I sat on the deck listening to the robins chirp and other birds.  I don’t know much about birds like Mom did.  The grass is turning green. Bushes are beginning to bud.  Spring is in the air.  People are walking and talking on the sidewalk, but there is a still silence.  Death looms over us.  It is like playing musical chairs.  Who will be the first to lose their seat?  The fear is the unknown that haunts us.  Am I next to go?  We are asking ourselves that.  I have been telling people I love them, saying thank you like I’m dying.  I’m not leaving any stone untouched. So, thank you and I love you.  It’s time for us to write. I’m writing but you can’t do that all day. You want to be like Rip Van Wrinkle waking up from this awful nightmare and write about it.  There is no magic pill like Trump claims.  Only time will make that decision.  Life as we know it will never be the same.  That’s what people don’t realize.  Whatever happens, these recent years in my life were the best. Yes, I will keep writing.

Too much Quarantime

March 30, 2020

Life has changed. I keep writing to try to escape the awful fact I could be here for the next six months or a year.  Two manuscripts are written.  Another manuscript is coming along.  It should be ready by June.  I wrote an article for Madison Magazine.  I sleep and write.  One of my care attendants said, “It is unfair for me to have a full course supper while my bipolar roommate eats a TV dinner.” I have one meal a day and I work.  My roommate has breakfast and lunch.  I have money to do what I want or need.  My roommate doesn’t.  That’s not my fault.  I have beer here and I can have it but my attendants won’t give it to me, saying, “I will throw up.” So, a case of Miller sits unopened in my room along with a bottle of wine.  I’m allowed to go outside, but the staff said, “If you go out, I’m quitting.” I want to drive the electric wheelchair around the block and in the neighborhood park.  The CDC said, “Taking walks are okay.” What do I know?  I needed vegetables, but my manager said, “I’m not going to the store because I’m not getting sick.” I tried to order food online, but I need a debit or a credit card to have food delivered.  My debit card is at the agency’s office for safekeeping.  I have cash here.  My favorite attendant went to the grocery store for me today.  My payee is sending me sixty dollars a week to have money, coming in.  I’m making decisions.  When the virus ends, I will never be home.  Bus and cab tickets sit on my desk, waiting to be used.  The question is when will I go out again.

Fed up

March 23, 2020

Words can’t describe what I’m feeling.  My new life is gone.  No theater, no bar, no sports, no friends, and in social life.  He was warned about the virus last July by scientists.  And what did he do?  He fired them.  Now he has a big mess and he says, “Sorry, Mommy.  Okay?  Can I go out and play again?” Trump is so stupid. America will not be great.  It will be dead.  But everything is okay Trump believes, while scientists are saying no right in front of him.  It will be interesting how people will feel after they are isolated  a week.  Then when people die in masses on American soil.  The outcry will be enormous.  Seven months Trump.  Then you can write your American novel, “I’m Great.” Everyone will be dead.  Then it will be all yours!

We need to come together

March 23, 2020

“Why are the stores closed, Ann,” asked my autism roommate to one of our attendants?  Ann says, “I don’t know.” My autism roommate still goes to work for now, but his activities are gone like basketball.  He will lose his job soon.  And then what?  My bipolar roommate is still the same. Nothing changes for her.  She doesn’t know what day is it or what time is it.  Plenty soon we will be all like that. The simple lives of the disabled will change.  What little they have will be taken away.  How do you explain this to them?  People are just starting to hurt now.  Imagine four months from now and nothing has changed.  I will continue to write.  That’s all I have.  The world needs to change and come together.  God is warning us.  Will we listen?


March 2, 2020

I went to an art exhibition of my nonverbal friend on Friday.  She painted the victims of the Sandyhook tragedy.  Each picture has nine cubes, making up the portrait.  There are thirty-six portraits and each picture is unique with different hues.  She paints with her head.  She had other paintings on sale at the exhibition.  There must have been sixty paintings.  Every one distinctly different and beautiful.  She wore a dress, looking like a professional.  My care agency office people and old care attendants attended the gala.  Of course, the general public didn’t know about it or stayed away.    The local news media ignores people like us, but I’m sure she didn’t do any publicity.  She emailed me on Thursday, asking me to come and write a bio for my picture.  She loves the attention from others.  Rightly so, but I would have done publicly for the event.  That’s the author in me.  I have bigger dreams than having the agency coo over me.  According to some of them I’m just an asshole.  Oh well, I just finished a manuscript for my agent.  New York is near.  Another manuscript is being edited and a screenplay is written.  It’s March!  Conference time.  When I become a New York author I’m not living with a nut.  My own place with a girlfriend beside me.  Dreams do come true if you work your ass off.

I will get paid this week by my care agency for writing a newsletter for the agency’s consumers.  I’m being paid $100 a month to write feel-good stories about the agency, but the secretary called my case manager, saying, “We can’t pay Steve because he has too much money in his FA account.”  Then I emailed my fiscal assistance broker, asking him if he could spend some money, allowing me to be paid.  He replied, saying, “That he spent $200 buying cab tickets that morning.” I forwarded the message to the secretary, asking, “Please pay me.”  “Will do.  Thank you.”  The government wants people with disabilities to work, but for peanuts.  The President wants to cut Medicaid and Social security.  He wants people to work.  Then allow people like me to earn an income and supplement our needs.  That’s how you can make America great.

Late Birthday Post

February 17, 2020

This is Bob. I post Steve’s blog for him and I was out of town on January 12th and missed his email, so I’m posting it a month+ late. Mea culpa,  and Happy (belated) Birthday, Steve.

It’s my birthday today.  I’m fifty-two.  That’s old!  I attended a funeral of a disabled acquaintance on Friday.  He had polio.  I didn’t know him that well.  He attended the university in the ‘60s.  That’s remarkable since the disabled didn’t go to college back then.  His friends in college carried him upstairs.  He fought for disabled rights like me.  Tammy Baldwin came to say goodbye.  Imagine that!  He made a difference.  I will always remember his dry wit and his love of beer.  He said, “Miller is crap.” I’m sorry, Sue.  I drink.  He had a girlfriend.  I felt sorry for her.  It was really hard on her.  A girlfriend is a dream of mine.  Someone to hold, hug, and talk to.  I will always have the sisters but it’s not the same.  I’m scared of dying alone.  The years are flying by.  It makes me wonder how much time I have left.  I’m always doing something or going somewhere like the movies.  Life with Mom was so isolating.  I feel that I have to live now before it’s too late.  Well, I’m eating at Red Lobster for lunch.  Then I will go to the bar to have cake with the guys.  We will watch the Packers game and have cherry bombs.  My favorite drink to celebrate.  Hopefully the Packers win.  Being with the guys is the best.  Who needs women?  Someday I will find her, but I don’t I have a lot of female friends.  When my day comes, John will finally admit that I’m an author.  That’s what it says on my tombstone.  An author always has the last word.  I came up with that at the funeral.  In my mind, I like to imagine my funeral and write about it.  Don’t be sad or mad.  I love you of all.  It’s my imagination again.  Ha, ha.


February 17, 2020

Being a man with six female care attendants taking care of me is interesting.  I have noticed how women quibble among themselves over silly stuff like the laundry or cleaning.  They all believe that they are right while saying the other female attendant is wrong.  It’s like World War III between them.  Of course, I stay out of it.  I’m not stupid. Having six women angry at me, no thanks.  Growing up in a female house with my mother and sister I know when to be quiet.  It puzzles me why women can’t get along.  Men don’t bicker.  We just say “Fuck you” and walk away.  It’s easy to be a male.  We don’t worry about our hair or have periods.  Thank God for that.  And I still want a girlfriend.  My attendants agree that I need a woman.  That could be trouble.  One thing is for sure, I will keep my mouth shut.

Scratches and dents.

February 17, 2020

“You’re awesome, Steve,” said my agent in an email replying to a fourth draft of the newest manuscript.  “I really enjoyed your play on New Year’s Eve,” said a patron at the Bartell Theater last night.  I received an email tonight, saying, “I heard you on the radio and bought your book.”  These compliments are needed and appreciated.  Sometimes I feel I’m a behavior consumer, living with my roommate who is bipolar.  The constant verbal abuse by her towards me has taken a toll mentally.  “Why am I here?” I often wonder.  This week I finished a screenplay, did final edits on my manuscript, and wrote a newsletter for my care agency.  And yet I feel trapped by her.  My agency refuses to move her.  Their reason is that I don’t get along with anyone.  They love all of the publicity and when I become a New York author they will eat it up.  And yet I will have to live with her.  Something is wrong with that picture.  An attendant called me “selfish” after I scratched her car with the electric wheelchair.  Two attendants’ cars were parked in the driveway and the bus was waiting.  So, I plowed through without a coat on.  I go out to escape for a few hours.  Going anywhere to relax and think.  The same attendant said, “Steve, stay home sometimes.” Life is short.  I think about ending my life, which is stupid.  Group homes should have the same type of consumers living together.  I had to write about what people like about that agency.  It’s my wish that my agency will establish a group home for talented severely physically disabled to live in happiness and peace.  That’s my dream for this ever-growing agency.


February 3, 2020

If the president wins the election, he will cut Medicare and Social Security.  Our economy is booming.  And we’re going to ask the disabled and the elderly to sacrifice for the rich few.  It is always like that.  A good example is when Governor Walker decided to make long-term health care a business not run by the counties.  People with disabilities became numbers.  Institutions are being replaced by group homes.  It’s a great idea, integrating the disabled into the community, but care agencies are putting anyone into these houses.  An author shouldn’t have to live with a mentally incompetent person, who believes that they are “married” and believes that they have AIDS.  I receive $1,800 a month from Social Security, but I only see $300 for spending money.  Six hundred is kept by a fiscal assistance agency that pays my rent and bills.  Is this fair?  I was receiving $200 a month for spending money, but I asked for $300 a month from my fiscal assistance agent.  He upped it.  Most people with disabilities don’t have the ability to communicate and go without basic necessities like toothpaste.  And we’re going to ask these people to give up more?  For what?  Trump wants to make America great again.  It’s unamerican.  If I ever see Trump, I’m running him over.