That other life I lead… you know, the real one

I have several posts in the hopper, but I’m still taking care of a few things after Dad decided the most prudent thing to do on our motorcycle ride to Ball Ground, GA was to torpedo himself into a ditch at 50mph and do a live demonstration of the effectiveness of Shoei helmets.  (Pretty effective, actually.)

Mom’s opinion: “At least he totaled the ugly motorcycle.”

So the Rowland family is down one 2012 Kawasaki Versys and (thanks to the Shoei helmet) not down one Dad, thus I’m visiting him in this ultra depressing rehab facility for medicare patients.  I thought he was going to end up in some awesome facility with other people who had equally awesome injuries, but apparently when you turn 65, instead of a regular rehab facility with football stars, you get sent to this place that’s one step away from a hospice.  Which I’ll write about later, but my main summary is that if I ever end up half brain dead with a feeding tube, pillow me to death.  Or if they’re really convinced I’ll eventually wake up, put the Propecia in an IV so I don’t wake up with male pattern baldness.

Mostly I’ve been spending my time trying to convince Dad that the motorcycle wreck is actually a sign that he won’t spend the last twenty years of his life moseying around some independent care facility making bad jokes and talking about things nobody cares about.  Dad: “Its not true, I’m starting to talk like them now!”

Beyond that, perhaps spurned by the realization that I’m going to die eventually and should get around to doing all that stuff I want to do beforehand, I started my own business:

Ordering business cards reminds me of that scene from American Psycho where they compare how the letters are embossed.

So now, at, you can see my new law firm!

I have to make money somehow–pee bottles don’t pay for themselves.  And although the other organizations I’ve started were all very successful, they tended to make me zero dollars, in fact, I think I netted well below that.  Damn you, charities!

HC is one of several brain-children, only one of which I almost regret having.  There was my high school’s Gay-Straight Alliance (with Mindy Cheren, Lisa Shirley, and Casey Pickren), the Dyno’mos (with Susan Mattern, Adam Keen, and Adam Lindsey), Queer and Ally Athletics, and of course, my World of Warcraft raiding team, Team Hot Mess.  (Co-chaired by English professor Arthur Bahr.)  Team Hot Mess was its own brand of queer activism; although most LGBT-friendly organizations are not premised on proving that we’re better, Team Hot Mess was.  Arthur and I could lead the softest DPS to victory under the harshest of latency conditions, and laugh heartily at anyone who couldn’t.

Many of the lessons I learned from my experiences there and at HC will help in this more profit-oriented enterprise, I’m sure.  There’s the generic crap, of course–that it’s all about the journey, not the destination, to focus on your dreams regardless of what anything suggests is impossible, to just let the bad DPS die because you’re better off saving the mana when you can still beat the enrage timer without them.  So on, so forth.  But the most important thing is to do it with people you care about.  The good ones, the ones who joke with you when you’re up, and fight for you when you’re down.  Because there is no other solace like knowing that even if you fail, you’ll laugh trying.  If you live long enough to see a place like this, with laminated menus for “Thursday”, you’ll be happier knowing you’ve tried everything.

This photo was taken when I was still unsure of whether HC would be an epic disaster. Photo credit: Tim Kettering

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