![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
This is not an an indictment of Rammstein. This is not Rammstein's fault. This is not even an indictment of Pilgrim. This is not Pilgrim's fault, inept and bungling though they be, and even if it were their fault, they don't owe my anything. Well, that's not entirely true; I believe they owe me and every other Rammfan--not to mention the band they represent--better communication when it comes to things like ticket sales and promotional events. But they don't owe me for this. This is me venting, me being disappointed and angry and hurt, and when I'm finished, I'm going to eat some cake and dust myself off and get on with the business of getting over it. And the first person who tells me I need to get over it or look on the bright side or hope for the future is getting fucking defriended. This isn't about bucking up and being rational. This is about how I feel, and how I have a right to feel, because sometimes, I don't feel like being an inspiration.
Ever since Rammstein announced their sole MSG date, I have morphed into Wile E. Coyote, plotting and scheming and concocting various plans by which to realize my dream of seeing them live before I die or they retire. I have researched airfare and hotel and scoured the websites for information about interstate paratransit. I have even considered throwing myself on the mercy of relatives. I have considered driving, flying, and even(for a nanosecond before sanity reasserted itself)taking a Greyhound.
And I have come to one conclusion: I can't go.
Not for lack of funds. Guera has been a conscientious Guera and scrimped and saved and eaten more soup than a stomach can stand, and my fund is fat.
I can't go because I'm a gimp, and right now, I hate myself. I hate my stupid legs that won't bend. I hate my body, which reacts to any sort of stress by seizing and spasming and throwing up and sometimes shooting noxious substances from various orifices. I hate my stupid rolling warden of a wheelchair that means most taxis would rather lose their oil pans in the street than pick me up. I hate that I need extra time and extra accommodation and extra stamina and an infinite amount of patience and understanding for a world that has never tried or cared to understand me. I hate that what is so joyful and easy for others is an exercise in gladiatorial combat for me.
I could go to New York. I would have to drive, but I could. I could get up at the asscrack of dawn on the 9th and drive for ten hours in the middle of winter through treacherous, winding roads. Or I could, if I could drive. But I can't. Roomie could, but he won't. He's as confident as a garden slug, and I learned hard last year that he folds under pressure. He couldn't clean our apartment without my mother's help, and yes, I still resent him for that. He made me prostrate myself before my mother, knowing what it would cost, because he had no spine, and because he was paralyzed with crippling indecision.
Now, he cannot help me with this, because he is lazy and afraid. And right now, I hate him for it. It is not fair, but it is true.
But. But. Even if he weren't a coward, I still couldn't go. Because once I got to New York, there would still be the issue of lodging. Hotel rooms in NYC aren't cheap, and accessible rooms less so. Most hotels add thirty dollars to the price for the "privilege" of having a handrail in the bathroom and a dirty plastic shower chair in the tub. Sometimes, you don't even get that much. Sometimes, it's a wobbly, plastic pool chair that won't hold up, and you have to pray you won't break your ass(or your hip or your ankle)while you're trying to wash it.
Then there's transit. Most cabs won't stop for you if there are wheels under your ass, and the paratransit cabs require twenty-four hours' notice and have a three-hour pick-up window. That is, if you need to be somewhere at noon, you should schedule the pickup for ten because they will either show up at nine or eleven or hey, maybe twelve. It's not like your time is valuable, but they will take your money, oh, my, yes.
Then there's the venue. Now, MSG is accessible enough; it's certainly light-years ahead of the dives I've braved in order to see Megadeth and Soulfly(in the latter instance, a security goon carried me down a narrow flight of stairs over his shoulder like a ragdoll, probably in violation of safety and fire codes), but if the show is general admission without mezzanine seating for the handicapped, it's a disaster in the making. Most rock fans are very good at protecting weaker fans from major damage if they are sober, but sobriety and a rock show--particularly one in NY--is hardly a given, and sometimes people are just oblivious, and sometimes, they're dicks. If I were to get caught in the pit or even on its fringes, I would have no defense, and it isn't as if Till or Richard or Olli would wade out to save me. Odds are, they wouldn't even see the problem. Security would eventually get there, but not before damage, probably extensive, was done.
So I can't go, and I hate it. I hate me. I hate that so much of what I want must be sacrificed to this idiot disability. I haven't wanted anything so much in a long damn time, and I can't have it. Not because I didn't save or plan or try hard enough, but because I'm me, and I'm weak and physically fragile despite my stubbornness. Just once, just fucking once, I wish it were easy. I wish I could just hop a car or a plane and go somewhere without having to obsess over every detail, including whether or not there was a place for me to take a shit.
If this show were in Atlanta, I would risk it because it would be a mere ninety minutes from home and support if something went badly wrong, but it's not, and thanks to Pilgrim' bad planning, it won't be this go around, and maybe never.
I can't go because I'm broken. It's not Rammstein's fault, and it's not Pilgrim's, but neither of those facts makes it hurt any less or changes the hard fact that right now, I wish I were anyone else.
I'm going to get that cake now.
Ever since Rammstein announced their sole MSG date, I have morphed into Wile E. Coyote, plotting and scheming and concocting various plans by which to realize my dream of seeing them live before I die or they retire. I have researched airfare and hotel and scoured the websites for information about interstate paratransit. I have even considered throwing myself on the mercy of relatives. I have considered driving, flying, and even(for a nanosecond before sanity reasserted itself)taking a Greyhound.
And I have come to one conclusion: I can't go.
Not for lack of funds. Guera has been a conscientious Guera and scrimped and saved and eaten more soup than a stomach can stand, and my fund is fat.
I can't go because I'm a gimp, and right now, I hate myself. I hate my stupid legs that won't bend. I hate my body, which reacts to any sort of stress by seizing and spasming and throwing up and sometimes shooting noxious substances from various orifices. I hate my stupid rolling warden of a wheelchair that means most taxis would rather lose their oil pans in the street than pick me up. I hate that I need extra time and extra accommodation and extra stamina and an infinite amount of patience and understanding for a world that has never tried or cared to understand me. I hate that what is so joyful and easy for others is an exercise in gladiatorial combat for me.
I could go to New York. I would have to drive, but I could. I could get up at the asscrack of dawn on the 9th and drive for ten hours in the middle of winter through treacherous, winding roads. Or I could, if I could drive. But I can't. Roomie could, but he won't. He's as confident as a garden slug, and I learned hard last year that he folds under pressure. He couldn't clean our apartment without my mother's help, and yes, I still resent him for that. He made me prostrate myself before my mother, knowing what it would cost, because he had no spine, and because he was paralyzed with crippling indecision.
Now, he cannot help me with this, because he is lazy and afraid. And right now, I hate him for it. It is not fair, but it is true.
But. But. Even if he weren't a coward, I still couldn't go. Because once I got to New York, there would still be the issue of lodging. Hotel rooms in NYC aren't cheap, and accessible rooms less so. Most hotels add thirty dollars to the price for the "privilege" of having a handrail in the bathroom and a dirty plastic shower chair in the tub. Sometimes, you don't even get that much. Sometimes, it's a wobbly, plastic pool chair that won't hold up, and you have to pray you won't break your ass(or your hip or your ankle)while you're trying to wash it.
Then there's transit. Most cabs won't stop for you if there are wheels under your ass, and the paratransit cabs require twenty-four hours' notice and have a three-hour pick-up window. That is, if you need to be somewhere at noon, you should schedule the pickup for ten because they will either show up at nine or eleven or hey, maybe twelve. It's not like your time is valuable, but they will take your money, oh, my, yes.
Then there's the venue. Now, MSG is accessible enough; it's certainly light-years ahead of the dives I've braved in order to see Megadeth and Soulfly(in the latter instance, a security goon carried me down a narrow flight of stairs over his shoulder like a ragdoll, probably in violation of safety and fire codes), but if the show is general admission without mezzanine seating for the handicapped, it's a disaster in the making. Most rock fans are very good at protecting weaker fans from major damage if they are sober, but sobriety and a rock show--particularly one in NY--is hardly a given, and sometimes people are just oblivious, and sometimes, they're dicks. If I were to get caught in the pit or even on its fringes, I would have no defense, and it isn't as if Till or Richard or Olli would wade out to save me. Odds are, they wouldn't even see the problem. Security would eventually get there, but not before damage, probably extensive, was done.
So I can't go, and I hate it. I hate me. I hate that so much of what I want must be sacrificed to this idiot disability. I haven't wanted anything so much in a long damn time, and I can't have it. Not because I didn't save or plan or try hard enough, but because I'm me, and I'm weak and physically fragile despite my stubbornness. Just once, just fucking once, I wish it were easy. I wish I could just hop a car or a plane and go somewhere without having to obsess over every detail, including whether or not there was a place for me to take a shit.
If this show were in Atlanta, I would risk it because it would be a mere ninety minutes from home and support if something went badly wrong, but it's not, and thanks to Pilgrim' bad planning, it won't be this go around, and maybe never.
I can't go because I'm broken. It's not Rammstein's fault, and it's not Pilgrim's, but neither of those facts makes it hurt any less or changes the hard fact that right now, I wish I were anyone else.
I'm going to get that cake now.
Tags: