Lancaster was where I lived, and Lancaster was where my people were.

Travis and Sam were perhaps my closest friends when I left. Many nights I'd come back from the train station, grab my bike, and meet them at the Lancaster Dispensing Co. around eight. Taco Tuesday was the best night. We'd grab our usual spot near the door, at a table big enough to welcome newcomers, and Travis would already be telling some story about an album he'd found at a yard sale or Sam would be sketching in her book.

One particular Tuesday — must've been spring because none of us needed jackets — Sam showed up with an idea. She had remembered an old covered bridge somewhere, one of those slippery wooden ones from the 1800s, and she wanted to see it at night.

We shrugged, down for any bike ride.

A beer or two later, we were on our bikes. I had a flask of cheap whiskey that we passed back and forth as we cruised through neighborhoods that got progressively darker and quieter. We sang badly (well, Sam was always the real singer). We made up stories about the people living in the houses we passed. The whiskey made everything funnier than it was.

The bridge was exactly as advertised: old, wooden, covered, mossy. We sat on the entrance with our legs hanging over the creek below, listening to frogs and throwing rocks. Nobody said much. We just existed there for an hour, maybe more.

On the way back, all hell broke loose when I ran over a tree branch. Somehow it slipped between my wheel spokes and I went over the handlebars — I can still remember that feeling of helpless launching.

I could barely believe I was fine. But the bike was beyond repair with our pocket tools, so I had to carry it the remaining two miles home. That night, it felt like a trophy.

Another night, we stopped at the Salvation Army dumpster — not because we needed anything, but because we were dumpster divers and that's what we did. We found a worn winter coat, some picture frames, and a toy xylophone missing two bars — Travis said he needed for reasons we'd figure out later.

We ended up back at my place on Queen St. around 2 AM. The big house I shared with four other people was dark and quiet. We dragged everything up to my room — the only space I'd ever really had to myself in my adult life.

My room was small but mine. I'd hung Kate's sketches on one wall — these weird abstract pen drawings with a non-sequitor phrase or poem that still travel with me. A few posters from local shows filled out the empty space. My bookshelf was a mess: Robert Anton Wilson leaning against Hakim Bey leaning against old anarchist texts someone had given me, comic books by Grant Morrison stuffed in wherever they'd fit, a beat-up copy of the Lost Horizon that had coffee stains on half the pages. Yes, I was that guy.

We sat on the floor. Travis fiddled with the broken xylophone. I found my one good bottle of bourbon and poured three shots into mugs because I didn't own shot glasses. We talked about nothing important — good songs, childhood stories… whether the soup we'd made for Food Not Bombs that week had been too salty. I'd made so many gallons of emergency soup in the past few years, I'd completely lost my idea of salty.

I imagine. Of course I'm pretending these are the exact conversations we had 25 years ago.

Around 4 AM, Travis fell asleep along my floor. Sam and I kept talking in whispers about where we thought we'd be in five years. She wanted to work on community there — she talked about a community garden, about the way she wanted to build something real here for everyone. I felt like this sounded amazing… but I still wanted to keep traveling.

"Why?" she asked. "This is pretty good."

And it was. The house on Queen St. had a huge backyard where we threw parties with live music and the neighbors would actually show up instead of calling the cops. I had my job, my friends, my room with my books.

I loved my life there.

But Lancaster was not and had never been my home. My parents had moved there after I'd already left for Spokane. When I came back during a rough patch in my early twenties, I lived with them for a while, then moved into the Queen St. house. I'd been there four years now. I had protested with these people. Made massive pots of soup and potluck dinners. Played music at living room shows. Done all the things that were supposed to make a place feel like home.

But every time I walked through Lancaster, I felt like I was borrowing someone else's story. Like I was visiting a life that looked right but didn't quite fit. I couldn't explain it to Sam that night, so I just said something vague about wanting to see mountains or deserts or something new.

I think my friends thought I'd leave for a few months, and return later. Like everyone was doing. But I wanted something that would break me open a little. Hard work and fresh desert air — something harder than web applications and beer at the Dispensing Co.

A few months before I left, my ex and I had visited a wolf sanctuary somewhere in rural Pennsylvania. I don't remember the name — one of a million plots of land in that area with rolling hills and decent roads.

We'd gone on a cold Saturday morning. They gave us a tour, showed us wolves that looked more like myths than animals, told us stories about rescues and rehabilitation. At the end, we volunteered to help — cleaning enclosures, building fences, whatever they needed. They took our contact information and said they'd call.

They never did.

But something had stuck. The way those wolves moved as a pack, the intense stares and body language. I'd always been scared of dogs and wolves, never really trusting any large animal with teeth and muscles like that. But it felt like what I wanted to do: to face a fear of mine in a whole new environment.

When my ex and I split a few weeks later (she wanted New York City, while I wanted the desert), I started looking for sanctuaries that needed help. I found one in Candy Kitchen, New Mexico. Middle of nowhere. Room and board included. The pay was twenty-five dollars a week.

I applied. They said yes. I gave my notice at work.

Then I started selling everything I owned. The furniture went on Craigslist. The books went to anyone who'd take them. My bicycle went to Travis. Skateboard went to Nate. Most of my clothes went to Goodwill. I kept what fit in a backpack: three shirts, two pants, socks, underwear, a jacket, my notebooks, and the banjo I'd barely learned to play. No computer or phone.

I quit my job intending to save money for the move. Instead, I spent the last two weeks going out every night — dancing at clubs with my friends, buying rounds I couldn't afford, staying out until 3 AM like I was trying to squeeze every last drop out of a life I was about to leave behind.

The final week came and I checked my bank account: $195.

I couldn't fly — flights to New Mexico were $400 minimum. Trains didn't go to Candy Kitchen. And I'd already donated my old car to charity. That was about 48 hours of panic, wondering what I would do.

But this was 2008, and Craigslist still worked for weird things like this. I miraculously found a rideshare post: two sisters driving from New Jersey to Los Angeles, looking for an extra person to split gas. They wanted to camp most nights to save money. It would take four days.

I messaged them. They said yes. I paid them $75 up front.

They were talkative and kind. Mary was the one moving west, and her sister was along for the ride. The first night we camped outside in… Illinois? Indiana? We grilled hot dogs and chatted by the campfire until the mosquitos were impossible. They had a tent, but I slept on the ground like I was already learning to do. I pulled a jacket over my head to keep the mosquitos off.

We made it to Missouri the first night, stopping at my childhood friend Jake's place outside St. Louis. Jake had been one of those kids who introduced me to cartoons and video games and everything my parents didn't like — it was fun getting to see him as an adult. The sisters wanted to stay in, and they talked all night with Jake's mom while Jake and I went to a local brewery.

The third night, somewhere in Oklahoma, we decided to get a hotel to clean up and relax with a pizza and movie. The hotel clerk eyed us suspiciously, took cash only, and gave us a room that smelled like, as my friend would put it, "sin and drugs". We had a few beers and chatted about what our next lives would be like.

Back in the car, I stared out the window at landscapes that got progressively more desert and more beautiful as we reached Albuqureque the next morning. The Sandia Mountains were impossibly huge and I saw plants and cacti that I've never seen before.

We had one last breakfast together on Gold St, each of eating a delicious breakfast burrito with green chili, done New Mexican Style.

I thanked the sisters, grabbed my backpack, shouldered my banjo case, and stood in the parking lot as they drove away toward California.

I counted my money. $120 for my new life.

All the wolves there were rescued wolves or wolf dog hybrids (and the odd fox or dingo) because people continue to buy them or breed them in places where they are illegal. Some came from rich owners. Some were to be put down but we interceded. We took care of them, educated school kids about wolves, and fed them barrels of meat. (The wolves, not the kids.)

The volunteers lived simply, without running water, in fire-heated cabins or hogans. We had a $25/week stipend, along with whatever we could make in construction on the side for neighbors. I think I made only $3,000 each year, but it was fun and toughened all of us up.

One particularly aggressive resident was named Luna - mostly arctic wolf, a bit dog. Enough wolf to be aggressive and enough dog to not be scared of humans. This tended to be a dangerous mix. None of the volunteers were allowed to go inside and pet her - we had to coax her into a secondary cage while we performed cleanup and repairs.

Now, on this day, Luna was all set to move into a bigger enclosure. It wasn't far away, so we built a simple pathway fence to guide her the right way. We had posts driven into the ground, but the fencing was temporary.

So temporary that the wolf left her enclosure, smashed through the fence, pinning some volunteers to the ground, and bolted down a pathway. All without us saying a word. Maybe there was a scream. Luna quickly ran deeper into the property, a maze of fences, and our boss Leyton started yelling out orders. We were all young and some were used to emergencies, and we responded quickly. I was sent to grab a little Geo 4x4, a capture tool, and cut off the exit on the opposite side of the wolf sanctuary, and I ran the whole way to the car and peeled out.

---

Now I should pause, because there's a certain way to catch a wolf that we had already been trained on (though hadn't actually done). This involves at least four people to be safe, because those fellas are big and strong and lightning fast.

You need a large, strong dog cage, a net on a pole, and two y-shaped poles, one a little wider than the other. This sounds scary, but it's the safest way to catch a large, scared animal, at least without jeeps and net shooters a la Jurassic Park.

One person waits sitting on top of the dog cage, holding the door open. One person places the smaller Y pole on the wolf's neck, and one (me in this case) places the larger Y pole over the lower back. Neither pin the animal - but it instinctively submits and calms down. The last person nets the head, to protect everyone from thesnapping teeth. We then guide her into the cage and give her a sedative.

At least, that was the method I was taught back in 2008. Since then, I know there have been a lot more studies of wolf behavior, so perhaps it's different now.

---

Back to me racing to the car. That horrible car, a 1990s Geo 4x4, neon retro blue, with a torn off roof and way too easy to tip if you weren't careful. I don't remember if it even had doors.

As I peeled out, still less than a minute since she escaped, I realized things weren't stable. But I gunned it, pedal to the metal, determined to get to the other side before Luna did.

But...

Hitting the 90 degree turn...

The left wheels left the ground entirely as I kept turning to the right. I threw my weight instinctively to the left to balance...

Then SLAM I had overcorrected and was now driving straight forward on the left two wheels, and I leaned to the right more gently this time, and SLAM I was back on four wheels.

Leyton was now on the radio with Luna's exact location. I was right in front of her only exit, so I spun the car to a stop and started running with my Y tool. Now the four of us volunteers had her covered. Mary held the dog crate. Alison had the net, I think. Angel had the small Y tool and stood in front, with me in the back. I think other people were there, but it's hard to remember.

We moved as one. Angel and I pinned her down, Alison had her head in the net, and we gently nudged her into the crate with soothing words and slow movements. Mary finally closed the gate and we collapsed with a massive sigh, trying to smile while gasping for breath and feeling our hearts slow.

I can only imagine they felt like that - I certainly did. This is one of the memories that is sealed in my mind exactly as I told it, but I have to assume everyone remembers it differently. It was 2008, after all, and we were young, pretty sure we could take on anything. Relief just came flooding in. You could almost hear the tense shoulders settling, just like the sand around us.

Luna, in the cage, turned around and around in fear. The other wolves in the property started to howl in series, somehow acknowledging that something had happened. We covered Luna's cage with a blanket to help her calm down with all the people around her.

Four others, including Leyton, carried her back to the new enclosure and gave her extra food to help her relax. He asked everyone to stay out of sight of the enclosure so she had the rest of the day to de-stress.

Everyone gathered in the main area. Most of us sat on the ground. Most of us had never done that before. I'd never driven a car like that before - I'm a grandma driver who preferred bikes and public transportation.

I felt a mixture of pride and incredulity myself. How many things could have gone horribly wrong just then, with something we'd never practiced or experienced? We laughed nervously and made more big, collective sighs. A few minutes later, we split up and got back to work.

I realize that isn't how probabilities work. I'm well-grounded in statistical mathematics and use large data sets every day as a programmer. It's more of a philosophy for accepting a bizarre world with all its twists and turns and pleasures.

This strange relationship with probability shaped how I moved through the world. If everything was equally possible, then difficulty wasn't something to avoid - it was just another path.

Now, it becomes easier to imagine instead the question: "Why not me?" This shift in perspective didn't happen quickly. I’ve been thinking about this for nearly three years in the hospital. When I looked back over my life, I started to feel a pattern. I've thrown myself into uncomfortable situations just to see if I make it out on top.

---

There are a few stories that stand out to me that illustrate these patterns.

I remember summers as a teenager in New Hampshire, standing in our overgrown yard with a rusted scythe all by myself to cut the grass. My parents were into traditional work and wouldn’t get me a lawn mower. My arms would be on fire after ten minutes, my back ached, and I had barely made a dent in the grass.

I wanted to quit, to argue (I definitely argued). There had to be an easier way in the 1990s. But a mixture of obedience and pride kept me swinging that blade, hour after hour, day after day, until the yard was cleaned and I had to start at the beginning again the next day, where it had already grown back. At the time, it felt like punishment. Now I recognize it as one of the first lessons in pushing through when everything in your body says stop.

The day I was excommunicated is another memory I’ll never forget. I had reached my breaking point in following petty right-wing rules that made no logical or useful sense to me, and though it was my whole world, the elders of the church sat and signed a letter “handing me directly over to Satan.” I was not even allowed to try to attend another church or they would track me down and make sure the pastor knew how much “trouble” I was.

For months, then, I felt isolated, stepping into the dark, having to rebuild my moral compass without the Christian church. Family members wouldn’t talk to me. Men from the church would search for me on the streets, trying to find me and save me. I wrote for Christian magazines but had to stop because I no longer believed what I was writing.

Somehow I didn’t break. Instead, I learned to build new kinds of strength. I had to define my own ethical system and I chose kindness and empathy at its center - not that I didn’t make a boatload of mistakes along the way. It helped that, in general, diverse communities are kinder than semi-cultish rural Idaho versions of Christianity.

And animals became my teachers in ways I didn't expect. When you're caring for creatures who can't tell you what's wrong, you learn to read other signals. You notice how breathing signals distress, the way pain changes posture, how illness shows itself in a thousand small signs before it becomes obvious.

I spent hours watching abused animals, held a wolf in my arms as she died, learning to see how one favored her left front leg, how she held her head differently when the pain flared. Giving cats their injections. Arguing with a fox who kept stealing my cigarettes. Each animal taught me that bodies communicate constantly - you just have to know how to listen.

But the thing was, those animals were always there, always living, patient. I saw how to sit quietly with discomfort, how to offer comfort without expecting gratitude, how to respect the dignity of a creature who was having trouble but still fighting.

I've mentioned this before in my story about Hurricane Katrina (the day the house exploded). l learned first aid, CPR, and disaster relief, and kept my certifications renewed. The experience helped me to understand trauma, triage, and how to function when everything falls apart. Skills I thought were about helping others but turned out to be preparation for helping myself.

---

Writing and talking with Julie about these stories led to my major insight: I am reframing my own story, and now see all my stories as training for what I'm going through right now with my own pain and disability. I think about it when I struggle to wake up each morning and when I spend hours a day on physical therapy and building strength.

All these experiences in the margins of society taught me something that should have been more obvious: the world will often tell you that you don't belong, that you're somehow less than “normal”. Whether it's because of your beliefs or your body, society has ways of making you feel like an outsider. But I had already been an outsider for so long, I had learned resilience and kindness.

Now, those lessons come back. When people see my disability first and me second, I remember those animals who were so much more than their pain or limits. I see everything that built a solid stubborn streak in me.

"Why not me?" has effectively become the statement "Of course I had to be disabled - it was the logical next step in my life story." As if the storyteller in me wouldn't have it any other way.

As I continue, as I enter into advocacy for others with disabilities, as it seeps into every part of my life, that thought keeps me strong. I was meant for this.

Or whatever, because there was always a 50/50 chance.

It veered into reality sometimes, and I would try to communicate. This, I just found, is from my notes at the time. I was trying to tell a story that happened to me and Julie.

Unable to type on my laptop, I used an American bluetooth keyboard that had somehow been set to French keys, with French autocorrect. Imagine the Zs are Ws, the Qs are As, and the commas are Ms, and you can almost begin to make out some words...

This is exactly as I typed it back then.

In this dream, it started serenely. My dad qnx sister and I entered to see a movi: it re,inf desminging ,e of q une railway sttqtion:



In this case; the expensive zhiskey spilled; leafing the cheap stufff; as I zouke up: it see,ed like q hugely floor festival; then ,ore riot like: qt this point it zesty just ,e and Juliemsister navigating DC: I thought that N, ,IGHT BE SQFE:



So ze ended up up by an old cabin; playing zèbre sex go,es: still didnt^knoz there sas q sur: the folks left in the ,owning: I SEQRRCHED THE CITY FOR SUPPMIES BU THN PLQYED GQ,ES QT THE BQR

Goin g



Ho,e I ,et q child Zhou could touch burning things and zqnted to: he zags scared: I realised there as q civil Zara and took hi, ho,e to he cabin: Julie zqs asleep; it zqs full. Of kids cooking and eating twigs; but feeding the rodents: there aère questions fro, n’exfolia door and q fat old couple zith zith huge guns and q stronghold: he he asked ,e zho I zqs; if if I zqs q de,n liberal: I used the right n’a,es of the old folks I knew in reamah: ,ost aère dead:

He finally said to bring the kids over and to bring the, and gin:



To ,y regret; I only had cheap zhikdey: the lady of the house took Julie qeqy; and I looked qt the kids; d’être,Inde to protect the, no ,tater zhqt it costs



So,e ,recentriez; showed up then; cased the place; zqnted to buy it: he said he should talk zith , I just looked qt the kids and shrugged; knowing q lot zqsn^t up to ,e and I had to cal,l’y use ,y zits q,d old friends des to live there:

Now, if only I can interpret this... and I almost can... I will have a great story for you.

First, I found a wheelchair in Zurich. Julie and I zipped up there for the weekend, grabbed an Ottobock adjustable lightweight chair, quite a nice deal for a good brand in fact. It was smaller than my hospital chair, but still not road-ready. For that, I needed a lower back, better footrests, an axle to counter the wobbly folding assembly (because physics), the right center of gravity, and perhaps new wheels. Extra money donated will go towards parts and accessibility in our house.

I think it has potential. I’ve picked up some tools and accessories along the way, and with my bike-building experience, I just need to find the parts and put it together.

Here’s a quick video of the chair and what I want to do with it:

The Day I Bought a Wheelchair

More videos and tips to come!

Resources I found

Remembering New Mexico

My last band in the US was a five-piece group called Canteen. We formed almost instantly. A friend called one day asking if I had music for a local public radio fundraiser. The band didn't exist yet, but I said 'sure' anyway. I threw the group together that day with people I had played with before.

The idea was simple: we all write our own lyrics about ghosts or aliens in the southwest. Each of us wrote a song. We had them all practiced for the radio show three weeks later. This is the song I wrote, 'Visitors of 97', about alien abduction on a Texas farm, performed solo. No videos of our old band exist to my knowledge, but we had great fun playing at local bars.

Visitors of 97 - Solo Performance

---

Remembering The Second Time I Lost Music

I was living in Paris, and I contracted some mysterious skin condition that left my hands cracked and bleeding any time I tried to play an instrument. During this, I spent time with our friends Betsy and Nico in Switzerland, and I remember crying as I bled trying to play the piano. But Nico picked up the slack with his guitar, and I made up a silly song about pumpkin pies and we ran with it one night. This video is the result of that night, hands bandaged but still singing, out in the cow-riddled fields of Fribourg.

Pumpkin Pie Song in Swiss Fields

---

Remembering Pennsylvania

My dear friend Eli in Lancaster, PA, introduced me to Hazel Dickens and her song Coal Town Road almost 20 years ago. I adored this song, and we often sang it together back in the day - she was the one who taught me banjo before I left for New Mexico with only 120 dollars in my pocket. She gave me real confidence to play in public and sing old songs from the Carter Family or other mountain traditions. Songs I had known my whole life, but never dared to sing in front of people. Years later, in Les Ardennes in France, my wife Julie filmed this music video, all a cappella. I put my suit through more indignities than it deserved. I hope you enjoy!

Coal Town Road - A Cappella Performance{" "}

The scene is New Orleans, 2005. Yep, after Katrina hit. I was 22, and itching for excitement… so when the call went out for volunteers throughout the US, I signed up with the Red Cross. There was a week's worth of first responder training, and then I flew to Louisiana with almost nothing but a change of clothes. I arrived just as hurricane Rita hit, and I spent the first night in a flooded country bar singing George Jones by candlelight with locals and volunteers.

I was supposed to be there for three weeks and then ship home. But I found the right group of people and took a job as a courier and then a warehouse manager, lasting for five months afterward, when most people had long gone home.

The stories - and trauma and friendship and lessons I learned from old soldiers, punks, locals, religious leaders, and career disaster responders - would take forever for me to tell.

We worked 16-hour days and had one day off a month, during which we often volunteered with another team like the mobile kitchens. I'd wake up from sleeping in the van on the side of the road to someone offering me a flask of vodka, saying "time to go again!" It was a horror show, and much of my resilience and views on life came out of those five months.

I'm getting to the house, and the dog, and how this memory sticks. Bear with me.

A bunch of us - couriers and hazmat units and a few telephone operators - had formed a small family group together. I forget how exactly it started, but we all looked out for each other and partied and cried together.

When we heard Nine Inch Nails was doing a concert in New Orleans, and they were giving free tickets to aid workers, we jumped at the chance for a day off together. Six of us piled into a van, and all but the driver got huge margaritas from a drive-thru bar.

We chatted and sang along to the Black Eyed Peas as we left Baton Rouge, taking a suburban route instead of the highway to avoid traffic. It felt good to be going to a show for the first time in months, and the lineup was great.

And then, on our left, the house just exploded.

The bang was deafening, and we pulled over, immediately sober. A woman ran screaming out of the house and all of us ran up, one calling 911. A few of the bigger guys ran into the newly burning house and grabbed the woman's dog and handed it to me. It was a big golden retriever type, a beautiful but terrified dog, so I held him close and tried to talk soft, calming words into his ear.

The others kept trying to save some of the woman's stuff. She was alone, but her boyfriend had oxygen acetylene tanks for welding in the back - he was at the bar but must have left a lit cigarette.

The next explosion hit, bigger than the rest. I tasted hot gravel in my mouth as we all hit the ground, my arm around the dog to keep him safe.

No one was going into the house now. I went across the street into the shade with the dog, whose name I never asked. We waited for the fire department to arrive and some of our crew were handing out bottled water.

I feel almost re-traumatized telling this. In my memory, it was exciting, but when I actually put these words to paper, all the feelings and smells come back hard.

The lack of sleep. The barely held-together mental state I was in through all this. The dog shivering next to me. The feeling I was in way over my head. The chemical smell of the house. Burnt plastic. Black smoke. Distant sirens.

I forget what I told the dog. Maybe words meant for myself instead. My ears were ringing but I kept talking slowly.
Then someone took the dog to a safe place, and each of us had to recount our story to the police. They sent us on our way.

My memory goes dark then. I can't really remember the conversation after the explosions or the feeling in the van as we went on towards the show. I think I was starting to crack as I held onto that scared dog.

The Red Cross had regular psych evaluations and mandatory therapy for all of us. The thing was, anyone who failed or looked like they were in trouble were sent immediately home. I realize now that it was actually a good idea, but at the time, it meant failure.

So we helped each other with tricks to pass the psych evaluations, relying on each other and alcohol to deal with trauma. I didn't even realize that's what I was doing. Three packs of cigarettes a day and handles of vodka for the hotel rooms. It's easy to see why I thought a "real hero" just kept quiet and drank so he could keep going. That was what TV had told me, anyway, and it seemed true.

That almost took twenty years to put behind me and realize the value of therapy. Even to realize that drinking was a trauma response.

But that night, I was too young to know better. I enjoyed the music and danced with my friends. I tried to tell the story to a group of locals my age and they didn't believe me. Some of my crew had been talking to a reporter and suddenly there was a microphone in my face. I forget what I said.

I must have slept all the way home. We read about it in the newspaper the next day. I remember thinking: "I thought heroes would be more positive than I am." And not for the last time I considered I wasn't a hero or strong, just some dude in that time and place that had to do something, even if it was to comfort that dog.

Years later, I remember that dog and holding onto each other and just getting by in a crazed world. Looking back, I have to admit; I was comforted by the dog myself, then and now.

It's a nice instrument - a tenor carbon fibre ukulele with a bold sound. It's nice for my blend of folk punk and protest songs, and the carbon fibre means it doesn't warp or change shape when I travel in the humidity.

And that's what I'm doing. Traveling. For the first time since the hospital, in years. It gives me the same hope the music does. I had some paperwork in Reims, France, and then we headed to the north to stay at an old family farmhouse. The food was excellent and we ended each night by dancing with friends and family.

I've always carried an instrument when I travel - a mandolin, harmonicas, a banjo, an accordion… it combines my favorite things, especially with Julie by my side. And this time was no exception.

France always makes me feel alive and at home. After I wrote about Switzerland, the people on the French train were a breath of fresh air. Everywhere I went, people were happy to get out of their seats and help me. Even taking a bus through Paris was surprisingly pleasant - I wasn't the only wheelchair user and everyone was kind to both of us.

I wondered what this was about to Julie's uncle. He said that perhaps the Swiss think it's more polite to not notice, while the French have a stronger sense of community and care.

And Paris, which I haven't seen in more than a year… The diversity in Paris is like nothing else. Foreign languages everywhere, all social classes represented. The air was filled with food and music and conversations. I always feel a swelling in my heart when I get back to Paris.

But back to the music. After a meal and good wine, everyone wanted to dance. I went through a lot of the old songs I used to play…. Carter Family songs, Bella Ciao, Railroad Earth, and a few originals. I added some new songs I've been working on, bringing old Johnny Preston into my repertoire. As each song ended, one kid kept saying "encore une!"

We laughed and sang and danced till midnight, and I went to bed feeling alive and happy. No disability was going to beat this out of me.

There is sunshine in our shadows,
There is sunshine when it rains.
There is sunshine in our sorrows,
And our hearts are filled with pain…

The woman ignored her and pushed in front of us. As soon as she entered the train, instead of stepping aside to let me pass, where there was room for ten people, a few large dogs, and a keg (for example), she stood to block the doorway.

Not expecting this, I was in the middle of negotiating the ramp before I saw how close she was. I had to brake hard before I hit her. She avoided eye contact, and I was left with steaming frustration until she deigned to move.

It seems strange, based on what the world knows about the Swiss, how rude they can be when it comes to the disabled. Let me take that back a bit. I have many good and generous Swiss friends, but a continuous daily experience with nameless people on public transportation makes me distrust the larger culture.

I’ve been pushed. People won’t leave the handicapped area. People will slide into the bathroom door while I’m on crutches, in the doorway, halfway in (that one didn’t work out for her, but she was furious at me for blocking her). Most people who help are French or tourists.

Now, I’m generally a nice person. But I still have a sarcastic streak that’s been toughened by all my time in South Philly. My immediate response would usually be a finger or two and a colorful comment on their recent ancestors.

But I’m trying to be nice. This is Switzerland, not Passyunk Ave. So I asked Julie: How do you say “Move it, \ssh\le!” in French?

She said “Maybe: bouchez plus vite, Madame!”

But she was being rude to me! I need a “mec” or a “ma grosse” or a “tête du con” in there!

“No,” she replied. “She would just say: why do you insult me when I didn’t insult you?”

But she kind of did insult me.

“Yeah, but still it will sting more if you use madame. You need to use their level.”

I mulled that over. I could tell she felt the same and was trying to help me figure out a good response.

“Ok,” she said. “Say: j’ai la priorité, madame!”

I can’t say just be like “c’est QUOI ça?”

“No, that’s too aggressive. This is better. J’ai le priorité.”

OK. I can say that quickly… I’ll try next time.

Now I kept saying it under my breath. J’ai la priorité. I still wanted to add something sarcastic, but I suppose, in this culture, being politely reprimanded in public for bad behavior has a bigger impact.

Here’s the thing. When I arrived in Lausanne, a very kind man with a heavy Vaudois accent generously held the elevator door for me and an old couple, politely wishing us a good day as he walked away. It was touching after being cold shouldered by so many. We could tell he had some disabilities, and we talked about how the kindest people are often ones who have had to deal with those problems in their life.

When I see people walking around oblivious to those disabled around them, I can’t help but remember a quote I heard somewhere: there are no “normal people”, just people who are temporarily non-disabled.

So I went home, already thinking of my next plan: printing fake parking tickets for cars who use the handicap space or block the ramps.

It started in 2022 — I was 39. One morning, I stepped out of bed and collapsed from the pain. There wasn’t any warning, and I had no idea what to do.

For the meantime, I bought a cane and enjoyed that while I kept about my normal life. I loved to wear a suit, and I played music almost every week in Paris. The cane just fit with the outlaw country or blues I liked to sing.

I kept going to doctor after doctor to figure out what was wrong. Each one had a different answer. Most claimed I was fine and just needed to exercise more. I had a few x-rays, but apparently none showed what was happening.

The pain grew stronger, and finally an X-ray showed what was happening. The ball in my hip joint was falling apart, and it had a pyramid-like spike sticking into my tendons. I would need a new hip.

This was good news to me at first — a prosthetic hip seemed like a simple procedure and I’d be walking in no time. After all, I lived in France and had decent health care for the first time in my life.

But there was something worse coming.

One day in January 2023, I woke up looking jaundiced. I didn’t notice until my friends Rico and Isa commented on it when they came to accompany me to a doctor. The doctor took one look and said I had to go to the emergency room.

Rico and Isa raced me to l’Hôpital Saint-Antoine where I waited in the emergency room for some 8 hours. I watched overdoses come in, car accident victims, people in handcuffs. And after many hours, they gave me a bed for a night, in a room full of people. They all groaned through the night.

I curled up with my arms threaded through my backpack straps, the same way I used to sleep while living on the street. I barely slept.

The next day was the last day I remembered for a while. They checked me into the ICU with septic shock in nearly all my organs. Some unknown infection was eating away at me. I had to be put in a coma and then process all the medication through a damaged liver and kidneys. It almost hit my heart, and I learned later that I almost didn’t make it.

Some of this, I was later told, was from drinking too much. I knew I should have been cutting back for years, but this kind of affect never occurred to me. Most of my friends hadn’t gone through this, and they still partied!

But at the hospital, this was far from my mind. All I remember is that I was being treated in various facilities in the snow. Sometimes it was in China, sometimes Korea, sometimes a Scandinavian village. I had all kinds of adventures: one set in a village of witches, one with a series of murders, one on a moving surgery train. All hallucinations. I made attempts to escape to get back to Paris, friends of mine appearing to help me and then leaving…

It was so real that I can still feel each storyline and every face. Julie had to work with me over days to convince me I had never left Paris, showing me with maps on her phone. I sometimes answered a nurse in Mandarin, only to hear, “Français, s'il vous plaît!”

Six months later, my memory fried and my body atrophied, I had to work on walking again. I hadn’t received a prosthetic. They were too worried about the infection — it would be another year before that came.

I worked hard on my muscles and strengthening my heart through slow calisthenics. And I tried working again, as a long-distance teacher for a tech school in Rennes. The six-month absence had destroyed my savings, and salaries weren’t great for either of us in Paris.

We had to leave our apartment and head a little farther from the city on our budget. We ended up in St. Denis, known for being shadier, with more drugs and violence. Neither of us experienced or saw that, though. And I started drinking again, having trouble with the pain and the stress of moving.

Finally, I was tired and so was Julie. I volunteered to enter a rehab program to get myself healthy enough for more surgery. This took a few tries, but I quit smoking and drinking for the first time in my life. (That’s a whole other story.) After a few months, I was ready, and we found a surgeon at a different hospital. I was getting the prosthetic and going to be walking again.

That worked for a little while — I could walk up and down stairs, sometimes without a cane, I could hobble around town. I still needed a wheelchair if we were going anywhere far, because I was still recovering. My French was getting better and better from so much time spent in the hospital system.

But the next cycle started. We moved to Switzerland, and the prosthetic immediately became infected. It was taken out, cleaned, and then I would get another prosthetic. Then it would almost immediately dislocate. Sometimes this required surgery to get it back into place. Then another infection would start.

This cycle went on and on, and my first 8 months in Switzerland were spent more in the hospital than in our home. I rarely had two weeks without an emergency visit or new pain and infection.

All this led to today — a long, boring cycle of surgeries and relearning to walk each time. And now, they’re about to give up on the infection and I’ll be keeping the wheelchair. I have one more chance for a prosthetic, but I’m doubtful given all the failures. And even if it works, my mobility would be “significantly reduced”.

There won’t be any more running up the middle fork of the Gila River to spend long days at the hot springs. There won’t be more carrying a heavy bag into the desert to spend weeks looking for gold or fossils. I don’t even know if I’ll be able to dance again.

So I’ve been thinking of stories when I used to run, walk, or ride anywhere. I tried my first electric-powered chair, which is fun. But I catch myself staring when people jump up the stairs, two steps at a time.

If you made it this far, thank you for listening to my story. This is the first time I’ve tried to put it into words as a way of facing my new life situation. I’m not giving up on adventures — I still plan to travel, kayak, and play music as well as I can. At a slower speed. Sober. Paying a lot more attention to how people see someone who goes by in a wheelchair. Thinking a lot more about accessibility and my place in the world.

I spent my first forty years walking and running. For the next forty, I’ll be rolling towards all the same goals, and a few new ones at that. Allonz-y.

I still follow that principle: Trust your friend’s gut, and always trust your own gut when you sense a scam, even if speaking up feels awkward. Here’s a story that happened a number of years ago:

My ex (call her Zoe) and I were in Taipei, Taiwan, one of my favorite cities in the world. Both of us had taken Mandarin together in university, and I had spent time in China, so we wanted to explore somewhere new. She was as curious about new countries as I was.

That night, we visited the Huaxi Night Market with another couple from Germany. I can’t for the life of me remember their names. They were perhaps ten years older than us and, like most Germans, spoke perfect English. They had all the newest hiking gear, motivated to explore.

Let me tell you about this market for a moment. It’s renowned for things like turtle testicles, snake-blood wine, gangsters, and prostitution. As soon as I heard snakes, I wanted to go there. It wasn’t hard to convince the others to join me, although a friend warned us: keep your eyes open and your wallets close.

We had just entered when an old, toothless man came up to us. I missed the first interaction, because I was buying some lamb-on-a-stick. But I saw him tell Zoe she was hen piaoliang, meaning pretty. She thanked him and flashed a contagious smile. He walked on.

A minute later, he was back, handing us business cards with some young guy’s face on them. It was clear he had marked us for some kind of sale, but of course we couldn’t tell what. The cards weren’t in English.

He tried to pull us along, but we resisted. We started to get a bad feeling, and ignored him to buy some fish-on-a-stick. (There were lots of delicious things-on-sticks at this market.)

He started some sort of ritual of disappearing and reappearing again and again, wanting us to follow him.

We asked the vendor what the card said. He said something that none of us understood, and then tried again: cha jia. Tea house.

I should mention: Taiwan is one of the warmest, friendliest places I’ve ever come across. I felt safe there and love the people I met.

But, of course, any place in the world has people who are more interested in making money than being kind. I had read earlier about a classic Chinese scam with tea houses. Often, pretty girls target single American men or hippie travellers. You come to the house for an “authentic Chinese experience”. Then you end up with a massive bill that you have to pay - often coming to a hundred or more US dollars.

Apparently this dawned on the Germans at the same time. We all turned, and saw the man about to hand Zoe a cup of tea, produced from nowhere, and Zoe reaching for it… We yelled, “Don’t take it!” with too much force. She started, confused.

I immediately felt bad for shouting, even though I felt that urgency called for it. The man disappeared. We spoke to Zoe, who looked shocked by her friends yelling. She calmed down once we explained the reason. The Germans, who had also been to China, confirmed my stories about the scams.

I wondered if I had overreacted when the man appeared again, without the tea cups. He swatted my arm and pointed.

A small dog was strolling behind me on a leash. He yelled at the dog, which stood between us, as if it would attack me. He acted like he might hit the dog and turned to see my reaction. Of course, the dog freaked out at the man’s yelling and started barking. The owner pulled the dog away and hurried on.

This was another classic scam I had heard of - trying to protect the foreigners from “vicious beasts” in order to make us grateful. I just felt annoyed and sorry for the dog. The man disappeared again, for the last time.

This was all unsettling, but none of us were the kind to dwell on it. We sat down with beer and smoothies and oyster omelets and duck-heart-on-a-stick.

This was the way to relax after a bit of excitement; it was more fun to sit and trade stories. Good food and good company always wins in the end.

Or, in this case, a completely naked redhead standing by your window, studying the morning fog.

I was a few days into recovery from my first hip replacement in 2023, at a physical rehab facility north of Paris. The place had already shown its approach to patient care: avoiding it. Pain medication arrived like French transit strikes. They had told me there was privacy, but not if that meant you wanted keys to lock up your passport or computer, or even your door.

Back in my room, I blinked hard. He remained still and nude, as if this was a normal morning habit.

“Bonjour,” I offered. Seemed like a reasonable thing to say to an uninvited naked stranger in my bedroom.

He turned for a moment and regarded me with the blank expression of someone thinking about some other time or place. Then resumed his weather watch.

My new titanium hip prevented dramatic escapes, so I decided to try to get him to talk. I tried French, then English. I asked if he needed assistance or a nurse. His responses consisted of incomprehensible muttering that offered no insights.

I was praying for the nurse, hitting the alarm button uselessly time after time, when he marched over and grabbed my bag of oranges.

What followed was one of the more surreal food fights of my adult life. He began pelting me with citrus fruit. One orange. Then another. Each throw accompanied by that same blank stare, like he was conducting some experiment and I was the test subject.

“S’il vous plaît, monsieur — non!” I protested, catching oranges with both hands and stashing them around me.

Apparently, that wasn’t having the desired effect, since he grabbed the entire bag and dumped the remaining oranges over my head like confetti. I picked them up, watching him retreat to the doorway to observe the results.

He looked curious about what I would do next. Hell, I was curious about what I’d do next.

That’s when inspiration struck. I pulled out my phone and began typing notes. I hummed the mandolin solo to “Shady Grove” — that song was stuck in my head that day — as I documented the encounter. If I was going to be subjected to performance art, I might as well write about it. I even smiled and nodded encouragingly.

After a last stare, he shuffled away down the corridor. Still nude, still silent, still carrying himself with the dignity of someone who had completed an item on his to-do list.

Forty-five minutes later — record response time for this establishment — a nurse finally answered my emergency call.

“What is your problem?” she demanded. Not even a bonjour.

“Well,” I began, “there was a naked man throwing oranges…”

She scanned the room, noting the distinct lack of naked men. Her assessment: “I don’t see him now! Don’t call us if you don’t have a real problem!”

She stormed off, and I was alone for many hours until the next meal, which would also be served cold and late.

It was nearly impossible to get this image out of my mind… Where did he come from? Was this normal here? Why hadn’t I seen him elsewhere? Was this place also for mental rehabilitation along with the physical clients like me?

This just underscored how helpless I felt, unable to walk, denied private space, subject to whoever would walk in next. I was ready to escape.

I think it was a child’s answer to looking for a computer friend, which I now consider cute. I could have my own “Short Circuit” robot friend (“Number 5 Alive!”) or, for a more modern reference, Baymax from “Big Hero 6.” Maybe even Bumblebee. Those movies still resonate with me.

My parents homeschooled me, often isolating me from peers. I would get in trouble with my parents if I tried to make friends or play sports with the neighbors. There were many books I could not read, and I had no TV to watch, to protect my young mind from seeing or reading about any sin or alternative philosophy. Most Americans will recognize the type, where it is as sinful to read about Buddhism as it was to talk to a girl in a tight shirt.

So the years went on, and my isolation continued; MS-DOS remained a reliable companion. But I began to focus more on studying mathematics, reading classic literature, and living outside. We had moved into a more rural neighborhood, and I spent a lot of time exploring, crafting “weapons”, learning how animals acted and how to track them, reading and collecting medicinal plants, or going on my own fantasy adventures. As I consider this now, I was still looking for connections and a specific type of “conversation” and “language” I could have with nature.

The woods offered a temporary freedom, but eventually, I felt the limits of my borders again. And this time, I had the internet to play with. The allure of using computers to communicate with people beyond my books and neighborhood was irresistible. It was a way to escape my religious ties as much as the woods were… My parents could monitor TVs or books, but they were also learning to use the internet, so I felt on equal ground. If I could hide, I could access all the information I was curious about.

I started by finding ways to cover my tracks on early web browsers. I found The Anarchist Cookbook, read about Kevin Mitnick or Cap’n Crunch, two famous old hackers, and read all their tricks. I even shoplifted a digital recorder from Radio Shack, using an MS-DOS program to replicate the exact frequencies to pay a payphone. That was how to do it: find the frequency of each coin and play it into the mouthpiece. Alas, I could not make that work because the phone companies had already figured out how to block that. I had to figure out new ways of connecting online.

Shortly later, I bought a Compaq Luggable from my dad — something similar to this linked photo.

But that wasn’t enough to use the internet, so I still needed more. I raided a telephone company truck to get wires and tools while they worked on a house. I stole a modem and some cables. To be clear, I consider this wrong. I knew it was wrong even then.

But in my mind, I thought it was a way of adapting in a right-wing, isolationist, militia-friendly way of growing up. There was a sort of self-myth I used to justify this: if the Christian world would stifle my curiosity, I was within my rights to learn and communicate however I could, without harming others.

I would plug into neighbours’ phone lines, dressed in camouflage that my parents bought me, or with money I earned by mowing lawns. I would hide in the bushes with my computer, covered with camo nets, and connect slowly to the internet. I had a stolen phone from a thrift store and hid it in my massive used coat.

Now I was getting in, and now I was finding actual information. Stuff I couldn’t even find in the library. Guess what I did with this knowledge and set up? Porn? Cat pictures? Study more Klingon?

Nope. I connected with people. I called random payphones from a list of cities in the USA and Germany. I would wait until someone answered and ask who they were. I asked about the weather, their day, or something random. It was usually an awkward but well-meaning conversation that, if memory serves, would go like this:

Stranger in Munich/Rotterdam/Brussels after 15 rings: “Hallo?”
Me: “Hello! How are you today?”
Stranger: “Um… Good, who is this?”
Me: “I’m calling a list of payphones to say hi.”
Stranger: “Ah.”
Me: “So… how is the weather there?”
Stranger: “It is raining a little.”
Me: “…”
Stranger: “… I must go to work now, ya?”
Me: “Have a wonderful day!”
Him: “You too.”

You can see my conversation skills have always been second to none.

This was around 1994–1996. Payphones were widely available around the cities, and people occasionally answered them. I had no idea who I was talking to, sitting in a bush in rural Missouri — in full camo — with stolen equipment and a list of payphones I found on IRC channels. I called people in South America. I called people in every major city.

Calling a payphone might not work, or someone might answer. I could understand some people, but not others. I can only imagine the long-distance phone bills in my neighborhood. This countered my rule about “harm none,” and I still feel guilty about it. At the time, it was a necessary evil to me.

I was always looking for more connections, never thinking of the consequences. I tried to share my newfound knowledge with other kids my age. They immediately told their parents, who told mine.

That went badly for me — it was back when my parents would make you pick a stick from the woods for them to use on you for corporal punishment.

And I’m pretty sure they knew I was shoplifting from Radio Shack, but the random employees didn’t care, or perhaps saw the company’s future and enjoyed that some nerdy kid was keeping the flame alive. I wonder who they were.

This became a lifetime of finding connections — friends, dates, work, a bus stop, or random people with a story. I remain optimistic about the internet — some want to connect but don’t have the technology until they build it. Maybe someone like me, hiding in bushes or the library, telling their story on some forum. Perhaps someone who has a block on their country’s Internet. Or just someone who finds it easier to gain confidence their way. It’s why the useless big-box playgrounds of Twitter and Facebook were so easy to escape, as we created and learned new ways to stay connected.

It’s why I still talk to friends from 20 years ago that I’ve still never even met. It’s why I value the smallest interactions in the real world. I try to be polite and kind to everyone around me. And perhaps that’s the best thing that could have happened from a childhood spent being told that the world was evil and I should avoid it so it didn’t infect me.

Never being one to leave a theory untested, I decided to experience first-hand what driving a scooter in Hualien, Taiwan, felt like.

I'll say this right off: today was the first day I have ever driven a scooter. They're massively popular in all the Asian cities I've been to. I've wanted to ride one for a long time, but I believed it was impossible with my US driver's license. An opportune meeting at the bus station with a New Zealander convinced me otherwise.

He took us to the shop where he had rented one, and I got to try one out before I paid for it. I took it around the block - and damn, it was fun! Nothing to it. Highly intuitive. Easier than a motorcycle. So I filled out the paperwork with my New Mexico driver's license number, paid $400 NTD (about $13 USD), and we were off!

Though I jumped right in with minimal experience, I’m going to get all grandmotherly and recommend new riders practice in quieter areas first and always wear a helmet, which most rental shops provide.

Well, off to somewhere. The tourist maps are rarely accurate, and I got lost in three different directions. Stopped to check the map and ask around in my best Mandarin. Finally, being chased by a mangy dog (there was nothing good in his eyes, believe me!) before I made it out of town. The whole time I couldn't keep a grin off my face.

My friends: have you been to Asian cities? Have you seen the chaotic YouTube videos of the traffic in Asian cities? To a die-hard pedestrian, it seems insane. But when you're on a scooter with quick acceleration and quick brakes, it becomes incredibly fun. Just like weaving in and out of Philly traffic on a single-speed bike.

Quickly I realized that the chaos of the traffic was actually my best friend. In the US, when you ride a bike, you're constantly watching out for asshole drivers. There's a definite sense of entitlement if you're in a bigger car, and these people will act dangerously just because they can, or because they think that you're disobeying the rules and goddammit they'll drive the way they think is right no matter who it puts in peril. It's your own fault for riding a bike.

But here. Here in Taiwan, where the traffic is chaotic, every driver is constantly aware that something odd might happen. Everyone's foot is by their brake. Everyone expects the unexpected. Right of way doesn't exist - you just go, and stop when you need to. I love it. Go like hell and harm none.

What I thought was an intimidating, possibly illegal, adventure turned into one of my favorite lessons from that trip. I suppose this helped me view traffic anywhere in a new way - I didn’t have to feel entitled or have the right of way, I just went where there was an opening, always ready to stop for a person or bigger vehicle. This was like some giant autonomous zone where anarchy reigned and semi-peacefully worked out. I smiled and zoomed between two large busses before they could merge, hand on the brakes for what was on the other side, where I couldn’t yet see.

They talked of train trips in the 80s, during which they met people who had never seen a white person, and those people spent much of the trip trying to hold their hands and stroke their hair.

I figured that I didn't look Chinese (obviously), but I also wasn't blonde. Apparently, however, a beard counted. My personal bubble had never been squeezed as much as it was in 2010, traveling along the Tibetan border of Sichuan.

I couldn't walk far through any market before someone would grab and tug my beard and lift my sleeves to see my tattoos. I wasn't too bothered, because, often next, I would be offered a pint of barley whiskey, sweet, like it comes in China. I got hearty approval from the tall, bearded Tibetans with their cowboy hats and hand-painted red bikes decorated with good-luck charms.

So, when I spent a day traveling to the Yunnan Province, I wasn't surprised when the English-speaking driver took it to the next level. He grabbed my beard, called me "Yakman" before I even got into the car, and made sure I got the shotgun seat.

He was an irreverent prankster from the beginning. He started by teaching me the Tibetan words for "I love you! Let's make love tonight!" and encouraged me to yell it at every girl the bus passed.

I abstained.

So he went back to the original jokes. When we passed the many yaks in the Himalayan foothills, he shouted: "Look, your mother! Look, your sister!" No one I had seen for weeks had a beard close to as long as mine. I could have been offended, but I couldn't stop laughing.

I was just young and enjoyed the casual camaraderie. We stopped for a smoke break at 5,000 meters, and I smoked just in a t-shirt. They were very impressed by that, the Tibetans commenting that I had a good body. The driver proudly said to the onlookers, "Yes, he is an American yak!"

Now that was a fun story, but this wasn't the first time I had run into yaks. The first time was far more action-oriented, back at home in rural Mexico at around 3,000 meters This started when a neighboring rancher purchased a number of feral, illegally transported yaks and brought them into the area. Something about them needing additional paperwork and fees to cross state lines. If there's anything true about New Mexicans, it's that they hate both paperwork and fees if a little back-road driving will do the trick.

The yaks, free thinkers as always, promptly escaped.

My friends and I were called upon to corner them in pouring snow, out in the woods. We passed around sticks and whips, and someone handed me a slingshot. "Your job is to hit the bull in the nose if it charges anyone around you."

When a bull charges, you shoot — and dive. I hit it twice — and dove three times. Covered with mud, I had to quickly get back on my feet, realizing how dangerous those horns and those hooves were.

The bull broke our circle a half-dozen times. We started to get frustrated. A number of us grew up around goats, cattle, and horses, but nothing like these highland anarchists.

We didn't trap the bull yak until a random rancher drove by and coaxed it with some bovine tricks we never learned. I still can't remember how he used his voice, but within 30 seconds, he had the bull in the trailer.

Turned out, we all survived. The yaks were brought farther out into the mountains. They were illegal, after all.

These two stories have led to a lifetime of yaks as emails, domain names, and usernames. Somehow, I identified with them right away, and they've been my "spirit animal" for nearly 20 years. Something about their solidity and stubbornness, a familiar sense of anarchy towards authority … but still ready to work damn hard when they need to. Not to mention the solid beards. That always spoke to me, as if I had found an animal that thinks like I do.

And I dare you to find me another person you know who dared to shoot a bull yak in the buttocks.

However, it was to attract her attention that I tried to do better than anyone else in all our activities. It was to her I recited my lines in the Christmas play. All I remember now is a flash of blonde hair, but back then I thought she was the cutest girl I had met.

When I couldn't attract her attention merely through drawing the best "Noah and the Ark" picture, I knew that a grand romantic gesture was in order. It was in all the movies. And what better day to do such than Valentine's Day? And what better gesture, for an 8 year old, than the best card ever?

I slaved over the card much as I did building lego creations at home, or trying to craft a bow and arrow in the woods. I practiced that technique of folding the paper and cutting a mouse-shaped piece to form a heart…. Actually, I don't remember much beyond the fact that it was big, and pink, and red, with lots of hearts — it was simply perfect.

Alas, there was one vital element that always seems to be forgotten by the love-struck: never, ever give a card to your beloved while surrounded by a crowd of peers.

I fully expected to come away from that encounter engaged to the young lass. Instead, I found myself the object of scorn and derision, and learned how awful that song sounds. You know the one: Tim and Ashley sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G... Yeah, that one.

It shows how distraught I was that I remember nothing of her.

Not whether she appreciated the gift, not whether she secretly returned my love. All I remember is that within the hour I had forgotten about anything but embarrassment. My parents were planning on finding a new church anyway.

Meanwhile, my friends — are all eight-year-olds this cruel? — loved my new position, and wouldn't let it go.

They formed a club; and you were unable to join unless you kissed a girl on a cheek every time the club met. I was unwilling to do this. I remained aloof and club-free. Love and fate had conspired to burn me, and I swore I would remain an unswerving bachelor. Who needed the fairer sex, anyway? She would just interrupt my writing and reading.

Of course, I'm not much of a quitter, so by my teens I was giving in to the idea of eventually falling in love, with a bit more success and a lot more discretion.

Here, I sat smoking cigarettes and drinking soju out in the street for hours, just people-watching. Irish and Turkish restaurants were all around - but the foreign food was expensive. I was waiting to meet a friend for dinner.

As it was getting dark, a blonde man walked up to me and asked in a thick Germanic - perhaps Swiss - accent, "Am I to know where the Tom's Coffee Shop is?"

I told him I had no idea (and no working smartphone) where this place was to be found. He clapped his hand on my shoulder, anyway, and said, "OK. Thank you!" and walked away. I lit another cigarette, but in a second he was back. "I did not mean to be so rude! Should I say 'Good day'?" He looked concerned, as if he accidentally offended me.

Sure, I said. I'm not picky.

He still looked concerned. "But there is not much of the day left!"

I was suddenly at a loss for words. Well, you could say 'Good evening'.

"Aaah! Good evening!" He clapped me on the shoulder again and wandered off to find his coffee shop, happy again.

I sat quietly laughing at the cute but awkward conversation while finishing my cigarette. This was a good encounter - rarely do people think Americans get offended in the same way as, for example, a shop owner in Paris who you forgot to say Bonjour to.

My friend arrived a few minutes later and our feast began - Korean barbecue like no other, pork and octopus cooked on the table, watered down with light beer and shots of soju. Somehow, I don't even remember that friend's name - we were just staying at the same hostel, another friendship of just a few nights spent eating together.

So, when I moved to New Mexico in 2008, much later, I was incredibly fascinated to make a tarantula's acquaintance. Slightly wiser (if not as quick), I knew that a spider would rarely bite you unless you accidentally, say, roll on one in your bed. The reason is that the poisons are difficult to generate biologically, so energy is best saved for hunting and mating, not just randomly biting everyone you walk past. There's a life lesson there, for all of us, perhaps.

I wondered how much was true about them - did they have itchy hairs on their belly as a defense system with no toxins? That turned out to be true. Did they travel in packs? Massive packs of males, I learned, in the hundreds, as they looked for the burrowing females. You could sit for five minutes watching as they crossed the road in front of your car. After they pass, the tracks are quite impressive.

Did the radioactive tarantulas from missile testing spots near Alamogordo turn you into a chupacabra with superpowers? Despite my many tries, I never actually witnessed that, so let's say I'm agnostic.

I met one the first morning I woke up in the New Mexico high desert. Excited to show a new friend, I first coaxed it onto a piece of juniper to take it over to him. This is how I learned the most fragile and sad fact about tarantulas - because of their large body mass, if they fell from more than about 30cm, they would break their back and die slowly. This one did just that. Slowly, even as I tried to twist the stick to hold her steady - she took the leap. I felt horrible as she writhed, unable to move. I put her out of her pain, as I had always been told to do when you can't save an animal life.

I told the story to my new coworker Josh. Try to pick it up on the palm of your hand instead, he instructed. Let them decide what to do. Like myself, Josh was a big, bearded Midwestern boy, loving both animals and slightly dangerous activities. Determined to be safely successful, I set off again to work.

That day, I saw many more and learned to pick them up. In layman's terms, each turned out to have a completely different personality. This is what I learned to do: for each critter walking down the road, I would place an open palm in front of them. If they were annoyed, they'd just walk around. If they hadn't had their coffee yet, they would rear back with forelegs lifted high. They weren't ready to attack, just enough to look intimidating. I left those alone.

But if you find a polite and curious friend, they would carefully touch your hand to feel it out. They would cautiously climb into your palm, looking you in the eyes. One might crawl onto your head, one might go into your sleeve, and it would just be fun and ticklish. I sat down in the sand. And let them explore until they were ready to move on. Then, I would gently offer my hand again and set them on their way.

I grew a deep love for these creatures but never dropped one again. Most people hate spiders, but I'd urge you to reconsider the wild tarantula; she's a polite little hunter that won't hurt you and hides from the hordes of males hoping to stay in her bed that night and leave, never to be heard from again.

I hope the one I first killed is looking down at us from spider heaven (also known as just plain heaven) as I share with you, keeping her memory, and that she has forgiven me for my moment of ignorance.

Multiple chickens were down, and one of the dogs was bitten while fighting them off. Griff, our co-worker and host, offered me a rifle if I wanted to go back and see what was up. Nikolai, another friend sitting with us, said he'd grab his boots and head over with his rifle. We rushed home.

> Now, I'm not a huge fan of guns anymore - Europe feels so much safer, especially after a lifetime of school shootings back home, but I had spent enough time in rural land and gun safety classes to know my way around a rifle. It was necessary to have them with all the predators near a farm.

Home is, as it was a few times that year, outside of Boulder, Colorado, with a few good friends of mine. The place was a beautiful old farm property with the St. Vrain River flowing through the back, often flooded because of beaver dams. Beautiful, but somewhat overrun by mosquitoes. In the winter, we'd walk on the ice to set off explosives to take down the beaver dams. They always quickly rebuilt.

Back to my story. We made it to the house, changed into boots and long sleeves, sprayed ourselves down with DEET, and loaded the guns. The dog was thankfully fine, sporting only a few scratches. He seemed stressed, but not too hurt. He was up-to-date on rabies shots. One of the roommates stayed behind to keep the dog safe and comfortable.

The chickens were another matter. Feathers everywhere. One was dead outside the coop. Two more were hurt and hiding inside - one looked like she was in shock. There was a wing left farther from the coop. The feather trails led down to the river and into the swamp.

We set off following the feathers, swatting at mosquitoes, fanning out in a five-person semi-circle as the feathers became scarcer. We followed them across a fence and out into a tall grassy field. We had a few walkie-talkies and someone reported each time we found a feather or footprint.

It was beginning to look like it was a number of the predators. Each of us was following trails. At some point, we stopped finding feathers. The trails got harder to find. Blood wasn't showing up anymore on any pathway. We lost the trail in a group of cat-tails and still-water pools.

That night, I wasn't convinced we'd track the coyotes back to their den; I think we all just wanted to do something about the attack. We were frustrated and passed a flask of whiskey around as we set our guns on safety and slung them across our shoulders. Commiseration and a bit of sadness crave group justification in a world where we often fail to protect our animals. We rolled and lit a few cigarettes and took turns sighing. We hoped our scent on their trail might help to keep them away in the future. One of us looked like he was about to cry about the chickens.

That story didn't end with a win, and we were largely quiet as we settled down to make dinner, probably spaghetti or a stew.

I happen to love coyotes, and I think my friends do, too. I love their mischief-making and their playful demeanor. I love to hear them yip and howl in the evening. I don't find them particularly frightening, as some people do. They've visited the front door of my house in the woods multiple times. One walked in to investigate while I napped with the door open. I've always enjoyed the quiet interaction and eye contact before they run away. But when they start killing chickens and biting the dogs, you've got to respond. You can't have predators running off with your food.

We slept in our clothes that night, ready in case they returned for a second meal at the chicken coop. The guns were left loaded by the door. The boots were still ready. They didn't return that night, but this wasn't going to be the last time.

My friend Adrian spoke enough Mandarin to get us into trouble, and we finally found an unlicensed driver to take the three of us there for a reasonable price. I had never used a black cab before, but it sounded above board, and we wouldn’t pay until we arrived.

The ride was gorgeous - Western Sichuan is impossibly beautiful - and it was just us Americans and a few orange-robed monks chatting as best we could. The driver told us we could listen to our own music, so, like a good American, I put some Tom Waits on and gleefully sang along in my best gravel-voiced impression. This amused the monks to no end. They laughed and laughed before finally switching to more traditional Tibetan music.

It was at this point things started to go wrong.

Nearing a town, about halfway through the trip, we turned a corner and… police blockade/ We had to get out of the car and crouch beside the forest road on our backpacks, hearing the officer in charge arguing with the illegal driver. The car was searched and our stories were asked, while police in the background kept automatic weapons at the ready. I’ve faced down plenty of assault rifles in my day, and this time was the most nerve-wracking.

After about an hour of confusion, lecturing, and waiting, the officer explained to us in broken English that it was illegal to take a black cab and told us what to look for in a cab (a certain certificate). He didn’t say what would happen to the driver. The monks found a ride from other monks, but we would have to wait to take a cab at our expense to the nearest town and figure it out from there.

As the driver left, we tried to palm him a percentage of the fee for getting us that far, but strangely he refused. He took off and it was just us and the police, smoking Chinese cigarettes that tasted more like cardboard and stained my fingers yellow.

Eventually, the official cab showed up and we loaded in. The town was about 15 minutes away, and the new cab driver spent the entire ride lecturing us about taking illegal cabs. Until… He quite suddenly stopped lecturing and asked if we wanted our previous driver back. Nervously trading glances and whispers, we suspected some kind of trap. No, we said, we’ll find a cab in the city.

This went back and forth for a while, until he suddenly pulled over on the side of the road - and who should show up but the original driver again? The two drivers hugged and joked for a minute while we looked on in confusion… was this the plan all along?

Apparently it was, since the new taxi driver refused our payment and helped us into the original car. Laughing nervously, we took off for the rest of the journey.

Was this a con game run on the cops? Was all this known beforehand and the price factored all of this in? Were the cops involved in it also? We couldn’t speak Mandarin well enough to figure it out, but decided to lay back and enjoy riding the long trip into the Tibetan tundra.

It even turned out that the driver knew our hostel owner and they hugged too. It ended happily in a cute, muddy Tibetan town at around 4,000 meters, where I instantly made many friends with my large beard and tattoos over the next few weeks.

But that’s another story.

Over time, my blogging started to be replaced by social media — though, of course, the indie blogger scene never ended. Like my peers, I left it for Myspace, Facebook, and Instagram. It was easier to post and read on these platforms.

I started blogging again during the digital nomad life, ten years ago or so. It was a fun way to share pictures and stories with friends and family. But one year, I settled down to work more on programming and music. I left travel blogging behind too.

Now, I have simply become tired of doom-scrolling. I see far too many ads on Good Ol' Zuck's platforms and get addicted to my phone. I still like Bluesky, but that's so far from Twitter it's hard to think of it in the same terms.

These days Github has become more fun social media than anything.

And here I am again, trying a different angle. Most people don't know about my childhood or teens. My New Mexico friends don't know about growing up in Missouri. The Swiss have never heard about my days home schooling. My Algerian friends know little of my teen years. And... some people I like to keep guessing. I have groups of close communities that barely overlap. No one knows all these stories.

As I've retold and polished the stories, through years of mountain IPAs and fishing spots, they've turned into fun bar stories. Tall tales of running up mountains and hitchhiking and begging for food. Tales of Asia, Latin America, Africa, and Europe. Tales from almost every state in the US. I thought: It's time to start telling them, and see who enjoys it!

And each story is 100% guaranteed to be about 83% to 92% true.

So, pull up a glass of your favorite beverage, and have I got a story for you tonight!