“There's no such thing as bad weather-just the wrong clothes.”

    That's an Irish saying. When all you have is pretty much bad weather 9 months of the year, you finally run out of things to blame for a lingering, shitty disposition. I always felt more at home in Dublin, Ireland than Redondo Beach, California. That saying is really another reminder of what John Wooden, the legendary UCLA basketball coach, used to drill into his players: “Failing to prepare is really preparing to fail”. So, how exactly, does a person prepare to have Parkinson's?

    That, I would teach my high school English classes, is a redundant question, there is no answer. The bone chilling, smack-you-n-the-face and bring you to your knees truth is, you don't. I could end this here and see how people feel now about this Blog, but there is always more to any story. So I turn to one of the masters of maladjustment, George Bernard Shaw, the Irish playwright and 1925 Nobel Prize for Literature winner. He once proudly proclaimed: “My reputation grows with every failure.” And just like Parkinson research, or my living happily with this disease is, initially and repeatedly, all based on failure. Sorry, but it's true, and my failures seem to hit everyone's 11 PM news coverage. 

   “Oh now that's some funny stuff there, Sean!” “SHUT-UP!” Says I “And I'm out of here,” says you. Then I suggest telling you the story of the "3-Change of Clothes in 20 Minutes," and you decide to linger for a moment but insist that the story had better be short. Suspiciously, we shake on it. Talk about pressure!

   Exactly 11 days ago a friends of mine, Eve, another writer, stopped by to see how I was doing. She's married to a very cool man, and they have 3 “someday-cool-maybe” children. Now, here it is important to mention that Parkinson medications are scheduled for a reason. Researches and doctors didn't get those instructions: Take 4 times a day, from a Ouija board in the middle of the night. When soft-as-a-grape PD people, like me, don't take them on that schedule, well, bad things tend to happen. I had forgotten mine and, (OK, cut my hair and call me stupid) literally just swallowed the final one  moments before Eve arrived.

   Being the gracious host I poured her a diet Coke and myself a Classic Coke. I knew my balance was off but, male pride being what it is, there was no way I was going to forewarn her. I do, however, point out that “I'm a little shaky today.” We sit, exchange some pleasantries, and I go to take a sip of my Classic. BOOM! Classic Coke in my lap, #1. We both laugh because, my tremor was so jerky and pronounced, I thought I was going to embed the glass in the ceiling above me. I change. New T-shirt, jockey briefs, Levis and socks. I return and pour new Cokes.

 I pick mine up and sure-as-sugar, BOOM! Classic Coke #2 in my hair and all down the front of me. Hand over heart and eyes to Heaven, my friend asks to use the restroom because we were laughing so hard she thought she might need a change of clothing, too. I go and locate some dry duds, return and still thirsty, pour myself one more. No secret here. You see it coming, but I didn't. Talk about hubris! First sip I bend low and suck some juice from the top. Feeling in control, it was that second sip that Coke found a home all over me-even into my socks-and into my keyboard and monitor. My first thought was about that silly proverb regarding a bad workman who always blames his tools. The glass was just too thick at the base.

   It is all just to stupid not to laugh. My writing area is a mess, and I half expected a knock at the door and a couple of men in those containment suits to come in and swab everything down. Eve helps me remove all the liquid sugar from everything and, exhausted, she goes home to her cool husband and children. That night while lying in bed I have to conclude, sadly, it was just me still being me, and Parkinson's doing what it does best, namely, being Parkinson's disease. I still go kicking and screaming into this disease. There was no villain, no bad weather. I had, as John Wooden would claim, prepared to fail, and I was amply rewarded well for my efforts.

   I wish I could end this with some funny quip about Eve coming to my door the next day wearing one of those huge, black, plastic bags, but that simply isn't the way it happened. No, the truth is that I am still finding small clumps of crystallized sugar under my keyboard; there are still areas of  my writing chair that I stick to no matter how much Windex I use; and I still resist using a pill timer or one of those 7 day pill holders. I just try and dress better for inclement weather these days. Sean being Sean and Parkinson's being Parkinson's.