Cancer Vaccine?

Perfect timing.  I’ve been feeling a sense of relief and accomplishment all day.  It was one year ago today that I had my last chemotherapy treatment.  At Highlands Oncology a patient gets to ring a train bell at the end of their final treatment.  I was so feeble I could barely raise up from the wheelchair enough to pull the cord, but I managed.

I had beat cancer.  But, the most harrowing part of the experience would be in the month to follow.  The nausea, mouth sores and fatigue were the worst then.  It was ironic, but it’s the cumulative nature of chemo.

Today I was watching the local news at noon and they reported a breakthrough on a cancer vaccine.  My day got even better.

They reported that the vaccine would use someone’s own immune system to kill cancer cells.  That part concerned me.  Would an organ transplant patient be able to have this vaccine if it did that?  Then the report went on to name an immunosuppressant (anti-rejection drug) that is actually part of the vaccine.  It’s one that I’ve taken in the past.  So, it sounds like this vaccine might even apply to me and others with a transplant.

Clinical trials are in the early stages, so it may be a few years before anyone knows how effective it might be.  But, it’s good news that gives me hope on the day of this personal milestone.

Art Filtered Through My Eyes

It sounds like the setup of an off-color joke (of which I am a fan).  “A legally blind guy goes to an art museum and . . .”   

A couple of months ago, Alice Walton spent part of her Wal Mart fortune to open Crystal Bridges, a world-class art museum in Bentonville, just a few miles up the road from where I live.  She’s been collecting works by American artists for quite some time and went on a bit of a shopping spree in recent years when she decided Northwest Arkansas deserved an affordable (in this case FREE) place for common folk to be exposed to culture.  This irritated some of the snobs in big cities who said, “We can’t lose our fine art to Arkensaw.”

Others were bothered by the Wal Mart connection.  Don’t worry.  This isn’t a political, class warfare rant.  Though I must say, I love the irony of the Wal Mart fortune buying the portrait of George Washington that appears on the dollar bill.  I’ll never look at my money quite the same way after yesterday.  The fact that it’s in one of the poorest states in the nation makes it that much sweeter.

From the time I was old enough to hold a crayon in my hand it was obvious I had a gift and interest in art.  I wasn’t a jock or particularly good-looking, but I could draw better than the other kids.  Adults told me to treasure that gift.  Later, like most adults, I had to pay bills, which left no time for creativity.  But I majored in Advertising in college, so I was able to take art classes for that.

In the months before and in the year after my kidneys failed, I once again had the time for art.  To my surprise, the skill came back like it had only been a few weeks instead of several years.  Even with reduced eyesight, I could still do it.  In 2001 I was living in Little Rock and took some classes at the Arkansas Arts Center.  My ability actually improved.

Now my vision is worse than it was then, but I still like to look at great art, valuable or not, so I was happy for the opportunity to see it without having to leave hillbilly country to do it.  With all this fine art in our midst, people are going to have to recalculate the relationship between hillbillies and art.

I took my cane and was glad I did.  There were some sculptures in pedestals, small items in glass cases, and some big, fragile pieces of modern art assembled on platforms about a foot off the ground.  It would have been embarrassing, and possibly expensive, to have stumbled onto one of them.  Maybe I could have passed it off as performance art, but I didn’t want to take the chance.  I’m sure I must have confused some of the other visitors who thought I was totally blind.  Anyone who watched long enough would have seen me squint and bend or lean closer for a better look.  I wore a pair of small binoculars around my neck, which I sometimes used to see smaller details.

One nice thing about Crystal Bridges is that people can walk right up to the art as long as they’re eighteen inches from it.  Most of the time, that was close enough for me.  Paintings with only dark colors were problematic.  Those with bold contrasts between light and dark were my favorites. 

As for the lighting, it was pretty good throughout most of the museum.  I’m a big fan of natural light in most situations, but on this sunny day, it was too much glare in rooms that relied heavily on it.  No one else seemed to have a problem, though.  Maybe the next time I go (and there will be a next time) it will be an overcast day and it will make a difference.

The museum’s architecture is part of the experience, but I was out of luck there.  The architect’s scale model was in one area, so I got an idea of how interesting it looks from the outside.  It was in one of the areas where glare bothered me most.  From what I’ve been told and heard on the news, it blends in with the Ozark terrain and makes use of the natural beauty of its surroundings.  It’s fine art, Ozark Mountain style.  That’s how we expect—make that demand--things to be done in this neck of the woods.  You can make improvements on what’s here, but you’d better honor what’s already here. 

With the help of someone reading the small cards to the right of each piece, and the overhead menu at the restaurant, my day at Crystal Bridges was complete.  Sure, my eyes got tired and I realized how out of shape my legs are after walking for over four hours, but I was still able to enjoy it.  As long as I have enough vision to distinguish between light and dark, I’ll do everything I can to look at what artists have created.

That means you don’t have any excuse not to.

A legally blind guy went to an art museum and . . . he was very grateful for the experience.

2011: My Transformation

This year started terrible and gradually improved.  Most years, there are plenty of ups and downs.  If you were to graph how I felt in 2011 and how happy I was, it would look like this:

I had cancer when 2011 began.  January 3^rd I had a chemo treatment followed by a PET scan.  This meant I couldn’t eat for several hours beforehand.  My appetite was almost non-existent anyway.  I’d dropped some weight.  They told me the scan would show the cancer as lighted areas.  I imagined a space photo of the U.S. at night, with the urban areas lighted blobs on a black background.  What I hoped for was no lighted blobs in me.

The room was cold, I took off my shirt and lay down on a cold table and they did the scan.  After getting dressed, I never warmed up again.  By the time my parents drove me to their home over an hour away, I was shivering so much I could barely walk.  I kicked off my shoes and crawled into bed.  A flannel sheet, blanket, and bedspread couldn’t keep me warm.  My mother threw on a few more blankets and my heavy coat.  I still couldn’t stop shaking.

Then I started throwing up.  All I could do was turn my head to the side and throw up into a plastic container she held.  After a while that eased up.  The shivering eased up.  One by one, I shed the layers of covers. 

I went to the den, feeling better, and watched TV.  Then I started getting hot.  We called the clinic to let them know I had a fever of 103.  I pulled off my shirt and dabbed my forehead, neck, and chest with a cold, wet washcloth.  And I made myself drink several tall glasses of water.  I was too frail to get it myself, so I kept my parents going back and forth to the kitchen.  Between that and the medication I had on hand in case of fever, it finally passed several hours later.

Happy New Year to me.

My last chemo treatment was January 25^th.  February was a blur of fatigue, severe mouth sores, and lack of concentration.  A friend mine, herself a 15-year cancer survivor, told me about “chemo brain,” so I knew I wasn’t going crazy. 

There were times when I was so frail my legs literally gave out from under me.

By March, my strength was returning.  The mouth sores finally cleared up and I could eat again, though I still didn’t have much appetite.  I felt strong enough to be on my own at my home.  My parents worried about me going up and down the stairs in this two-story house.  I knew the stairs would help me regain strength faster.  By the end of my second day back, I was able to walk up and down them almost as fast as before the diagnosis.

I tried to get back to writing, but my mind was still too foggy.  Sometimes I was easily distracted by news stories popping up on my e-mail sign-in page to get around to checking e-mail.  I remember thinking, “So this is what it’s like not to have any ambition.”  I’d seen others with an obvious lack of it and wondered what it must be like.

As spring brought new life back to the world around me, I came back to life, too.  I made my first forays back to the gym, which increased my appetite, which helped me put on weight.  Unlike recovering from other health issues in the past, my appetite, weight, and energy level returned in lockstep with each other.

My hair and beard made a comeback as well.  After a few weeks, I didn’t cringe when I saw myself in the mirror.  The bottom half of my face no longer looked like a twelve-year old boy while the top half looked like an old man.  The hair that returned to my head was soft as a baby’s—until the first time it was cut.  All the stories I heard about hair growing back a different color or more/less curly didn’t happen to me.

By July, I had gained back all but a couple of pounds of the weight I lost, but this time it was leaner.  I could lift almost as much weight and my appetite was like it had been in my late teens/early twenties—and so was my metabolism.  I ate all I wanted and none of it went to my gut.  One afternoon, I stood in front of a mirror and laughed because, at 47, I was in the best shape of my life and only a few months after cancer.

And by July, I was able to write again.  In fact, I did some of my best writing in the summer and with more focus than I’d had in a few years.

That cancer was a gift.  It knocked me down and let me build myself back better—at a slow, manageable pace.  It didn’t kill me, and it definitely made me stronger.

In September, I observed my 20^th “blindaversary.”  I thought about my life in Austin in 1991 and wondered, as I’ve often done, about what life would have been like if my health hadn’t forced me to move.  Back then, I had no idea what I wanted to be when I grew up, but knew it was about time to decide.  Then I thought about all I’ve done since then. 

It blew my mind.

If only I’d known back then that all the moving and false starts were giving me the variety of experiences I needed to write about all kinds of characters in all kinds of situations.

If only I’d known back then what I was capable of. 

I took stock of myself this summer and realized that, somehow, I’d turned out to be a much better man than I aspired to be twenty years ago.  That really blew my mind.

A fun vacation in Philadelphia in November was a nice breather before diving back into the strange reality show/sitcom/Discovery Channel rollercoaster that is my life.  All the lab tests report that I’m cancer-free and the transplanted organs are doing great.

After struggling to get a couple of web sites up and going, I finally decided to hire some with computer and internet expertise surpassing my own (which could be just about anybody, really).  It’s exciting to see one of them taking shape, on the verge of promoting and with luck, generating income.  I also get to write and this site will help me sell the offbeat humor I write.

The other site will be ready early in 2012.  I’m not exaggerating when I say it’s my purpose in life.  It will help people, inspire people, and build a sense of community among people who have also been through some intense, life-altering events.  I’m improving my public speaking skills so I can tell my story and promote that site.  It’s exciting to be on the verge of all this at the end of one of the most intense, life-changing years of my life.

Mister Magoo Goes to Philadelphia Pt. 2

World Café Live is a restaurant and live music venue in the same building as an NPR station.  It’s an interesting way to showcase talent and combines two of my favorite things: eating and live music.  I ordered a sandwich with a side of eggplant fries.  They were good and tasted kind of like sweet potato fries.  Now I’m wondering how many other vegetables would taste good cut into thin strips and fried like that.

The first band was Zydeco-A-Go-Go.  Alan happened across an authentic Zydeco bar in LaFayette, Louisiana last summer while on vacation—one of those places tourists don’t usually know about.  I like anything Cajun.  Laissez les bon temps roullez!

Next, a blues band named The Dukes of Destiny took the stage.  The harmonica is my favorite blues instrument and they had a great harmonica player.  The lead singer sounded like a big black girl, which is never a bad thing when it comes to blues.  Alan informed me she was white.  It took a while, but I finally could see he was right.

It was interesting to see a blues band up North.  I know it’s popular in Chicago, but it was born in the South.  It occured to me that jazz, zydeco, country, gospel, and rock-n-roll were also invented in the South.  We’ve exported more culture to the rest of the country than they care to think about.  You’re welcome, y’all.

During a break, the harmonica player came around with a clipboard to get e-mail addresses.  I bought a couple of CDs from him.  The zydeco band and blues band each did another set before we left around midnight. 

Sunday we visited the Philadelphia Museum of Art.  It’s a big place and we saw only a small part of it.  My favorite part was the medieval armor.  It would have made me claustrophobic to wear that stuff.  Alan was good about reading the information to me next to pieces I wanted to know more about.  Lucky for me, I could get pretty close to most of the paintings and see the detail.  I’m glad I can still see well enough to do that.

There were some impressive old stained glass works, colonial furniture, and old Japanese, Chinese, and Korean art.  It had been too long, I realized, since I’d had a culture fix.

Stained glass at Philadelphia Museum of Art

On the way out, I had my “Rocky pose” photo made on the steps.  If you don’t know what I’m talking about, ask someone or rent the movie.

On Monday, we took a walk in Valley Green at Wissahickon Park where Alan rides his bike.  There’s an old inn from the 1850s still in operation.  The hills made it seem like it wasn’t in the middle of a big city.

My time in Philly was drawing to a close, but there was still one thing I had to do before leaving: try an authentic Philly Cheese Steak sandwich.  I love a good Philly.  It’s my default order when I go to a restaurant with a long list of sandwiches on the menu and nothing jumps out at me.

We went to Pat‘s King of Steaks, which is a well-known Philly place.  Up to this point, everyone I encountered had been very polite to me.  Alan said it must be because of my disability, because that’s not how everyone there acts.  At Pat‘s, there was an impatient, East Coast, big-city kinda guy working at the window who barked at people to order and keep moving.  Finally!  I got treated just like a local and, for once, I enjoyed being served attitude with my food.  It was all outdoor seating, which would have been great if it had been about ten degrees warmer.  The cheese on our sandwiches wasn’t even melted.  I told Alan he needed to try a Philly in Arkansas, where it’s served on a buttered, toasted bun.  In this part of the country we find a way to make everything more fattening and better tasting.

After eating, we drove around the working-class Italian neighborhood near Pat’s.  Alan pointed out where a Mafioso was gunned down several years ago.  Then it was time to go to the airport.

The same guy who escorted me when I arrived took me to security on my return.  On the plane between Philadelphia and O’Hare, I thought about how I need to get out more.  In some ways, I had dreaded the trip, thinking it would tire me out, that flying with my vision as it is now would be stressful.  But, I had gotten a healthy dose of the city—the kind of life I’ve missed since having to leave Austin in 1991 when my vision and kidneys started failing.  It was good to be reminded that I’m not as cut-off from the world as I think I am.  I’ll probably never have the fast-paced urban life I had in Dallas, when all I had to do was show up at the airport, flash my airline ID, and hop on a plane.  But, there are still plenty of things to experience, places to see, and people willing to assist me with all of it.

At O’Hare, I got to ride on one of those motorized carts.  The driver had to beep the horn at distracted people in the concourse, oblivious to us behind them.  That would be a fun job—a nice combination of people-watching and power.  Then I was on a much smaller jet back to XNA.  I overheard the familiar accent of Northwest Arkansas.  Shortly after landing, I found out this part of the state had been shaken by an earthquake centered near Oklahoma City.

It was a well-timed vacation in more ways than one.

Mister Magoo Goes to Philadelphia

OK, it’s a catchy headline, but I don’t want it for a new nickname.  Recently, I took a vacation to Philly.  It was the first time I flew alone since before my vision decreased in 2003.  That time, I went to Chicago.  In 2008 I flew with a friend to Boston.  I like going to big cities.  I’m developing a fondness for the Northeast.

Not seeing well enough to watch the movie or read on the flight gives me time to think.  I realized how much happier and healthier I am this fall than last fall, when the cancer was diagnosed.  Then I flipped back through the fall of ’09, ’08, etc. and discovered that this is the happiest fall I’ve had in quite a while.  It set the tone for the next few days.

Who says re-circulated air is bad for the brain?

I’ll admit I was nervous about flying alone.  But I notified United Airlines of my visual limitations and they had some meet and assist me to the gate I needed.  When I changed planes in O’Hare, a young man was there with a wheelchair.  There’s nothing wrong with my legs and pride almost made me tell him I would just walk beside him.

Then I remembered how big O’Hare is and all the times I changed planes in big airports when I worked for airlines.  A ride would have been nice back then.  So I rode for about twenty minutes.  The concourse was a blur of moving people, passing waiting areas, and brightly-lit shops and restaurants.  The aroma of different kinds of food rose and fell away.  Seafood.  Italian.  Hamburgers.

Near my gate, I ordered a small pizza from a man with an accent like John Belushi’s character in the Saturday Night Live sketch who said “Cheeburger, cheeburger.”  One big difference was this guy was extremely helpful and took me to the last available table where I had plenty of time to relax and eat. 

At Philadelphia I was met by another airline employee with a wheelchair.  This one told me he had MS and I almost offered to push him if he would tell me where to turn.  That would have stressed us both out more than it was worth.  My friend, Alan, drove me to his home in a suburb in the rush hour traffic.  We ate at a diner where they have me a huge sandwich.  The fries and a cup of Manhattan Clam Chowder were standard sides that went with it.  It's a Philly thing.  I was stuffed.

I should point out that, for me, any trip out of town means sampling the local cuisine—or at least food I can’t get here.  A big part of my travel budget includes food—anything from street vendors to fine dining.  I don’t leave my stomach and taste buds at home, so they should enjoy the trip too.

Saturday was the busiest day.  We went to Center City (their term for downtown) and stopped by Reading Terminal Market (or as I call it, Food Hog Heaven).  It’s like a mall food court on steroids, but with A LOT more choices and without the annoying mall.  I tried a Pennsylvania Dutch turkey sausage on a bun, known in many parts as a hot dog.  It tasted better than the average hot dog, though.

I could have spent a few hours there, but we had a 1:00 appointment to see Independence Hall and were told to be there early.  Alan guided me through the bustling big city streets and I wished I could see more of it.  He pointed out a few things along the way and I squinted in the bright sunlight to make them out.  It’s a National Park, so a funny park ranger with an encyclopedic knowledge of history quizzed us and kept us laughing. 

It didn’t take long for me to realize sighted friends with digital cameras come in handy at times like this. 

     “Can you see the design on the ceiling?” Alan asked.

     I squinted up at it, “Nope.  Take a picture of it.”  I knew I could probably see it with the magnifier program on my computer.  My only regret is not being more aggressive and elbowing my way to the front of the crowd.  My cane was unfolded, so they would have given me right of way.  If they wouldn’t have, the cane doubles as a weapon.

The Liberty Bell is next door.  It’s in front of some tall windows, so the light in my face kept me from seeing the famous crack very well.  But, it’s much bigger than I thought it was, so that made the rest of it easy to see.  We could walk all the way around it.  With the light shining from behind me, I saw the back of it much better.

On the way to Betsy Ross’ house, we stopped at an old cemetery where Ben Franklin is buried.  It was frustrating not to be able to read the headstones.  Alan told me some of them were worn too smooth to read.  It was easy enough to make out the size and shape of all those tall headstones, though.  Really old cemeteries have always fascinated me.

Later that afternoon, we found ourselves back at (surprise!) Reading Terminal Market.  I was hungry and wanted to sample new things.  One such item was from the Middle Eastern food stand.  It was ground lamb and beef with pine nuts in a thin dough shell that was fried.  I could taste spices like the ones used in pumpkin pie.  All I remember about the name is that it started with a K.  It was the best tasting thing I ate all weekend!

After that, we stopped at the Jewish deli, where I tried a kanish.  Let’s just say it had a tough act to follow.  I was hoping for something spicier.  Alan told them I’m from Arkansas, so they felt sorry for me and let me sample a bite of lox.  It’s very salty smoked salmon.

Somewhere along the way I had gourmet coffee from Central America and a shrimp eggroll.  It was good, but I’ve had Chinese food too many times to count. 

The last stop on my gastronomic world tour was the Italian bakery.  It was almost closing time and the line was pretty long.  It was worth the wait.  We both ordered cannoli and watched the woman behind the counter fill the pastries with cream filling from a hose hanging from the ceiling.  It tasted incredible!  If you ever get a chance to eat fresh cannoli, DO IT.  Life is just too short not to.

Alan pointed out certain buildings while we walked around Center City.  The sidewalks were so well lit I could see better after dark than during the day.  I was happy to watch the last glow of orange, red, and purple light of the sunset contrasted against the tall dark buildings on both sides of a street.  They were the same colors I’ve seen in sunsets here, but in an urban landscape.  Whenever I get a chance to see stuff like that without having to strain, I savor it.

That concludes Part 1 of my Philly trip.  Next: A live zydeco and blues show, eggplant fries, the Philadelphia Museum of Art, and an authentic Philly Cheese Steak sandwich.

  

A Year Since I Met Cancer

Last night, a friend of mine said, “It’s almost winter again.  Seem like it was just last week.”

Most years I agree with that sentiment.  This one has been much different.  This time last year, I found out I had cancer.  At various times, time has slowed to a crawl and (most recently) sped to a dizzying pace.

It had stalked me for seven months.  But, like most stalkers, it wouldn’t be able to keep its identity a secret.  I never associated the on again off again pain in my back with the anything serious, let alone cancer

The chemotherapy loomed in front of me for nearly four weeks.  There were the combined emotions of dread and anxiety to get it over with.

Then I was in the thick of it, having to be hospitalized when my body had a worse than typical reaction to the toxic drugs that fought the grapefruit-sized tumor near my lower spine.  A few days later, my beard and most of the hair on my head fell out—just in time for one of the coldest winters on record.  The cancer provided the perfect excuse to stay inside.

The last chemo treatment was in late January.  February was a blur of mouth sores that kept me from eating or speaking and fatigue that kept me from walking more than a few feet.  I dropped 25 pounds and looked like a stick figure, but was reacquainted with my abs.

In March, I was able to be on my own again, after several weeks of being cared for by my parents at their home over an hour away.  After being frailer than at any other time in my life, being on my own again scared the hell out of me, but I knew it was the only way I would fully regain my strength.

Appetite, weight, strength—they all came back gradually, in lock step with each other.  This was unlike an organ transplant, when the medications caused my appetite and weight to increase faster than any other time in my life.  Maybe that’s why this time all the weight came back lean.  By mid-July, I had regained all that I lost, but my pants have been loose since then.

I don’t recommend the cancer diet plan, so don’t envy me.  But it’s ironic that I’m in the best shape I’ve ever been in.  After a couple or organ transplants and cancer.  At 47.  I have to laugh every time I think about it.

This was more brief but more intense than anything else I’ve had to face.  All that other stuff helped prepare me for this.  Just before I got out on my own again, my dad told me, “As determined as you are, I know it won’t be long before you get your strength back.  You’ll do what you have to do to make sure of that.”

It meant going to the gym again, something I’ve liked to do for 25 years.  It meant not being self-conscious about how thin and weak I was when I first went back.  It meant getting to watch the man in the mirror become less pitiful and more familiar.

This summer, I got to meet the latest version of myself.  He’s much more confident than the previous one.  The chemo left the hair thinner over his ears (of all the weird places for that to happen) so he wears a slightly shorter haircut to keep it from standing out.  He has to wear a belt more often.  He has a more intense side that he allows to come out and play (and write) once in a while.  Most things just seem easier for him now.  He’s much more driven to succeed.  And he looks older, too.  But, he’s quite comfortable in his skin, even if it has a few more wrinkles. 

Most important, he has a better sense of what he’s capable of.

In many ways, the cancer was a gift.  Even though I lost valuable time moving the writing career ball down the field, I just wouldn’t be the same man today without the experience.

This is my latest dance with “What doesn’t kill us only makes us stronger.”  I know it by heart, but I wish the band would learn a new song.

To celebrate this milestone, I’m flying to Philadelphia this weekend to visit my friend, Alan, a fellow cancer survivor.  It’s the first time I’ve flown alone in almost ten years—since before my vision worsened.  I remember an old Elton John song from the 70s, Philadelphia Freedom.  The lab numbers from a few weeks confirmed that I am free of cancer.  Flying doesn’t make me nervous.  Once I’m past airport security and high above the clouds, I might feel even freer than I do on the ground these days.

Hard to imagine, but possible.  After the past year, I don’t put limits on my imagination or the possibilities.

401K . . . Bikers

Sorry for the absence the past few weeks.  I thought I had made the following post, which I wrote a week or two ago.  I could blame it on adjusting to the new, much larger computer monitor—the first flat panel one I’ve ever owned.  Or I could blame it on the extended-wear contact lens I got the same day, which also took some getting used to.  Maybe I’ll blame it on being frazzled from having at least 401,000 bikers and others (conservative estimates put the figure much higher) riding around downtown and keeping me awake.  Yeah, that’s it.  I’ll go with that one.

Is it over yet?  Two weeks ago hundreds of thousands of bikers rode around for several days, all over town but mostly within blocks of my home.  I finally took a strong sleep aid and did a Rip Van Winkle.  It may have been overkill, but I slept under the bed to muffle the sound even more.  Now here I am, bleary-eyed and covered in dust bunnies, trying to remember my lost week.

Monday, September 26  The official start date of Bikes, Blues, and BBQ is still two days away, but there’s a noticeable increase in the number of motorcycles around town.  The perfect weather (75 degrees, cloudless blue sky) has no doubt lured them here early.  The significance of this doesn’t hit me until well after midnight, when the swarm of bees over on

Dickson Street

still buzzes.  Instead of sheep, I count Hogs.

Tuesday  It’s too nice to stay in.  I walk to

Dickson Street

to eat lunch outside on the patio at U.S. Pizza.  It’s rather peaceful back there and I can overhear people at other tables. 

     “After a few of these things, they all seem the same.”

     “Yeah.  If I was a big bike enthusiast, I might stick around for it, but I’m going to the (Razorback) game this weekend in Dallas.”

     “I’m stocking up on beer, DVDs, and food so I won’t have to leave the house.”

     It’s a pretty common sentiment among locals.  It’s like when there’s a Razorback football game at the stadium times ten.  Most of us hunker down and wait it out until all the out-of-towners are gone. 

From there, I attempt to run a couple more errands down the street.  The sidewalks are blocked with unassembled tents and canopies for the vendors.  After stumbling over a few, I give up and go home.  It can wait until next week.

Wednesday  The official beginning of Bikes, Blues, and BBQ—the third largest motorcycle event in the nation and the largest held for charity.  It’s the charity part that keeps me from complaining too much about it.  That, and the fact it pumps a gazillion dollars into the local economy every year.  That helps the city pay for stuff without raising my taxes.  I chant this to myself over and over like a mantra as I try to fall asleep.

Thursday:  Funnel cake.  I know they have funnel cake for sale over there.  Last year, I ventured as far as the funnel cake stand (after giving up on having bratwurst first because it was two blocks and 20,000 people away).  This time, not even the sweat, high-carb memory of my favorite carnival food is enough to draw me into the crowded, noisy streets.  I will go funnel cake-less until a smaller festival or street fair comes to town.

Friday:  The beehive has become a giant hornet’s nest.  The non-stop buzzing has caused a persistent headache.  After a hotter’n hell summer, the weather is flawless.  I want to sit outside on my patio, but it’s even louder out there.  I’m only a couple blocks from Ground Zero—

Dickson Street

—where Arkansas (and parts of surrounding states) comes to party and cut loose.

Of course, I knew about all of that before I moved here from another part of town.  I like the convenience of being able to walk to places where I can eat, drink, hear live music, send mail, get a prescription filled, shop at a farmers market, buy all kinds of other stuff, and people-watch (to the extent that I can still do that).  

I refuse to become one of those people who whine about the event.  Living in a fun, interesting place means sharing it from time to time.  I chant this to myself as I try once again to fall asleep.

Saturday:  The final day of the event.  Writing is impossible.  The noise and lack of sleep (caused by the noise) keep me from concentrating.  Like a fool, I scheduled a book signing this afternoon.  I actually left early.  The store was dead and I could hardly stay awake. 

Next year, I’ll go out of town.  It’s what thousands of New Orleanians do during Mardi Gras.  I have plenty of time to plan.  Wherever I go, there’s one thing I’m sure of—there won’t be any motorcycles there.  They’ll all be in Fayetteville.

Anybody want to take in a legally blind, middle-aged biker rally refugee?  You can offer now or feel guilty when you see the commercial I make with Sarah McLaughlin singing.