Please, Please Grant my Springtime Wishes so Disabled Folks Like Me Have an Easier Time

It’s the beginning of spring, a time for new beginnings and a fresh approach. It’s not the start of a new year, but it’s never a bad time to make resolutions.

Here are a few I would like you - the public - to make to improve lives of people who are disabled, like me.

1) Toss out step-on wastebaskets in public restrooms. I get that it’s a nice way to hide the refuse, better than the often-overflowing open bins, but there are other models that do the same. The receptacle with a swinging lid or one with a cover with a hole in the middle are way preferable. There is no way a walker-user like me or others who use wheelchairs can step on levers to open a trash bin. And I’ve seen shorter ones that serve no purpose whatsoever. Whether large or small, they are impossible for me to maneuver. My only option is to pry the lid open with a finger (eliminating the sanitary benefit of a no-touch trash can) or to carry used paper towels around until there is an appropriate time and place to dispose of them. I can’t count how many times I’ve hidden used paper towels in my walker and found them a few days later. 

2) Restaurants need to make sure disabled patrons can get around comfortably. Before owners place a wheelchair sign in the window indicating their establishment is ADA compliant, they need to visualize people using walkers or wheelchairs coming to your business. Would they have a clear path to get by? I remember when I was home after more than four months in a hospital bed during my cancer journey, my husband had taken me to a doctor’s appointment. On the way home, he suggested stopping for lunch. Woo-hoo, we thought. We can do this because I am out of the hospital and have the freedom to dine spontaneously. I was using a wheelchair at the time. Once we opened the door to the restaurant, my bubble burst when I saw a maze of tables and chairs packed closely together. Our server rearranged some tables so we could get to one that worked for us. I was sitting at an angle at the edge of one, because there was no room to to fit me in the correct way. I was inches away from a baby in an attached high chair at a nearby table. When I needed to use the restroom, I interrupted a large group of diners who had to stop eating, stand up and push their chairs out of my way so I could get by in my wheelchair. And I had to disrupt them again on my way back to the table.

I have interrupted many a meal over the past 20 mobility-challenged years. Often, my husband or friend will lead the way, tapping on shoulders of diners. When I go out to places like this, I use a collapsible walker that can squish together like an accordion to help me squeeze by. Even then, it is very challenging to maneuver (my purse often gets in the way.) And I feel bad for those who use larger, non-collapsible walkers or wheelchairs. It’s enough to make you want to stay home.

3) Include some smooth tracks inside those yellow or blue bumpy things you find  at entrances to establishments or sidewalks. They are called truncated domes *  ** tactile paving** and they are required to let visually-impaired pedestrians using canes know where the curb cuts are, where the sidewalk begins and ends. I get it. But I also find them

My solution to the domes? Instead of a solid rectangle of the little yellow demons, include two lanes of smooth pavement roughly walker legs or wheelchair tires apart.

That way, blind people could find their way safely and pedestrians using canes, walkers or wheelchairs could stick to the smooth tracks and have an easier time getting around. 

4) Before you declare your establishment as ADA compliant, imagine if you used crutches or depended on a walker or wheelchair to get around. Maybe you wouldn’t describe in an online guide Ponto Beach as the most accessible beach near Carlsbad CA. “(Ponto) is your best bet for true accessibility” featuring accessible parking, accessible restrooms nearby, “plus stairs from the campground leading down to the beach.” You know beach-goers who need accommodations can’t use stairs, right?

And maybe you wouldn’t put a wheelchair accessible sign outside a hotel room that has a completely inaccessible shower/bathtub or cram the furniture together so tightly in another “accessible” room that I could barely walk around even with my squeeze-together walker. A wheelchair user would be out of luck. *photos

5) If you are a theater operator and have a patron who buys accessible season tickets annually, remember that if one of the plays is being staged in a venue different from its usual one, your patron is not suddenly going to become able-bodied. Meaning YOU HAVE TO ASSIGN ACCESSIBLE SEATS for her in the other performance space as well. For years, I’ve bragged about how wonderful my accessible seats are at my favorite Los Angeles theater venue. The staff is so kind and the plays are always entertaining. Years ago, one of the shows I attended was at the smaller, adjacent space. I sat behind the orchestra section in a row for disabled people on the main floor - which I got to via an open-air lift, which takes the place of elevators. Bravo.

But I had a horrible experience recently when one of the plays was staged at that same smaller space. I didn’t bother to check where my seats were - expecting the same accommodations as I had several years ago. When my friend and I entered the lobby, we were asked if we needed help to our seats. Yes, we said. One of the ushers said we should find Tommy when we were ready to go. Tommy led us to a lobby level door - which didn’t bode well for me because the orchestra section was on the ground floor. I reminded him that I couldn’t go down steps. We got closer and he said it was just a few steps. No, it turned out it was several steep, steep steps to the middle of the rows and our seats were in the dead center of our row. It took two people and a railing to help me slowly descend the multiple steps. They had to hold me steady, lift each foot and place it on the next step and retrieve my left shoe which kept falling off and even bounced down several steps.

Meanwhile, it was getting closer to curtain time and I felt all eyes were on me. When we got to our row and saw the extra narrow path to our middle seats, I just wanted to give up. My friend convinced me to stay and she negotiated with patrons who were none too happy to scooch down so we could have the two  seats at the end.

I had a tough time getting in my seat because even though I squished my walker together I couldn’t get all the way in and there was nothing to hold onto other than my friend’s hand. The seats in front of mine were too low to grab on to. Finally, I managed to literally wedge myself in my seat and (thank God) found the play quite enjoyable. But when it was over, the entire row of people had to squeeze by me because it was one-exit row. People just thought I was being rude by not getting up - they didn’t connect me with the walker several feet away that Tommy was keeping until everyone had cleared. A lady seated in front of me gave me her cane and offered me her hand to help me get out of the seat.  With the same awkward  system I descended fewer stairs than I had faced when I arrived, walked by several ADA seats in a nice open aisle and got in the lift to bring me to the floor above.

It was a stressful and humiliating evening - one I shouldn’t have had to endure if someone had been thinking when they assigned seats for the theater season. 

Twenty Years - My Long Strange Trip Battling Cancer - Spoiler Alert: It has a Good Ending

Three weeks ago, I marked the 20th anniversary of my cancer diagnosis.

I remember July 14th, 2005 well. 

A weak, fatigued 48-year-old, I was severely anemic and had lost a lot of weight. I had a months-long never-ending fever of more than 102 degrees and had suffered drenching night sweats. I had endured scan after scan, numerous blood tests, a colonoscopy and a bone marrow biopsy to find the cause of my deteriorating health - to no avail. My primary care doctor had referred me to the top infectious disease physician in the LA area - Jeffrey Galpin - who took what must have been gallons of blood from me to find the cause of my deteriorating health. My friend Mary had flown from Northern California to accompany me to that important follow-up appointment. My husband, Matt, could not join me that day. Because I thought I might get a troubling diagnosis, I wanted someone with me.

But Galpin had no answers. He referred me to hematologist/oncologist Dennis Casciato (RIP) a noted expert on cancer. He literally wrote the book on oncology care for medical school students and physicians. 

Casciato’s notes from that day described me as “beyond pale” when I came into his examining room. I was alone. For the appointment with Casciato, my husband was out of the country, due to return later that day. 

The doctor looked at all my records - and I had plenty of them - and the notes from my infectious disease doc. He told me he was 99 percent sure I had stage 4 lymphoma. I began to cry. He took my hands in his and said my type of cancer was very treatable and possibly curable. He told me not to look up lymphoma on the internet because there are dozens of types of the disease and I might not have the one that I find.

I promised I would not do that. I didn’t have the strength to sit up and get on the computer, so it was pretty easy to comply.

My husband was in mid-flight at the time. I called my friend, Mary, in tears on the way home, telling her she had come to the wrong appointment.

When Matt returned later that day, I filled him in on the devastating details. Next up would be another bone marrow biopsy which we hoped would yield answers. Doctors said they need to find lymphoma cells to know specifically how to treat the cancer.

That answer wouldn’t come for another nine months. 

And in that timespan, I had been treated at three different hospitals, been in several levels of intensive care units, had my enlarged spleen removed in hopes of finding cancer cells. My team of doctors sent it to another top hospital in LA and to a spleen whisperer physician in the Midwest. 

I had a few transfusions, a number of spinal taps, another bone marrow biopsy and a procedure called plasmapheresis - in which they drained my blood, froze it and then returned it to my body.

None of these yielded any cancer cells or any improvement in my health. During that time, I was on such a high dose of prednisone that one veteran doctor said he had never seen such a case. And that was just my daily regimen. I had a nurse come to my home once a month to give me a mega-mega prednisone infusion. The docs agreed it was necessary to keep me alive.  Unfortunately, it also caused osteoporosis - my once strong bones became brittle. And each time I fell, I suffered compression fractures in my back. (I also have prednisone to credit for cataracts in both eyes.)

My team of doctors watched me become sicker and sicker while they debated whether to perform a brain biopsy. The argument for it - hopefully it would reveal cancer cells. Against -  it was very invasive and could cause brain damage or the incision might not be in the correct part of the brain to provide answers.

Meanwhile, my illness left me paraplegic for a spell, unable to speak for awhile and essentially blind in one eye.

One of my doctors was in touch with Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer in New York to see if they could shed light in my case. One said I might have a new type of cancer, another said it might be an unknown ailment AKA Laura’s Disease. My oncologist said he would wake up at night and go to his computer to try to figure out my case.

Finally, they decided to proceed with a brain biopsy, which revealed the elusive cancer cells - large cell B non-Hodgkin lymphoma. It was a rare strain which required more than a year of in-patient chemotherapy - enough to kill an elephant, one of my doctors said. I began physical therapy in the hospital which brought me to tears each day: it was humbling and humiliating.

After four-and-a-half months, split among two hospitals and three rehab places, I was cleared to come home. For nearly a year, I went back to the hospital one week a month for my super-toxic chemo and stayed until it had been flushed from my body.

During this time I had an in-home visiting physical therapist, who helped me get out of a wheelchair and learn to walk using a walker.

A year later, my cancer returned throughout my body. I needed a bone marrow transplant which involved more chemotherapy - more than seven times the amount I had the first time. This time I did check the internet to see what my recovery chances were if my type of cancer returned. There was no data at the time because few people had survived my type the first time around. 

Pre-transplant with red marker on my arm. I couldn’t take a shower for days so the ink wouldn’t wear off.

The transplant process was grueling, involving a month-long hospital stay and my first radiation therapy: TBI for total body irradiation for four days. I remember crying during a prep for the radiation a few days before I was admitted -  the only time I consciously thought poor me. How the hell did I get here? Bald, essentially naked, fighting for my life lying on a cold capsule while the tech chatted about Pink Martini whose music was playing at the time. He drew lines with a red marker around my heart and lungs so those organs would be protected from radiation then took instant photos of me and my red marks. I had a fleeting thought that maybe he was a pervert who secretly kept a collection of red-circled breast pics for fun. I mean how tough is it to figure out where a patient’s heart and lungs are?

I was spared hair loss with my first round of chemo, but this new toxic cocktail caused most of my hair to fall within two weeks. I met with a doctor that Pink Martini day who said this hospital chemo would cause ALL the rest of my hair to fall out. It did. I was left with one eyebrow hair on one side and two hairs on the other. Oh and eight of my 10 toenails fell off.

Days before the transplant, I was hooked up to a miracle machine that harvested healthy baby blood cell

    

For my radiation appointments the following week, I was given medication to make them bearable.

In the transplant process, patients are brought close to death, Then baby blood cells are infused, either collected from the patient or a donor. In my case, I was able to donate my own, then they were frozen. On the morning of the transplant, the thawed cells were infused, then they were supposed to engraft and grow into healthy blood cells. Mine did, to a point. My blood numbers still aren’t where they are supposed to be, but they are close enough.

A journalist for nearly 30 years, I was encouraged by family and friends to write what I had experienced. I had plenty of material, but first need to heal and be able to sit up at the computer and write. (I rejected suggestions that I speak my words or type lying down. Neither of those worked for me). Three years later, I took an online class - one or two of my kids rolled their eyes at that one - on how to create a blog.

 On June 13, 2011, View From The Handicapped Space was born.

It came with a backstory and a target audience: “For people who find themselves in lives they hadn’t anticipated: seriously ill, disabled or caring for someone who is.”

My introduction:  “I’m in the middle of the age range of baby boomers. But I am way ahead of the rest of the pack when it comes to what we might face as we get older. Fellow boomers might not want to think about life-threatening illness, Depends, walkers, or handicapped parking. Neither did I. But I’ve been though it all and came through it OK. I am alive. And I am disabled. And I am full of opinions and observations that will help others prepare for and adjust to the world ahead of them.”

I am ever grateful for the invaluable love and support showed by Matt, my kids and other family and friends, for the medical team that literally saved my life, for anyone who donated to the cancer-related non-profits who funded research yielding protocols that contributed to my success. 

My life hasn’t been and isn’t easy. Since my diagnosis, I’ve fallen 21 times. I’m in constant pain. I take nearly 30 pills a day. I have seen and continue to see lots of physicians and undergo scans and tests.  I’ve lost 2 1/2 inches of height due to my steroid-caused osteoporosis. I quit driving when I couldn’t distinguish the gas pedal from the brake - due to neuropathy in both legs. I remain anemic and immunocompromised. My oncologist explains it this way: my blood cells aren’t doing what they are supposed to be doing. But they are doing enough to keep me alive. 

I’ll take it.

I’m an active 20-year survivor who has been cancer-free (since my transplant) for nearly 17 years. I’ve been able to enjoy two decades of precious time with people I love. I am physically limited in what I can do, but it’s a small price to pay. I tell people I can’t climb mountains, but could never do that when I was able-bodied. Now I have an excuse.

Me during the transplant. The sucker is to avoid the horrible taste that occurs when the baby cells enter your body

Several years ago, I spoke at a UCLA celebration of bone marrow transplant survivors. The school was celebrating its 50th year of its transplant program and I was marking my 10th year as a transplant survivor.  Many survivors, family and friend and medical professionals attended. A few current patients had been wheeled to the second floor with their IV poles to view the program in the courtyard. I told my story about when I first checked into my room on the transplant floor in 2008, a young woman stopped by. She was a bone marrow transplant survivor, and was returning a book to the unit and she asked if there were any new patients to the floor. She came to me to spark hope during desperate days. She said she had made it through just fine, despite many setbacks. I remember her beautiful long hair. “And this is my own hair!” she said. 

The encounter was memorable. 

And my transplant was a success - with zero setbacks. I told the patients I hope my story would encourage them.

I closed my short speech with my favorite summary of my life these past 20 years.

I’ve been to hell and back and hell and back with emphasis on the back.

Cheers to life

No Bruce for you! How this disabled fan overcame inept, unhelpful employees to see the Boss

It was the best of venues, it was the worst of venues.

Not long ago I went to two amazing concerts within four days. I saw Melissa Etheridge at a local community college and Bruce Springsteen at a larger out-of-town venue. 

One place went overboard in making sure the event was accessible to me with my walker and the other one could not have been worse. And to top it off, our ride from the hotel to the concert at the out-of-town show was a shuttle bus from hell. Not for the other passengers, but definitely for me and my friend. 

The first venue was the College of the Canyons Performing Arts Center (PAC). The staff and volunteers at the PAC an intimate venue with nearly 900 seats, have always done a wonderful job accommodating disabled patrons. I gave them a shout out in a blog post in 2012 for being a place that went out of their way to be accommodating. 

 Since then, it has gotten even better. Upon entrance to the lobby, I was ushered by a volunteer to a woman who was the accessibility concierge, standing at a podium a few steps away. Did I know where I was sitting? Did I need any assistance? I showed them my ticket and said that first I needed to use the restroom. Did I know where that was? Yes, I said, as I proceeded that direction with a friend. It was as if every attendant had been trained to look for disabled guests and to rush to their assistance. I was helped to my seat, assisted with fitting into a crowded row and was told they would take my walker away but to give them a wave if I needed it during the show. I did not. At the end of the show, a few helpers showed up immediately and assisted me in standing up and getting to my walker. 

 

Melissa killed it.

 I knew the Springsteen concert at the Kia Forum in Inglewood would be a challenge - involving a drive, overnight accommodations, transportation to and from the concert and getting to an accessible seat in the venue itself. And the Forum is pretty big - it can hold more than 17,000 fans - so just finding my way to the show was going to be a challenge. I always plan ahead and make advance phone calls to make sure things will be as easy for me as possible. I have used a walker for nearly 19 years since cancer  ravaged my body and brain and have seen varying degrees of accessibility over the years - although ADA compliance should be an indisputable standard. 

 The first obstacle was in securing tickets for the event. I had done my online research and learned that if I could only buy inaccessible tickets they could be exchanged by the venue for accessible seats. In the frenzy for post-COVID Springsteen tour tickets, I was thrilled to score two regular seats - nosebleeds - and the instructions were to call the Forum a day after tickets went on sale to speak to a person in the disabled assistance office. When I did that, I was told exchanging my tickets for accessible ones only applied to the day of the concert. Yeah, right, I’m going to book a hotel, travel more than an hour on the off chance there is an accessible and companion seat available. Then she asked “Do you want to buy accessible tickets?” Um, yes. She sold me two, even though Ticketmaster didn’t have any the day before. They would be available at will-call the day of the show. I sold my original seats to an able-bodied Springsteen fan.

 I called the hotel ahead of time to ask if it had a shuttle bus to take us to the Forum. The concierge said the hotel did not have one, but told me about a tour bus service available to take us to and from the concert. Perfect! My husband had driven us to the hotel and would pick us up the next morning. 

 Ever the planner, I called LA VIP Tours to see if their vans were accessible. One aftereffect of my cancer battle is neuropathy and weakness in both legs. They’ve been getting worse the last few years. I cannot walk long distances or go up stairs unless they are very low. Even a ramp is tough for me to navigate. “Do you need a wheelchair lift?” asked the gentleman at LA VIP.  That would work, I said. “We’ll get you up there.” Perfect. For $45 each round- trip, the van would take us to and from the show. I selected a 5 p.m. pickup time - the show was at 7:30. 

 Armed with maps of the concert venue and seating chart, I made some calls to ensure the experience would go smoothly. Because my accessible tickets were available at will-call, which I noticed was “at the top of the ramp”, I called the Forum’s disability service number the day before the show. Was there any way they could email me the tickets? No. Was there any way my friend could pick up the tickets using my ID and credit card so I wouldn’t have to go up the ramp? No. And I asked where I could be dropped off. At any of the entrances, she said. 

 I also wanted to know the location of  the stage, so I could know which exit or entrance to use. The seating map clearly showed it on one side and I knew my seats were ground level - across the room from the stage. This question seemed to flummox the aid. “The stage is in the middle,” she said. Um, no it’s not, I responded. The seating chart clearly shows the stage is on one side of the arena.

 I placed another call to the shuttle office. Did I have to request a van with a wheelchair lift? Do you use a wheelchair? the woman on the phone asked. No, I use a walker but I can’t go up stairs and the lift would work fine. “You’ll be able to go up these stairs,” she said. “They are very small steps.” 

 The day of the show, we made it to our hotel about an hour before pick-up. In keeping with the comedy-of-errors theme of our trip, the lady at the front desk said our room was not accessible even though we had reserved one. I had brought my emergency non-accessible room aids - a step stool and a toilet topper - because it wasn’t the first time a hotel messed up on accessible quarters. 

 They gave us keys to the room and, surprise: it was accessible. My husband took a photo of my friend, Norma, and me in the hotel room happily looking forward to the show….little did we know we would face obstacle after obstacle before a note was played.

 Outside the lobby, the van arrived right on schedule and I nearly cried when I saw how high the steps were to climb on board - higher than any stairs I had ever seen. My husband went to the room to get the step stool and with the help of three people, I was able to get up Mount Everest, I mean the VIP van stairs. We decided to leave the stool with the van driver Jesus for my return trip. After a four-mile ride, our driver pulled over not at one of the entrances, but at least 1/4 mile away across a nearly vacant parking lot. You are kidding, I said. We asked Jesus if he could just drive me closer after the other Boss fans in the van had disembarked. No, he said. Norma talked to a nearby Forum employee tending to the lot. Did they have a golf cart to get people with mobility issues closer? No, he said. 

 Jesus gave us a flyer showing where we were dropped off (the yellow star in the middle) and where we would be picked up (the other yellow star after we exited using the red arrow pathways).

The walk to the van after the show would be twice as long as the one I took upon drop off. It was across two busy streets at what would be nearly 11:30 at night. I walk at a turtle’s pace, so I would need super powers to get across those streets containing thousands of giddy fans heading home. If I didn’t survive the trek, arrangements could be made right away, because the van would pick us up between a cemetery and a flower shop. Usually, I replace my walker with a wheelchair if I know I have to walk a long distance - but my calls led me to believe I could be dropped off close to the entrance. 

 Trudge, trudge, trudge. We thought maybe we were in a Punk’d episode when we interacted with uninformed employee after uninformed employee. We asked directions to will-call and were pointed in one direction. Turtle-step after turtle-step, we didn’t see a clear path to the booth. We asked a second employee and they literally pointed the opposite direction toward the area where we had just walked. Turtle-step after turtle-step, we reversed our course and began to doubt the second employee’s guidance. We asked a third person and they sent us the opposite direction again. We were to keep going until we saw a black tent. That would be the will-call. 

 Trudge, trudge, trudge, crowded line after crowded line. We had been dropped off at the Kareem Court lot, on the exact opposite side of the box office. We finally got to the will-call booth under the black tent. It was the wrong will-call booth, only for VIPs. The correct one was up the dreaded ramp. 

 I found a solitary bench up the ramp where I sat after we retrieved our tickets. The arena doors were not yet opened, but fortunately there was a patio where we could buy food and drinks and relax before we got inside. We didn’t see any chairs. The guard at the entrance told Norma it would not be a problem to grab our food and then sit on the will-call bench to eat it. I went inside to select our fare, left Norma there to wait in line, then I tried to go outside the gate to the solo bench. The guards at the gate said I very definitely could NOT do that. No leaving the patio area once you are in. 

 I summoned Norma and told her the bench plans were no more. We set our tacos on a ledge next to the trash bins and I had to stand and lean against the ledge to balance while I ate my taco.

 When the arena doors finally opened, we had to use the restroom. The hallways were jam-packed and as we inched along, we faced a sea of humanity in line to use the ladies’ room. Usually I can politely make my way past, explaining that I’ll be using the disabled stall (which they should not be using) but it was too crowded to make any headway. 

 Then, the only nice staff member we met all night approached us and said there was another accessible restroom just down the hall and if we went to the guy in the suit, he would take care of us. Woo hoo! 

 Trudge, trudge, excuse me, sorry, trudge, trudge. 

 We passed a woman in a wheelchair complaining that the Forum needed to do a better job of accommodating disabled folks. 

 We finally got to the man in the suit. We told him we heard he could help us find the accessible restroom. He was visibly annoyed. We quickly realized he must have hated his job so much, there was no way he would voluntarily assist us in any way. Well, he said, you have to move there to the end of the line, which we did. And then, he told us to back in another inch and another inch. I expected him to say “NO BRUCE FOR YOU!” if we stepped across the imaginary line. When we finally got to the beginning of the line, he pointed to two accessible single-toilet restrooms. He gave Norma the third degree when she wanted to use the other toilet, like she was supposed to leave me there and get back in line for the first restroom we saw. 

 We took an elevator down to the floor level. Just as I’d feared, we had arrived at the opposite end of where our seats were in the arena. Trudge, trudge, trudge. We got to our floor level seats — on a slight platform with a wheelchair lift - 10 minutes before showtime at 7:30. We had left our hotel (I repeat: four miles away!) at 5 p.m. 

The wheelchair lift broke down about two hours into the show. I know because I had to use the restroom and it worked on the way down but when I came back it wouldn’t budge. It was quite a task to find someone who could fix it. Three guys who were using the lift as a bar top for their beers offered to carry me up the stairs. I declined. We finally were able to find an attendant who could jerry-rig it so I could get back to my seat. This was not an intermission. We were wasting valuable time, fussing with the lift rather than enjoying the concert.

  

The show was spectacular. 

 Before it was over, we decided we would not use the shuttle because it was just too far away and I dreaded going up the massive stairs again. And my legs were extremely tired. We planned to call an Uber, Lyft or taxi to take us the short trip back, eat the $45 and leave my handy step stool behind. We asked for assistance to find where the ride-shares or taxis picked up and we were met with another round of incompetent, unhelpful employees, pointing every which way. One even suggested we go out to the street and summon one from the sidewalk. We trudged to the opposite side of the building where there was Lot H, dedicated to ride-sharing services. We couldn’t book one for less than an hour wait. There was no place to sit. 

Just then a rogue car emerged from the lot with the driver’s window down, “Anyone need a ride?”

He was a freelance ride-share driver who charged us $80. He said other ride services would charge us a minimum of $150 after a big concert like this one. He said he is very aware of the needs of the disabled, because one of his legs was amputated above the knee. As I put my seatbelt on in the front seat, I silently hoped it wasn’t his right leg. He also showed me where I could scan to download a website so I could buy cosmetics from him! Ummm, no thanks. I just wanted to get back to our hotel. 

 He got lost along the way and when we eventually pulled up to our destination, he forced us to give him a crazy high tip. We were just happy he didn’t kidnap or kill us. All told, we spent close to $300 to be shuttled to and from our hotel to the Forum, including two tips to Jesus. 

Did I mention it was a FOUR MILE DRIVE? 

 There are three things I learned from this adventure:

1)  I will never go to the Kia Forum again. 

2) I will never book another trip with LA VIP Tours.

3) Venues should learn from the College of the Canyons PAC - whose event staff is mostly volunteers - when it comes to accommodating people with disabilities. A little bit of training is all it would take for event workers to be aware of and kindly help those of us who need it.

If Springsteen ever plays the College of the Canyons PAC, I will be there in a hungry heartbeat.