Well, Darling Ones,

I did it. I popped my post-stroke wheelchair user (PSWU) concert cherry last night. It was John Cougar Mellencamp, and I’m glad I saved myself for him and the Mystic Lake Amphitheater.

Last night was many PSWU firsts. I ate inside a restaurant with friends. I met my social media friends Carrie & Kyle in actual life. I accidentally hit a very angry man with my foot because Jonas, my motorized wheelchair, didn’t stop as quickly as that guy did. Also, I cried during “Jack & Diane,” but there’s a 99% chance that would have happened pre-stroke.

The Coug’s was in fine form last night for a dude in his 70s, and he did a pretty good job of filling out the sprawling venue. The crowd in our area was super into the show and knew all the words to all the songs.

Sister #4 and I were particularly enamored with a guy and his wife a few rows down from us. This couple had to be in their late 70s or early 80s. He was a balding white-haired man with a lime-green polo tucked into the grandpa khakis pulled up to his nipples. He clapped and air-drummed to each song, frequently standing up to dance. If I could have stood I’d have put him in my pocket.

The second song he played was “Small Town” and he thanked the crowd for coming ALLLLLLLLLL the way out to Shakopee to see him. The amphitheater is 3.5 miles from Supergenius HQ according to google maps. In my head I was all, “you just got done singing about small towns, motherfucker. This is a small town.”

I still refuse to call Shakopee a suburb even though it’s been one for 25 years. It’ll always be a small town to me.

Before singing “Rain on the Scarecrow,” The Coug’s gave his little spiel about family farms and how they’ve even destroyed. My sister said, out loud, “Yeah, this used to be a farm” and at the same time I said, “we’re on an old farm right now!” The ladies next to us were not amused, but more on them in a second.

Maneuvering the show in a wheelchair was particularly easy for the most part. I’m still so new to wheelchair driving I want a giant STUDENT DRIVER sign for my chairs. Working a wheelchair is not easy. Ableism made me think it’s be easy peasy. Working a wheelchair in a massive crowd is even more difficult. Not only are people incredibly unobservant they’re probably like me and think wheeling around is simple, like walking is for most people.

We got to jump the security line and had special accessibility seating that required wristbands, which was pretty sweet. Because the Amphitheater was built roughly 10 minutes ago (not even kidding), the sidewalks were smooth and there were ramps and an elevator that took us to the right level. We only discovered the elevator situation after doing the ramps, which were a little terrifying. Jonas isn’t as deep as Ruby Vroom (my manual wheelchair) so when going down inclines I’m convinced I will fall out at any second. Some of that feeling is probably tied to my constant-falling down feeling.

The only thing that wasn’t sweet were those ladies next to us in the accessible seating. This was an area on the edge of the second tier, fenced off from the rows of stadium seating. There were, I’m guessing sixteen seats in this area. Sister #4 and I had seats 15 & 16 and were at the end.

To get these seats you had to do a little digging on the site, according to my sister who bought my ticket. The rules clearly and repeatedly stated this was a section for wheelchair users and one companion. While the section had four or five wheelchair users aside from me, those ladies next to use were neither wheelchair users nor companions. They didn’t even use a cane or a walker! They were, however, with the four or five people in front of us in the non-accessible seating.

My sister was salty about this from the get-go and the more I thought about it the angrier I got. While I know there are many invisible ways to be disabled, these seats were specifically for wheelchair users. The wristbands even had a wheelchair person on them. And if they weren’t going to be for wheelchair users they should have gone to big and/or tall people since the chairs were armless and movable. These small, entitled white ladies should have sat in the regular seats with the rest of the hoi polloi. At one point Ms. Entitled #1 pulled a Shark Chill Pill fan and was cooling herself with her feet up on the fence. I wanted to smash the fucking thing on the cement.

Can you imagine having such audacity coupled with disrespect for wheelchair users to think you deserve that seat just because you wanted it? I’ve spent today putting so many hexes on those two women. No more green lights. They’ll never enjoy a fresh, crunchy potato chip in their favorite flavor again. They will have to wash all their clothes twice because they will never remember to put them in the dryer the first time.

Don’t mess with the Spinster Goddess of Minnesota.

Love,
Jodi

The post My First Wheelchair Concert: Johnny Cougs & Entitled White Ladies appeared first on I Will Dare.

Uffda, Darling Ones,

Today was rough.

As I mentioned yesterday, telling my clients about my dad being in hospice weighed heavily on my mind.

Since I had a pre-scheduled call with a client, I ripped the Band-Aid off with her. I only cried a little, mostly because she called me, “a force of joy in the world.” Hell, I’m crying again typing it. She was super understanding and gently encouraged me to tell my clients and everyone I know. She said to give people the chance to support me, even if the only thing I need is good vibes. I am very fortunate to work with kind people.

Thus far all my clients have been kind and their kindness brings me to tears. To be fair, most things always bring me to tears. I’m a crybaby under the best circumstances. Right now, being so emotionally fragile means the tears are always right on the surface.

This afternoon when I was done with work for the day I cried while hearting tweets about the ‘Mats Midway concert on this day back in 2014.

Now that work is no longer weighing heavy on my mind, I’ve decided to worry about ruining John Cougar Mellencamp.

When my nineteen-year-old cousin Alan died in 1996 they played Tom Petty’s song “Free Falling” during the graveside service. Twenty-six years later and that song still gives me a stomachache whenever I hear it.

For some reason, at least for today, the only thing my brain and ice-robot heart want to hear is ol’ JCM.

John Cougar Mellencamp’s music has been a comfort to me for as long as I’ve known music could provide comfort. It’s easy to listen to. I know all the words by heart. A lot of it the songs remind me of childhood/teenagehood. It’s all the good things.

This is why I do not want to sully the good tunes of Mr. Mellencamp with the time when my dad was dying. And yet, my brain is like no ‘Mats only Mellencamp. No Waxahatchee or Liz Phair or Material Issue.

So this is the thing my brain has fixated on today in order to not think about my dying dad and everything his death will bring.

Your force for joy in the world,
Jodi

P.S. I have to admit that my favorite JCM song is “Cherry Bomb” and I was forty-nine years old before I learned the line is “that’s when a sport was a sport” and not “that’s when a smoke was a smoke.” I might have already told you that. I was pretty shook by that discovery. I think my version is better. Who cares about sports?

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Hi Darling Ones,

The best thing about reading Paul Rees’ Mellencamp biography was learning that his grandkids call him “Peepaw.”

The worst thing was absolutely everything else.

This is definitely a case of you should never meet your heroes. I feel the same way after reading this that I did after reading Bob Mehr’s biography of The Replacements. That is, super disappointed, acutely annoyed, and a little bored.

My beloved John Cougar Mellencamp suffers from the same affliction as The ‘Mats — entitled prick syndrome. And like my best band, he was surrounded by people who put up with his bullshit in the name of “creative genius.”

It’s 2021, we need to fuck all the way off about that nonsense. One, because creativity doesn’t give you free license to be an unmitigated asshole. Two, we never put up with that kind of bullshit when the “creative genius” is a woman. We sacrifice so much to the altar of men’s creativity and it infuriates me.

So many of the people interviewed said, repeatedly, something akin to “he was really hard to work with, but he’s just so creative.”

Excuse me while I barf for 100 years.

JCM is not a nice man. He’s a tiny tyrant who is not above hitting/kicking/physically attacking people who piss him off. This is gross, and doubly gross because he grew up in a physically abusive household. The whole time I was reading the book I kept hoping there was therapy in Johnny Cougar’s future. There wasn’t. Or if there was, it happened off the page and didn’t get a mention.

From what I can discern he never pulled these shenanigans on his family. Seems he saved this behavior for recording studios and record company board rooms. I understand where this behavior stems from. Growing up in an abusive home brings out the control freak in everyone. Doesn’t help that ol’ JCM was dicked around by a few record companies.

Does that excuse such abhorrent behavior? I don’t think so. He would often tell his managers/agents/handlers/etc. to warn people what a little bastard he was (that’s literally his nickname) and how difficult he is to work with, as though this excuses such behavior. I dunno, Johnny, why don’t you try not being an abusive dick instead?

Does any of this make me love him even one iota less? Nope. I love that he’s a flaming liberal in the heart of a red state; that he still lives in Indiana; that he loves to paint more than he loves to write songs; that he co-founded Farm Aid; that he explains to stupid Republicans who want to use his songs what they’re actually about; and that he quietly donates money to all kinds of arts and sports things that he loves.

I don’t think I could stop loving him. Like The ‘Mats he’s stuck so deep into my heart that to excise him would probably kill me. I had a minor heart attack today when I discovered the lyrics to my favorite JCM song “Cherry Bomb” are not “that’s when a smoke was a smoke, and groovin’ was groovin’.”

Apparently he is singing about a sport being a sport. After reading the book I know he really loves sports, but he really loves smoking too.

Dancing does, in fact, still mean everything,
Jodi

P.S. That new Springsteen/JCM duet “Wasted Days” slays me. I watched the video about six times today and not just because I’m convinced I could carry both of those men around in my hip pockets. They’re so little!

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Dear Darling Ones,

I have just finished reading Sally Rooney’s new novel Beautiful World, Where Are You, and wow does she know how to write a book. She’s an Irish writer who crafts these novels where not a lot happens. When you try to describe them they sound utterly boring, and yet when you finish reading them your brain is mush, your heart hurts a little, and you feel a little dazed like, what in the hell just happened.

Rooney writes quiet books about people who have vast inner-turmoil and mostly mundane lives and shitty boyfriends and interesting sex. It’s the quietness of her books that makes me realize how much I expect all art I consume to have capital B-big capital D-drama. Where is the assault, the affair, the death, the cheating, the scam, the betrayal. I expect it to arrive in the very next scene or sentence.

What else can there be worth reading if not Big Drama? As you may remember, I was recently castigated for not bringing enough drama. Yes, I am bitter. It’s as though I didn’t spend the last year cutting a vein and sharing so many dark corners for an entire god damn year. Fuck that.

Rooney’s book was a nice reminder that things can be dramatic and feel dramatic without all the drama, and that there’s a lot of beauty in the mundane.

Take today, for instance. Until I got all hopped up and angry about that shitty comment from August, I was having the most lovely day.

• I woke up late. I folded and put away laundry while listening to my imaginary boyfriend Rob Harvilla’s podcast.
• I had donuts for breakfast.
• I made bold statements on Twitter about “Misery” by Soul Asylum being the most GenX song of all songs and then I argued about how right I am. Seriously, go listen to the song & watch the video. The factory making Misery CDs? COME ON! This song is GenX in musical form.
• I tossed together a sausage & white bean soup and put it in the crockpot.
• I ate chocolate chip cookies and drank coffee while listening to my Spotify new releases playlist, and then promptly pre-ordered the Adia Victoria record.
• I wrote the start of this list in my planner so I would remember it next time I have a bad day.
• I had a meeting with a new client where we discussed people we had in common and I got to say about my (twice) former boss Mark, “He’s a smart, kind, and creative man.”
• I laid on the couch sniffing the slowly cooking soup and finishing the Sally Rooney book.
• Later I will east soup and watch Nirvana Unplugged to honor the 30th Anniversary of “Nevermind” and I will think fondly of the 90s and a young man named Tony.
• And even later still I will start reading the biography of my imaginary boyfriend John Cougar Mellencamp.

It’s been a lovely day, Darling Ones, and these days are the hardest to share. There was nothing spectacular. Nothing dramatic. No heartbreak or falling in love. It was just a day absent of angst and loneliness where my own company was enough and I took care of myself in the best ways possible.

Thank you for listening to it,
Jodi

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Hi Darling Ones,

Even though I haven’t even started reading the John Cougar Mellencamp biography my brain is chock full of JCM song title puns. I will not apologize for this. If you don’t like it, you know where the door is.

So, I fell last week. In my living room. I didn’t fall so much as I tripped. I’m not entirely sure what the difference is. I tripped because I was wearing much too big for me pants. Theses pants hang off my hips and the crotch lands between my knees and my actual crotch, making them much too long so the cuffs drag on the floor. They’re nightmare pants and I’ve nearly tripped while wearing them before. What happens is I step on one of the cuffs without noticing and then I go to move the foot with the stepped on cuff and usually I get a little wobbly. Usually some windmill arms and dramatic “woah, woah, woahs” do the trick.

On Wednesday that did not happen. Instead my right foot folded in some kind of way and I ended up landing hard on my right knee. The adage about how the bigger they are the harder they fall is no joke. I fell hard and I have the purple toes and yellow shin/knee to show it. It’s gross and painful.

If I were the kind of person who took gross pictures of bruised, swollen feet I’d show you. I’m not. Also there’s a Canadian dude who likes to email every once in awhile who asks me a million questions about my feet and then ends the email begging for pictures of them. This is grosser than my foot looks right now.

I’m sensitive when it comes to my feet. I’ve been told my entire life that I have giant monster feet. My family used to call my shoes “ski boats.” At any gathering where I had to leave my shoes at the door, without fail some friend/cousin/random girl would start clomping around in my shoes and exclaim about how petite her own feet are. Same can be said about any jacket/sweater/hoodie I remove. Women love to wear my giant ass clothes to make themselves feel smaller and more womanly. This was a favorite bit of Sister #3’s when she was a teenager.

It wasn’t until I was in my mid-to-late thirties when I was dating a 6’2″ guy with size fourteen feet that I realized my feet are kinda small for my height. I wear a size 12 men’s shoe (a woman’s 14, I think, but I probably haven’t worn women’s shoes since I was ten) and I’m 6’5″.

Petiteness = femininity is the bane of my existence. I’m glad the youths are fucking with gender norms and that feminist thinking is all “take up space!” and “don’t shrink yourself!” Because being a 6’5″ woman and trying to adhere to strict gender roles was hard, and I was never confident enough or sure of myself enough to be unapologetically my size. Mostly I spent forty-plus years apologizing for my existence and hoping to be ignored.

Hurting myself sure brought up some feelings. I planned on making jokes about little piggies and delicious little smokies. I was gonna talk about sleeping twelve hours the other night and trying to keep the pain at bay. Instead, I’m all fuck you I’m a woman no matter my size and I will shove my giant monster foot up your ass if you try to make me feel bad about it.

Painfully, clumsily yours,
Jodi

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