustment. As I grow older, it might be that change is more difficult for me to accommodate. Am I seeing my situation through a melancholy fog; a fog that might clear with the passage of time? It’s too early to tell. Yet, something deep inside of me doesn’t think so.

Denver was very easy for me to live and thrive in as a blind person. The buses all had automated stop announcements, so there was no question as to where my stop was located. They ran nearly 24/7 and covered the vast majority of the Denver metropolitan area. I know this isn’t cool for a conservative to say, but the light rail was a marvel to behold when you were on it. If I needed a gallon of milk, a checkup for Mags, a deposit at the bank or a patty melt with a slice of pie, it was all within walking distance. If I couldn’t walk there, I could take a bus or train to my destination. If the bus or train wouldn’t go, Lyft or Uber was available in spades.

Here in Omaha, I feel disconnected and isolated, like Woodrow Call in his tent set apart from his wranglers after Gus died. I do enjoy a measure of solitude, but I don’t like feeling like a compulsory hermit. There are no sidewalks near my apartment, so I am forced to walk in the street. The afore-mentioned bank, grocery store or vet are most convenient by Uber, which costs money. I have a friend who is willing to drive me around, but I hate imposing on his time. He works at night and sleeps during the day and I feel guilty intruding upon his rest so he can run errands for me.

My apartment is spacious, but it’s old. It smells old. The floor boards creek. The neighbors smell like pot. I wanted to get away from that when I left Colorado! The laundry machines in the basement are touch panel, which is rough for a fellow who relies on push-button appliances. My thermostat is inaccessible. The kitchen is big, but there is little counter space and not many cupboards. Right above my sink where cupboards should be, there is just a blank wall. Where are the cupboards!? Maybe they’re in the deep shadow. The few close friends I have nearby live in Lincoln, or in Iowa.

The other day, I took the bus home and the temperature was 1 degree. I got on the bus. The driver said, “How ya doin’?” “Cold, “ I mumbled through my scarf. “Well, it ain’t any better on here,” he said unapologetically.

The heater was, indeed, in disrepair. This marks the fourth time that an Omaha bus has either broken down or has been in some measure of disrepair since I took up residence here almost three months ago. When I complain to customer service, they seem apathetic. The drivers seem to reflect the same apathy, which is a result of low ridership and general community disinterest. Public transit is a service furnished by the city government through the financial generosity of the citizenry. As Thomas Jefferson observed, the people get the government they deserve.

I did my fair share of complaining about RTD, but they never would allow a bus to serve as a means of conveyance if the heater were broken in single-digit weather. They would view it as a health hazard, which it is.

Speaking of the government, one of the things I was excited about in moving back to Omaha was better rehab services. I helped fight for a separate commission for the blind in the late ‘90’s and celebrated with my Federation cohorts when we finally got it in 2000. It was doing very well when I left the state 10 years ago. I came back with the full expectation of receiving a major improvement in services. Colorado Vocational Rehab is substandard, to put it mildly.

Unfortunately, Mother Nature had other ideas. The Nebraska Commission for the Blind lost a major source of federal funding due to the reallocation of dollars for hurricane relief after Harvey, Irma and Maria all made their wrath known. This loss of funding, coupled with a federal law known as the Workforce Innovation and Opportunities Act, means that the Commission must now place more emphasis on clients who are either going to college, or who are seeking employment. Since I am already employed and only needed supplemental equipment and services helping me acclimate to the area, I am very low on the priority list.

I don’t blame anyone for this. I don’t even blame Mother Nature. This comes under the ‘shit happens’ heading. But the timing is lousy. I have a deep and abiding affection for the Commission. They, along with my parents, helped formed the solid bedrock of my positive philosophy about blindness. Yes, the NFB deserves a lot of credit, but it was the Nebraska agency that helped me connect with the NFB. It makes me sad that they are now struggling and that clients will now feel the result.

Meanwhile, rumors are swirling that Outlook Nebraska is seeking federal funding to provide tech and rehab training for blind people. I invite all two of you who read this to stop and ponder that prospect. A toilet paper factory that is one step removed from a sheltered workshop for the blind being paid by the government to train other blind people how to use their iPhones. This from the same facility that refuses to fire a blind married couple who blatantly flaunt the rules and go to the bathroom together, all in the name of, “enriching their lives.”

There was a time when I would’ve dismissed such a prospect as mere folderol. But then, I never thought that human beings with male genitalia would be permitted in the restrooms of the opposite gender, and that those who questioned such wisdom would be excoriated as transphobic bigots. This is the age of the deep shadow.

My closest in-person companion at this point is Mags. I am terribly worried about her. She’s been losing weight for the past 10 months or so. My vet in Denver (who knew both Mags and I by our first names) told me that she is in the early stages of renal disease. There is no cure for this. She could have surgery, but it really wouldn’t solve the problem. The move from Denver to Omaha was a tremendous strain on her. We were both miserable for the two weeks we spent in the hotel before my apartment was ready. I wonder if she recovered. She doesn’t eat as much as she should and sometimes, she aggressively bites me. This is a far cry from the sweet, affectionate kitty who first came to live with me Memorial Day weekend of 2016. All she wanted to do was cuddle and nuzzle me. She’s still that way most of the time, but she is growing thinner.

I took Mags to a new vet this weekend and she said that all we can hope to do is, “Support her kidneys as best we can.” Hard to do when she turns her nose up at any diet food I offer her. She’s stubborn. After all, she’s a cat.

I fear that, like Marty, I will be forced to make a fateful decision about her in the next year or so. The mere contemplation of this causes me to fight tears. Mags is a part of my heart that I never knew existed. She is mine. I take care of her and, in her own way, she takes care of me. When I drift off to sleep or wake up, I always feel her warm, furry body somewhere near my feet or shoulder. Despite the assertions of Walt Disney, animals are not human. Yet, in our interactions with them, we become more human. I am sure that Alicia contemplates this truth as she prepares to give up her own cat due to financial hardship in the wake of Mark’s death.

I spoke of my identity earlier. This brings me to the sad but necessary decision that I made a few weeks ago on Pearl Harbor Day when I chose to leave the Republican Party after 24 years of membership. You can read about my thought processes in a previous entry. I take no solace from this decision. I was proud to be among the ranks of the GOP. I am heartbroken at the steps they have taken (or not taken) collectively that have lead us to where we are now. I believe that Mitch McConnell and Paul Ryan are both good men who are doing a thankless job and are saddled with a president whom they did not want, but that doesn’t mean they can’t show stronger leadership.

Other friends have suffered losses. A former coworker just lost his father over the Christmas season. My former mentor at AINC is pulling back from his volunteer duties because his wife’s health is deteriorating. He could be an exasperating old curmudgeon at times, but he was and is sharp as a razor and he taught me a lot while I worked there. My friends in Minneapolis have spent a lot of time in and out of the hospital this past year as their daughter is suffering from chronic health problems. Special thanks to Steve, without whom I could not maintain this blog. Another buddy of mine was going to move to Australia to be with his lady, until he discovered that her mental fruit basket contains only bananas. Dana isn’t as vivacious as she once was. I asked her, “Are you folding in on yourself?” She responded, “Like Goddamn Taco Bell.”

… She didn’t actually say that. But she would have four years ago.

A shock hit the Nebraska NFB affiliate in April when our spiritual leader lost her son to suicide. He had always been a troubled kid who grew into a troubled man and our hearts collectively broke for her. She is a rare individual of integrity, honor and kindness for whom virtually no one has a negative word to say. She did not deserve the shattering blow that she received. As a non-parent, I cannot imagine what it must be like to lose a child, particularly by their own hand.

Rest in peace, John Walker. I hope you are reunited with your father and that you now have the answers that eluded you in life. Your mother, whom you left behind, will be a long time seeking those same answers. I pray for peace, strength and resolution for her as she soldiers onward.

6 For there is a proper time and procedure for every matter, though a person may be weighed down by misery.
7 Since no one knows the future, who can tell someone else what is to come?
8 As no one has power over the wind to contain it, so
no one has power over the time of their death. As no one is discharged in time of war, so wickedness will not release those who practice it.
Book of Ecclesiastes – Chapter 8

I still miss Art. Nobody can listen quite like he can. I miss Katy and Marty. I miss my oasis of happiness at the Littleton Cafe. Happy New Year Becky, Oscar, Sam, Bonnie, Katrina, Dorothy, Ryan, Ariana and all the rest of you.

I even miss that wild crew over at the CCB. I realize that the Colorado Center For the Blind has its problems, but as I study Outlook Nebraska, I realize how important it is for blind people to take total control of their own destiny. The CCB can be a seething cauldron of chaos at times, but I feel toward it like some of those guys feel who become addicted to war and find that they miss Afghanistan when they get home. It could very well kill you, but while you were there, you never felt more alive.

So here’s to you Brent, Dan, Chip, Jenn, Dishon, Steve, Vicki, Martin, Carina, Maureen and all the rest of you. I hope the Christmas party was as good without my adult eggnog this year. Live the life you want. For tomorrow, you could be murdered by a nutjob with a pipe on the 16th Street Mall.

Sidebar: Lorinda, no offense, but I don’t miss you. You’re as ornery as that old acid-tongued dowager here in Omaha.

The news of my friends isn’t all bad. Martin and Carina have just become engaged. Congratulations, guys. Soon, you won’t have to fight and feel guilty about it. My pal Joe is in a relationship with a new lady and he seems to finally be content in Phoenix. I just had dinner with my friend Amy and she is mostly happy with her life in Baltimore. Katy was a beneficiary of my decision to leave as she took over my old job in Boulder. The results are mixed. She is glad to have a paycheck and she has learned how to use Windows to interface with their Linux systems, but she hates the four-hour round trip daily commute that I adjusted to in time. My buddy Wes relocated from Lincoln to Des Moines. Is he happy? I can never be sure. Is my friend Beth happy in Minnesota? I can never be sure.

I should give a mention to the only two friends I can claim here in Omaha, Amy and Kevin. They have gone out of their way to make me feel truly welcome since I arrived three months ago. Thank you for everything, guys. I should also mention that my dad came and picked me up last weekend so I could spend Christmas with the family. It was a wonderful feeling to be able to jump in the car with him instead of a bus driver, then debark two hours later at their front door.

Things are also mixed (as usual) on the socio-political front. Republicans control all three chambers of Government in D.C., but they have accomplished sadly little. They just passed a needed tax reform bill, but they have thus far lost the battle to repeal and replace Obamacare. Trump did seat a justice on the Supreme Court in the Scalia mold in the person of Neal Gorsuch, but for every battle he wins, he sabotages himself. If you doubt this, just look at Anthony Scaramucci, Mike Flynn and Steve Bannon. Trump’s iron-jawed announcement that the U.S. will officially recognize Jerusalem as the capital of Israel is offset by his abysmal handling of the crisis in Charlottesville. I don’t even want to talk about his diarrhea of the fingers on Twitter. Did anyone ever decrypt “covfefe?”

I believe that Donald Trump may be winning the short-term battle, but given his volatile nature, he will cause Republicans to lose the long-term war. Those of you who enthusiastically support Trump can and will argue with me. I’ve learned that debate with those who subscribe to a cult of personality is an exercise in futility. The only further point I will make is simply that, if Trump had shown more sagacity in his firing of Comey, he would not now have a Mueller probe to worry about. I don’t think self-awareness is his strong suit. Aside from that, I’ve given up on my bad habit of political forecasting. Let’s just see how the 2018 midterms turn out.

Then, we have pop culture.

In 2015, they killed Han Solo. Now, they’ve killed Luke Skywalker. The character of Princess Leia still lives, but we won’t be seeing her in the third installment, unless J. J. Abrams can commune with the ghost of Carrie Fisher. This means that the great triumvirate of my childhood is dead. Maybe Lando will make a return in the next movie, but I won’t hold my breath. When William Shatner, Patrick Stewart and Optimus Prime go, I may just hurl myself in front of a truck full of Omaha steaks.

The third season of Fargo was pretty weak in contrast to the first two. Katy and I got into a cop show called Bosch, but the books bored me and the show, while interesting, doesn’t give me a TV nerd chub. I do like The Man in the High Castle and would recommend it to those who like alternative history fiction. I also think Stranger Things has improved with the second season. I still refuse to watch The Walking Dead as I think it outlived its creative value around season…two.? Still won’t watch Game of Thrones. Fantasy’s not my bag.

I didn’t really read any book series this year that grabbed me as the novels of C. J. Box did in 2016. Much to Katy’s delight, I finally broke down and read the Harry Potter series. I applaud Ms. Rowling’s journey from welfare mother to best-selling author. The books are good, not great in my opinion, but reading them was time well spent.

As noted in a previous entry, I do highly recommend The Force, by Don Winslow. His drug epics, Power of the Dog and The Cartel are also good, though not as good as The Force. I have also introduced myself to the Cork O’Connor series by William Kent Krueger, as well as the Quinn Colson series by Ace Atkins. Both solid series worth the read, but again, they didn’t seize my attention and shake it as did Joe Pickett and company.

I consider my brief meeting with Mr. Box in March to be a definite high-light and you can also read about it elsewhere within these hallowed pages.

We had the usual parade of celebrity deaths over the past year. The ones I found notable included Jim Nabors (Gomer Pyle), Tom Petty, Glen Campbell, Malcolm Young and Sue Grafton. Remember Higgins from Magnum, P.I.? He died. Remember Phil Leotardo from The Sopranos and Billy Batts from Goodfellas? He died. Special shout-out to the memory of Adam West, who went up to that great batcave in the sky last June. He was the only actor with sense enough to realize that Batman is a character who is best not taken seriously. Another piece of my childhood goes, “Pow!” Sometimes I think that being an adult is merely standing a deathwatch while the parallel mythology and reality of your childhood implodes before your eyes.

HOLY CRACKERS!!! I didn’t know that Della Street died! Rest in peace, Barbara Hale. I don’t know how I missed this one or I would’ve given her a proper Facebook send-off. The Perry Mason TV show and novels were more a part of my college years than my childhood. As a character, Della had very little to do but sit around and validate Raymond Burr. Still, she deserves a special mention here.

I find it more than a little pathetic that America is now outraged about sexual harassment and assault, yet many of the same people who are shaking their fists at the objectification and mistreatment of women loudly and proudly mourned the passing of Hugh Hefner. I think that goes under the heading of, paradox. It’s like the people who squawk about America’s violation of human rights while they simultaneously wept at the death of Fidel Castro.

A lot of people will never come out of the deep shadow. Victims of Hurricane Harvey. Victims of Hurricane Maria. Victims of Hurricane Irma. Victims of the California fires; even though I often wonder if California deserves any sympathy. Victims of evil in Sutherland Springs, TX, New York City, Fort Lauderdale, Portland and many other locations. I couldn’t fully enjoy my first day of work because it was overshadowed by the horrible blood bath in Las Vegas the night before.

Many careers died over the past year. Bill O’Reilly, Harvey Weinstein, Kevin Spacey, Matt Lauer, Charlie Rose, Al Franken, Mark Halperin, Roy Moore, John Conyers and others. As you can see by this blog, I am wholeheartedly supportive of the changing culture with respect to sexual harassment. Yet, I am waiting for the other shoe to drop. The left always overplays its hand. Soon, the lines between a dirty joke in the workplace and unwanted groping will be blurred to the point where many men will be afraid to go near women. This won’t breed enlightenment or tolerance, but rather, latent hostility. I’m also waiting for some unscrupulous woman to falsely accuse a man of something and for the media to be complicit in his takedown.

Other careers have taken a hit. Mike Riley, though he’s merely been demoted to assistant coach. On the bright side, may the Frost be with you. Go Big Red! The former coach of the Giants; I don’t have the inclination to Google his name. Never screw with the Manning brothers. Vance Joseph should probably lose his career after this season of Broncos football. I haven’t seen a pattern of systematic abuse this bad since Joe dated Hope. Trevor Siemian and Brock Osweiler are both done in Denver after tonight. The jury is still out on Paxton Linch.

Hey, is Kirk Cousins related to Christopher Cousins, the guy who played Ted Beneke in Breaking Bad? I sure hope the former knows how to take a fall better than the latter.

Judging by the ratings, the entire NFL is in a death spiral. The kneeling controversy is merely the latest (if not the most prominent) public relations crisis. I nearly spat out my coffee in the control room the other day as I listened to one of our volunteers read an article in Sports Illustrated awarding Colin Kaepernick the Muhammad Ali profile in courage. This from the guy who is a mediocre player and who, paradoxically, is doing far more harm to the careers of many of his fellow African-American athletes by causing financial havoc. Does Kaepernick, a guy who wore socks with pigs on them to symbolize police brutality, really think that players taking a knee during the national anthem will change anyone’s views on racism and poverty in America? People who are middle aged like my dad will simply turn off the TV. The younger generation, represented by my college age nephew, are already losing interest in the NFL in favor of the UFC. How does Colin think this is going to end?

Did you know that Colin, who is outraged by oppression, is a big fan of Fidel Castro? Like Trump, I don’t think he is long on self-awareness.

Speaking of careers, I have no idea how anyone at United Airlines is able to keep their job. Same goes for Uber, who is hemorrhaging money due to lawsuits over sexual misconduct and bad business practices. I celebrated recently when I learned that Uber has finally come to my hometown of Kearney. If they last long enough, I’ll pay my parents a surprise visit next summer. I can’t believe Chipotle is still around. I haven’t tried their new queso yet, though I hear it’s about as appealing as toe cheese. I will say that one of the best things about being back in Nebraska is the proximity of Runza restaurants.

This entry is about as long as the list of charges against Harvey Weinstein. Let me wrap it up with an ironic story.

I was busting my hump writing this early in the week because I thought I was going to have some guests for the New Year’s weekend and I wanted to complete it early so I wouldn’t be distracted. Then, everyone canceled due to the brutal weather, and because all of our financial situations are about as dire as Roy Moore’s chances for a successful recount. Well… All except Wes, but he’s sick. Again.

As of now, Marty and I just listened to the Broncos wrap up their season with a squeaker of a loss to the Chiefs. I have a vision of Vance Joseph tossing in his sleep, mumbling, “5-11… 5-11… 5-11…” Marty and I will ring in the New Year telephonically, listening to the police scanner, thanking God we’re not the cops or Uber drivers. I can’t remember the last time I spent a New Year’s Eve alone. Some have been more raucous than others, but I’ve always had companionship. It’s a very fitting end to the year of the deep shadow.

God, please take your hand away from the sun. Please let the light back in. I know it is still out there. I am not lost in the eternity of night. But where is it? Where is the warmth of the sun?

-16 for a low on New Year’s Eve. -2 for the high on New Year’s Day. The wind just rattled my balcony door. Mags is meowing mournfully from somewhere in the apartment. Hours before this is published, five cops shot in Douglas County, CO. One killed. A family gets to forge the waters of 2018 without a husband and father.

Winter’s not coming… It’s here, with no end in sight.

Happy New Year. May 2018 deliver me from the deep shadow.

8 There was a man all alone; he had neither son nor brother. There was no end to his toil, yet his eyes were not content with his wealth. “For whom am
I toiling,” he asked, “and why am I depriving myself of enjoyment?” This too is meaningless— a miserable business!
9 Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor:
10 If either of them falls down, one can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up.
11 Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm. But how can one keep warm alone?
12 Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.
Book of Ecclesiastes – Chapter 4

Farewell, GOP

I am writing this with a heavy heart. I have been a proud Republican since 1993, when I registered to vote at age 18. I cast my first presidential vote in 2000, and was proud to cast a second vote for George W. Bush four years later. Backing John McCain was a tougher proposition, but I ultimately did it with the knowledge that the alternative of Barack Obama was far grimmer. It was much easier for me to support Mitt Romney in 2012. I felt (and still feel) that he was a man of impeccable character and a rare politician who lives by the virtues of which he speaks.

I attended my first Republican caucus in March of 2014. I met a lot of nice people and am proud to have known them. In April of 2016, I attended the Republican state convention in Colorado Springs. It was an experience I will always treasure.

When it came to the election of 2016, for the first time in my life, I did not vote for the Republican candidate. Donald Trump was a bridge too far for me. Though I respected the binary view many of my friends and family took when they justified their support by saying, “Hillary’s worse!” I could not share it. After Trump’s upset victory, I considered leaving the Republican Party, but thought I would give them four more years to see how they behaved.

The jury is in. As of this writing, Pearl Harbor Day of 2017, I am relinquishing my membership in the Grand Old Party.

When allegations began to surface against Roy Moore in Alabama’s special election, I was incredulous. Democrats are not above manufacturing charges to sink a candidate. But when I saw the weak-tea defense mounted by Moore, his wife and his surrogates, characterized by an innocuous story, dubious vagaries and half-truths, I came to believe his accusers. Any parent with a modicum of critical thinking skills would ground their kid for a week if he/she told lies of such a poor quality. The charges of, “fake news,” and “Media hit jobs,” against the Washington Post do not hold up. I am well aware of the leftward bias of the Post, but their investigative reporting on Moore’s past was exemplary.

I took heart when Mitch McConnell, Cory Gardner, Ted Cruz and a chorus of other Republican voices called for Moore to step down. I was not a bit surprised when President Trump floundered, then ultimately endorsed Moore. Sadly, I was past surprised when I learned that the Republican National Committee was sending funds to Moore’s campaign in Alabama. It is one thing to support a man who has openly bragged about sexually assaulting women on video tape because he is the president. I respect pragmatism. And it is one thing to pull back from a candidate credibly accused of assaulting under-aged girls and to say, “Let the people decide.” It is quite another to actively financially abet said candidate. Couple the RNC’s opportunistic course correction with the bare fact that the GOP has no legislative accomplishments to speak of since they assumed power in 2017, and the picture is clear.

Enough! I will no longer be a member of a political organization who appears to have surrendered its soul in the name of a win-at-all-cost mentality. History is replete with political figures and movements who have subscribed to this way of thinking and nearly all of them lead to totalitarianism and doom.

I have removed myself from the several GOP Email lists of which I was a member. I will not attend any GOP events, or make any donations to the RNC on the national, state or local level in any future election cycle. I will now judge a candidate specifically on his or her own merits without the influence of a larger political umbrella. When it comes time for me to renew my official ID card in Nebraska, I will register as a conservative, for I still believe in many principles that used to hold sway in the GOP. How tragic that I no longer view the party of Abraham Lincoln, Dwight Eisenhower and Ronald Reagan as the most effective or tenable apparatus to advance those ideals.

“There are many men of principle in both parties in America, but there is no party of principle.”
Alexis de Tocqueville

Adendum:

Roy Moore lost. Was it worth it?
12/13/17