How many famous blind and partly blind people can you name? Once you've figured it out, you can vote in the poll to the right-->
Rules:
-Fictional people don't count. Sorry, Mr. Magoo.
-Those who wear thick glasses are not partly blind. I know, I love Woody Allen, too.
-I can't think of a blind pety, but if one exists, go for it.
The reason I ask is that I'm surprised at how few I can name. You can post your list to the comments section, and I'll post my own list in a week, once we close this thing up.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Friday, November 28, 2008
Another Sappy Gratitude Post
I am thankful for my disease.
OK, there, I said it. I can claim membership in the club now.
True, I don't have a terminal illness. I can thank my lucky stars that I don't have the physical pain of cancer or chemo, nor the mental anguish of wondering when I'll die. I'm healthy (knock on wood), in good shape, and planning to live a long and fruitful life, god/fate/luck willing.
I also don't have a contagious disease. Thankfully, I don't have to worry about how people might react, or whether they're fully informed enough to be willing to shake my hand, hug, or kiss me. Even with all the education out there, people with HIV and AIDS are often treated as modern-day lepers. (From what I know of history, a leper used to be a lot like a Bush voter in Brooklyn. Everybody just keeps their distance, and so does the leper.) No question, my day doesn't require nearly as much bravery as anyone with a deadly communicable disease.
And then there's the fact that I'm not even completely blind. Much as I like to refer to myself as "the blind guy," it's only a small patch. Fully blind people put up with way more discrimination than I do and have barely any of the access to, well, anything. I'm thankful for the vision I have, and while I'd like to think I could still make a full life for myself without any vision,it's still pretty damn cool to have most of mine.
I am also thankful for the effect Stargardt's disease has had on me. It has forced me to be a more social person, to be kinder to people around me, and to forge a unique niche for myself everywhere I go. I like that I can't fit neatly into a pre-made box. I like that I get to constantly surprise people with what I can do. And I like that my disease is harder to spell than my last name.
I am not prone to making statements such as, "This disease has affected my life for the better." First off, it's probably not true -- 20/20 vision comes in handy once in a while -- and second, there's no way to know. I certainly would welcome a cure, if it arrived at my front door, pre-tested and ready to go. But, hey, I can't really complain. I have a job (several, in fact) and a decent life with great friends. Who wouldn't be thankful for that?
What's that you say? Your cousin Dan wouldn't be thankful for that? Well, he can go eat somebody else's turkey, because my leftovers are for ME, mister. Stupid Dan.
OK, there, I said it. I can claim membership in the club now.
True, I don't have a terminal illness. I can thank my lucky stars that I don't have the physical pain of cancer or chemo, nor the mental anguish of wondering when I'll die. I'm healthy (knock on wood), in good shape, and planning to live a long and fruitful life, god/fate/luck willing.
I also don't have a contagious disease. Thankfully, I don't have to worry about how people might react, or whether they're fully informed enough to be willing to shake my hand, hug, or kiss me. Even with all the education out there, people with HIV and AIDS are often treated as modern-day lepers. (From what I know of history, a leper used to be a lot like a Bush voter in Brooklyn. Everybody just keeps their distance, and so does the leper.) No question, my day doesn't require nearly as much bravery as anyone with a deadly communicable disease.
And then there's the fact that I'm not even completely blind. Much as I like to refer to myself as "the blind guy," it's only a small patch. Fully blind people put up with way more discrimination than I do and have barely any of the access to, well, anything. I'm thankful for the vision I have, and while I'd like to think I could still make a full life for myself without any vision,it's still pretty damn cool to have most of mine.
I am also thankful for the effect Stargardt's disease has had on me. It has forced me to be a more social person, to be kinder to people around me, and to forge a unique niche for myself everywhere I go. I like that I can't fit neatly into a pre-made box. I like that I get to constantly surprise people with what I can do. And I like that my disease is harder to spell than my last name.
I am not prone to making statements such as, "This disease has affected my life for the better." First off, it's probably not true -- 20/20 vision comes in handy once in a while -- and second, there's no way to know. I certainly would welcome a cure, if it arrived at my front door, pre-tested and ready to go. But, hey, I can't really complain. I have a job (several, in fact) and a decent life with great friends. Who wouldn't be thankful for that?
What's that you say? Your cousin Dan wouldn't be thankful for that? Well, he can go eat somebody else's turkey, because my leftovers are for ME, mister. Stupid Dan.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Deli-cious
Ah, lunchtime.
I get pretty hungry around noon, and if I'm in an unfamiliar place, the most stressful part of my day can be finding that ideal place to get a sandwich. This can be a particular challenge when you can't really read the signs, or tell the difference between a diner and an auto parts store.
My current commute includes Grand Central Terminal (not the "Station": that's a post office). A few weeks ago, I spent a good fifteen minutes trying to find a place to get lunch that didn't break my bank account or just sell desserts. The moment I heard someone ordering pastrami on rye, I rushed to the end of the line and waited my turn. Finally, I arrived at the counter and asked for a roast beef and cheddar.
"No cheese!" came the response.
I had stumbled up to a kosher deli. Had I known that, I would have ordered corned beef. I canceled the cheddar.
Today, after a short day of work, I arrived at the terminal and went straight for the deli. I knew exactly where to go. There was no line. I went right up and asked for a corned beef on rye.
"Next one over," came the response. I was at a Chinese food counter.
The Chinese food guy replied pretty quickly, as though it happens a lot. Maybe a lot of not-not-blind people wander through Grand Central, looking for a good Jewish meal. Maybe the hunger itself drives Jews and those who love Jewish food to temporary blindness. I don't know. But I do know that the corned beef was excellent.
I get pretty hungry around noon, and if I'm in an unfamiliar place, the most stressful part of my day can be finding that ideal place to get a sandwich. This can be a particular challenge when you can't really read the signs, or tell the difference between a diner and an auto parts store.
My current commute includes Grand Central Terminal (not the "Station": that's a post office). A few weeks ago, I spent a good fifteen minutes trying to find a place to get lunch that didn't break my bank account or just sell desserts. The moment I heard someone ordering pastrami on rye, I rushed to the end of the line and waited my turn. Finally, I arrived at the counter and asked for a roast beef and cheddar.
"No cheese!" came the response.
I had stumbled up to a kosher deli. Had I known that, I would have ordered corned beef. I canceled the cheddar.
Today, after a short day of work, I arrived at the terminal and went straight for the deli. I knew exactly where to go. There was no line. I went right up and asked for a corned beef on rye.
"Next one over," came the response. I was at a Chinese food counter.
The Chinese food guy replied pretty quickly, as though it happens a lot. Maybe a lot of not-not-blind people wander through Grand Central, looking for a good Jewish meal. Maybe the hunger itself drives Jews and those who love Jewish food to temporary blindness. I don't know. But I do know that the corned beef was excellent.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Trapped in the Music
A fully blind man once told me that it's hard for him to be in a room with bad music . It's considerably harder to plug up your ears than to close your eyes.
My big problem is wrong notes. When I was a kid playing cello in orchestras, I had the awful habit of laughing out loud whenever a brass player let out a solid "squawk." People understandably did not like that. I learned to hold it in, but I still cringe at concerts when I hear a funny sound.
It's hard for me to tell whether it's the musical training or the low vision that gets me to pay so much attention to music. When a movie starts, the first thing I ask myself is who composed the score. (Most people are busy reading the opening credits.) I'm pretty good at guessing; that's either because of all those music classes and lessons over the years, or because no one else cares. Probably both. Whatever the case, I end up with strong reactions; and, like my blind acquaintance, it's pretty unpleasant for me to hear music I don't like. As a result, I've done my best to like as much music as possible.
It works the other way, too. I was working with a director once who made a negative comment about Miles Davis. After that, I knew we'd never see eye to eye... so to speak.
My big problem is wrong notes. When I was a kid playing cello in orchestras, I had the awful habit of laughing out loud whenever a brass player let out a solid "squawk." People understandably did not like that. I learned to hold it in, but I still cringe at concerts when I hear a funny sound.
It's hard for me to tell whether it's the musical training or the low vision that gets me to pay so much attention to music. When a movie starts, the first thing I ask myself is who composed the score. (Most people are busy reading the opening credits.) I'm pretty good at guessing; that's either because of all those music classes and lessons over the years, or because no one else cares. Probably both. Whatever the case, I end up with strong reactions; and, like my blind acquaintance, it's pretty unpleasant for me to hear music I don't like. As a result, I've done my best to like as much music as possible.
It works the other way, too. I was working with a director once who made a negative comment about Miles Davis. After that, I knew we'd never see eye to eye... so to speak.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Wild Blue Yonder
I'll be taking a break for a week. Right now, I'm loading up my Shuffle for the plane flights to and from my ultimate destination. I'm hoping to finish Don Delillo's Libra on the trip... all 20+ hours that are left. Audiobooks have gone through so many evolutions... I just hope I don't accidentally press the "back" button and lose my place.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Read, Memorize, Eat
I have a rule: I do not read aloud from pieces of paper. Ever.
OK, so I broke that rule today. Sort of. But it's generally a bad idea.
Even if I write something myself and use large, clear print, I still have to hold the paper close to my face. So close, in fact, that it muffles what I say. And then, inevitably, there comes a word I can't immediately read, due to my eye bouncing off to some random place (as is its wont). I lose track of where I am, forget where I was in the reading (nervous anyway), and thus start to stutter, halt, and add an "uh" or an "um."
None of that inspires the listener. It certainly doesn't inspire me.
Today, at a professional development session that involved writing dialogue (I do have good jobs), we all wrote a page of a scene. We started going around the room, reading our writing aloud. I immediately started to strategize: should I ask someone to read it aloud? Should I just pass?
But then I looked down at the page, and saw that I had only written eight measly lines. As a playwright, I constantly ask actors to memorize entire pages of dialogue at a time, sometimes with monologues that stretch five or six minutes. And I was going to pass on eight lines?
I set to work memorizing, thinking through each turn of phrase, each comma and question mark. As we commented on the other scenes (I was listening, I swear), I snuck in a close peek at a line or two. I was determined.
Finally, come my turn, I read aloud. I spoke clearly, looking in the direction of the page without being able to see a single word. People listened. People laughed. People applauded. Ladies and gentlemen, there was joy in Mudville, for mighty Caisy had, um... OK, fine, no great accomplishment... but it was a good feeling.
I still hate acting, though. Not when other people do it; just me. It's like stepping into an empty fish bowl and trying to pretend you're in your living room.
OK, so I broke that rule today. Sort of. But it's generally a bad idea.
Even if I write something myself and use large, clear print, I still have to hold the paper close to my face. So close, in fact, that it muffles what I say. And then, inevitably, there comes a word I can't immediately read, due to my eye bouncing off to some random place (as is its wont). I lose track of where I am, forget where I was in the reading (nervous anyway), and thus start to stutter, halt, and add an "uh" or an "um."
None of that inspires the listener. It certainly doesn't inspire me.
Today, at a professional development session that involved writing dialogue (I do have good jobs), we all wrote a page of a scene. We started going around the room, reading our writing aloud. I immediately started to strategize: should I ask someone to read it aloud? Should I just pass?
But then I looked down at the page, and saw that I had only written eight measly lines. As a playwright, I constantly ask actors to memorize entire pages of dialogue at a time, sometimes with monologues that stretch five or six minutes. And I was going to pass on eight lines?
I set to work memorizing, thinking through each turn of phrase, each comma and question mark. As we commented on the other scenes (I was listening, I swear), I snuck in a close peek at a line or two. I was determined.
Finally, come my turn, I read aloud. I spoke clearly, looking in the direction of the page without being able to see a single word. People listened. People laughed. People applauded. Ladies and gentlemen, there was joy in Mudville, for mighty Caisy had, um... OK, fine, no great accomplishment... but it was a good feeling.
I still hate acting, though. Not when other people do it; just me. It's like stepping into an empty fish bowl and trying to pretend you're in your living room.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Mac-cessibility
I stopped into the Apple store today. On a rainy day, there's no better toy store for grown-up boys like me. It's so easy to cause mischief.
There are all kinds of games you can play. They had LEGO Star Wars II set up at one computer, but I couldn't figure out how to get out of the stupid bar. So instead, I played my own favorite game: screwing up the computers on display.
It's easy to do. All you have to do is zoom in, by holding down the Control key and rolling the little scroll ball on the mouse. It zooms in on the pointer. And the best part is, THERE'S NO WAY TO GET IT BACK TO NORMAL. In theory, you're supposed to be able to roll the ball backwards and zoom out that way, but I have yet to meet a Mac mouse that allows you to do that without several minutes of trial and error. What a brilliant feature.
The Mac has always been ridiculously visual. As the supposedly creative type, I should love Macs -- and I do like the idea of an operating system designed for human beings -- but it's virtually impossible for me to use. Even when the zoom thing works, I can't figure out how to make it more like a magnifying glass, where the rest of the screen stays the same and only a spot gets bigger. At least I have a program for that on my PC.
The iPod has the same problem, of course. With displays that small, I'm surprised anyone can see those things -- and how exactly do you type on an iPhone? Did everyone's fingers suddenly turn into toothpicks?
Lucky for me, the cheapest thing Apple makes is the Shuffle: the iPod that doesn't require you to see anything at all. Of course, if I were completely blind, I'm not sure how I'd get my podcasts onto the Shuffle in the first place... but that's for somebody else to worry about.
And now, back to This American Life.
There are all kinds of games you can play. They had LEGO Star Wars II set up at one computer, but I couldn't figure out how to get out of the stupid bar. So instead, I played my own favorite game: screwing up the computers on display.
It's easy to do. All you have to do is zoom in, by holding down the Control key and rolling the little scroll ball on the mouse. It zooms in on the pointer. And the best part is, THERE'S NO WAY TO GET IT BACK TO NORMAL. In theory, you're supposed to be able to roll the ball backwards and zoom out that way, but I have yet to meet a Mac mouse that allows you to do that without several minutes of trial and error. What a brilliant feature.
The Mac has always been ridiculously visual. As the supposedly creative type, I should love Macs -- and I do like the idea of an operating system designed for human beings -- but it's virtually impossible for me to use. Even when the zoom thing works, I can't figure out how to make it more like a magnifying glass, where the rest of the screen stays the same and only a spot gets bigger. At least I have a program for that on my PC.
The iPod has the same problem, of course. With displays that small, I'm surprised anyone can see those things -- and how exactly do you type on an iPhone? Did everyone's fingers suddenly turn into toothpicks?
Lucky for me, the cheapest thing Apple makes is the Shuffle: the iPod that doesn't require you to see anything at all. Of course, if I were completely blind, I'm not sure how I'd get my podcasts onto the Shuffle in the first place... but that's for somebody else to worry about.
And now, back to This American Life.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
That One
I went to a theater event on Halloween, and I wore this:
Truth be told, I've been wearing it every day since I got it. But that's besides the point.
After the show, I went over to talk to one of the producers, a friend I haven't seen since Hillary and Obama were duking it out. At the time, he was an ardent Hillary supporter. Now, as it turns out, he's pushing for McCain. He's the only New Yorker I know who's even considering voting for McCain. I think he's just trying to get a rise out of people.
As I came over, he introduced me to the British actor he was speaking to.
"This is Jeremy," he began. "He's mostly blind. Jeremy, I don't know if you realize this, but that shirt you're wearing isn't a McCain shirt."
I figure I may as well respond to one lame attempt at humor with another: "You know, I don't think I'm the only one operating with a blind spot here."
His British friend asked if he really, honestly, was voting for the crazy old man, and my friend drunkenly responded that at least Palin has experience as a governor. What qualifications does this Obama guy have.
"You're right," I said while smiling and nodding. "He's completely unqualified to be president. No qualifications whatsoever."
Then the British guy's attractive girlfriend joined us and remarked that she really wanted a shirt like mine.
Truth be told, I've been wearing it every day since I got it. But that's besides the point.
After the show, I went over to talk to one of the producers, a friend I haven't seen since Hillary and Obama were duking it out. At the time, he was an ardent Hillary supporter. Now, as it turns out, he's pushing for McCain. He's the only New Yorker I know who's even considering voting for McCain. I think he's just trying to get a rise out of people.
As I came over, he introduced me to the British actor he was speaking to.
"This is Jeremy," he began. "He's mostly blind. Jeremy, I don't know if you realize this, but that shirt you're wearing isn't a McCain shirt."
I figure I may as well respond to one lame attempt at humor with another: "You know, I don't think I'm the only one operating with a blind spot here."
His British friend asked if he really, honestly, was voting for the crazy old man, and my friend drunkenly responded that at least Palin has experience as a governor. What qualifications does this Obama guy have.
"You're right," I said while smiling and nodding. "He's completely unqualified to be president. No qualifications whatsoever."
Then the British guy's attractive girlfriend joined us and remarked that she really wanted a shirt like mine.
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