Illustration by Doug Davis

One Saturday night in the early ’80s, when I was in college, I came home late, looked in the bathroom mirror and found the entire right side of my wheelchair covered with blood.
Don’t worry–it wasn’t myblood.

At the time I was going to a lot of punk-rock shows. I liked the music, but I also liked the energy, the danger, the sense that anything could happen and frequently did. The whole scene possessed an in-your-face, “I have a right to be here too and screw you if you can’t deal with it” vibe that intoxicated me as a young gimp–although I didn’t pay much attention at all to disability issues back then. Basically, I was just another geeky suburban kid who lived with his parents and went partying in Hollywood on the weekends–I just stuck out in the crowd, being on wheels.

And not just any wheels either, but a bang