So YOU Had a Bad Day? Was That With Or Without Your Legs?
Well the guarantee is this [and it's rock solid]: reading this is MUCH easier than living it.
The difference between now and then? Then gatekeepers abounded and you were as likely, and as liable, to be able to have a word with a figure in the public space as you were to not be wrestled to the floor by aforementioned gatekeepers when, and if, you tried a little too aggressively. Which might explain what happened when last I met — read: tried to — Karen Allen and Stockard Channing (my tastes are wide, confusing and widely confusing).
Now though, with only a small bit of craft, you can get ahold of just about anyone you want. The more people want to get ahold of you though, still, the harder it is to get through the front door. And, for good reason, if you’re a woman who people want to get ahold of, well there are not enough hours in the day to spend them tiptoeing through the trolls to weed out the wheat from the chaff. Which might explain why my emails to Kim Gordon and PJ Harvey have gone unanswered.
But like Allen Ginsberg once told me, right before he tried to kiss me, “dharma gates are endless.” Meaning can be found anywhere and this, in general, has guided my decision to always put my phone number on OXBOW records. Something I lifted from Henny Youngman who for the longest time you could just call.
[P]eople never imagine that they are asking me about the worst day of my life. Like right in the middle of picking up carry out. Or waiting in line at the DMV.
So it was not at all surprising that I got a DM that said, in general, “Could I take you to lunch sometime?” The writer lived in Concord and me being loathe to travel I suspected not, until this: “I have no legs.” And beyond that “your vibe just seems necessary in my life.” Plus he said he would drive down.
Now I’ve often said that the only people with real problems are those with terminal illnesses and those that have been sexually abused as children. Everyone else? Not problems…difficulties. Some easily surmountable. Some not so.
“I call it The 3-Legged Dog Maxim,” I said as I strode along, on two functioning legs, next to artist Stephan Wold, who rolled along smoothly next to me as we worked our way toward a local noodle house. “If I owned a dog and hacked off one of its legs, after that dog healed I would probably still have a happy and healthy, albeit maybe a little leery of me, dog. That dog wouldn’t view having three legs as a downgrade. Humans don’t seem to work that way.”
“Well,” Wold nodded, “let me tell you…”
And while I’ve usually reserved FIVE EASY PIECES for people whose work I know but who I believe have been badly served by being interviewed badly, one time too many, Wold’s story screamed out for one. Mostly and largely because of how dishonest most of us are about certain aspects of life on Planet Earth. Age is one and it’s painful seeing most of us stumbling around like even if everything works right, we won’t get old. And disability, which most of us greet with a possibly unwarranted mix of horror and pity. No matter the circumstance.
But Wold opened a dharma gate, moved on through it and so here we are: 5 questions. All about the uneasiest days of Wold’s life and times.
[ONE] Not having legs gives you a certain kind of celebrity insofar as you’re noticed, recognized, stand apart AND you’re relatively young…how correct is this? And if people are bold enough to comment, do they tend to think you’re a vet?
STEPHAN: You are 100 percent correct. I never thought of it as celebrity, but celebrity it is. I’m 46 years old but I have been paralyzed since I was 24. I’ve been in a wheelchair for 22 years. I have only been an amputee for about a year. So I am technically a paraplegic amputee now.
When I was 24 I was crushed in a forklift rollover accident. That accident powdered T-12, L1, and L2 of my spine and the spinal cord. It broke all the ribs on my left side, snapped my femur in half, broke my pelvis into three pieces, punctured my left lung, and lost my spine. Rough shape! Guess what? They can put Humpy Dumpy back together again! With metal and screws.
The bones in my legs became infected from the metal that was inside my pelvis and leg bones for 20 years though. The last two years I spent fighting bone infections and the holes that developed in my legs from the bone chips that were working their way out of my skin. One hole went all the way through my right leg and it was the size of a
softball. I could see the femur and all the tendons, muscles, and rotten flesh inside my leg. It looked like something Tom Savini made for a horror movie.
But I’ve always had some form of celebrity to a degree. Even with legs. Anyone that has ever loved me I let them know I love them back. Old women used to run their fingers through my big blonde curls on the city bus as a kid. Same with the waitresses I worked with in restaurants. Just run their fingers through my hair.
And lots of different people interact with me about not having legs.
Little kids are my favorite. I eventually just tell them the truth or a suitable version of it depending on their age.
One was telling me all the pain could go away if I just put my head down and took a little nap. The other voice was telling me it wasn’t going to be a nap. It was a matter of life or death. It was the last nap I was ever going to take if I took it.
One kid just hugged me and told me that he loved me. Another grabbed the back of my wheelchair and took off running down the supermarket aisle. His Mother was mortified. She apologized to me many times in Spanish. I just said no problem and smiled and laughed. My favorite is telling kids I cut my own legs off with a chainsaw and burned them up. They never believe me. I always tell them I got crushed by a truck and that they should always listen to their Mother.
Only Vets ask me if I’m a Vet though. And they always do so quietly. Even the meanest of biker Marines. When they ask me their voice always softens up a little bit. Younger Vets from the Gulf are usually different. Maybe it’s just being younger and more pissed or carefree. Luckily they made it in some form or fashion. Younger guys usually just yell “hey homie glad you made it!” And they ask me how I got fucked up.
I say a work accident and then they tell me about their horror show in a war. I’ve always been thankful that my suffering was done in relative peace. Out in the middle of Sonoma County. In a dark parking lot surrounded by vineyards. As an old skater, a parking lot is not a bad place to go. Peaceful and ordered. Not in the chaos of war.
But I think regular civilians are just afraid to ask if I was a Vet. They just ask what happened. And tons of people ask. It's fucked up but people never imagine that they are asking me about the worst day of my life. Like right in the middle of picking up carry out. Or waiting in line at the DMV.
[TWO] Who modified the forklift and how much do you remember of the crash?
STEPHAN: In the industrial world there are heavy machinery rental companies. Lots of places like wineries and construction sites rent forklifts and bobcats and stuff. A forklift rental company modified the forklift. They do it all the time. Not just them but everyone rental company does. Nissan made the forklift and I have no idea if they approve of these modifications or not.
The crash was like getting hit by a bolt of lightning. I was doing something I had done thousands of times before. Just dumping trash into the back of the dump truck with the forklift. There were about a dozen bins of garbage for the truck. I was halfway through and it tipped over on an embankment in the rain close to 1AM in the morning. I got pinned underneath it.
All I can say is the pain you feel when you break all those at the same time is unique. It feels like a river of electricity running through your body. And your breathe is like swimming in deep cold river water the first time in Spring. It’s amazing you can even take it, but you can.
The first words I screamed were “God help me!”
I was belly down in a pile of my own vomit and blood with my thigh going perpendicular across my face underneath me. I had an overwhelming sense of not
wanting to die alone out there that night. I was screaming for help until I couldn’t scream anymore.
Then I started banging on the forklift with a wrench just to make noise. I was lucky that a woman across the street, about 100 yards, heard the crash and me screaming. She thought I got shot and called the police.
I left my body for a little bit. I could see my coworker, this Hungarian guy cleaning the floor. I heard two voices. One was telling me all the pain could go away if I just put my head down and took a little nap. The other voice was telling me it wasn’t going to be a nap. It was a matter of life or death. It was the last nap I was ever going to take if I took it.
All the physical shit sucks. Would you like to drive a 1986 Ford Escort that had been in a couple of crashes for the rest of your life? Fuck no!
I remember seeing two patrol cars coming down the road and turning into the parking lot. They saw me laying there and came over to me shining their flashlights on me. Everything was cool when I saw that officer’s shiny black boots in front of me. I told him my name, where I grew up, who my family was, and to make sure to tell a select group of people I loved them. I felt better that God granted one of my wishes. And that was not to die alone at least.
Then I remember all of my co-workers coming out of the building. The horror on their faces was too much for me to take. I remember not wanting them to have to look into my eyes so I put my face down in my arms and the next thing I knew the fire department was there and I was in the back of an ambulance pleading with the paramedic to just put me out. I just wanted it to all end.
Give me a big shot of morphine and let’s roll out.
I’m glad he lied to me and told me we were already at the hospital and to “just fucking hang on man!” I’m also glad that those people in the medical profession take an oath to preserve all life seriously or I wouldn’t be here.
I met that paramedic years later. He told me I was by definition, mutilated. He also told me that out of all the people he had seen in similar condition I was the only one that lived. And he had seen hundreds of bodies like mine.
The 26-day coma was awesome to live in too! It was like the Metallica One video. Not knowing if you’re dead or alive. All you have is the reality inside your mind and it’s a pure fucking horror show. Think Jacob’s Ladder (1990) the movie. That movie is so close to that state of consciousness.
I believe everyone goes to Hell. I went there. I went to Heaven too and had to turn around and come back to this shit. I think Hell is just the last of the human brain dying. A crisis mode of the mind. Every last ounce of your ego gets stripped away in Hell. Not until all that’s left is spirit do you move on. Just pure energy. But I have a place in the after life already! It’s a beautiful cabin in a great woods near a deep dark river.
The highlights of my personal coma-hell are the most interesting to most people. I seen a dude rape and kill my Grandmother in front of me after he pealed all of the skin off my body but I was still alive.
Horace Grant from the Chicago Bulls beat the shit out of me. Horace paralyzed me on the cement in a pick-up basketball game vs the 1980’s Bulls and then some Native Americans took me ice fishing!
I got ripped in half and lived as just a head pulling myself across a carpet for about a week straight. You just wish time existed in Hell. That’s the hard part. Time does not exist. I believed all that shit to be reality. It didn’t matter one bit that my body was strapped to a hospital bed in Santa Rosa, California. That wasn’t where I was. For the complete list of horrors I’d have to write a book. I should they were interesting journeys. Selling fear is easy.
[THREE] How did you find me and how did the person who sent you my stuff
come to think we’d make sense to each other?
STEPHAN: My best friend Ryan sent me a link to your blog. Ryan is a rad guy.
He’s my brother. We’ve been best friends since we were 14 back
in Wisconsin. He’s always hunted down good music. He had heard OXBOW
and he loves Shellac and the Electrical Audio message boards. Somebody
posted your Steve Albini interview on the EA message boards and Ryan
read it there.
We both love Albini. Genius is genius period. And he sent me an email with the link to the Albini article but said, “read this dude’s blog, it's so good.” He knows me like a brother. He knows my sense of humor and he knows how I love things that are “real”. Shit like men fighting each other for money or fun. People fucking. Crime. He knows I like History too. I grew up around a lot of old people as an only child. I love stories. I love to listen and hear new things.
Your old New York stories are the best. Ryan and I both love those stories. But your sense of humor is what he thought I’d love the most about you and your writing. It’s the most serious shit human beings could ever imagine, let alone experience, but then you tell a story about coon hunting in the middle of the city. I love that! I learn and
I laugh because of the way you present it.
Selling tragedy is easy. Comedy is the hardest play in the game. I like to be funny too until I’m not. My spirit just can’t be tied down to the tragedy of any one moment I’ve ever experienced. It’s in the past: no need to go back there emotionally or even mentally. Live in the Now.
I love how you’re honestly funny until you’re not too. Plus you’re a
living person that has ties to so many interesting people like Ginsberg or Anton LaVey.
I don’t think most Americans understand the heaviness of Ginsberg. Ginsberg is a good ocean to swim in. There’s lots of fish to catch in there and some gnarly waves. Ginsberg gives life even after death.
You’re interesting to me. You got to experience the Bay Area during a time when a lot of key people were still alive. Maybe I just want to know the secrets of the Bohemians? I went to their club for dinner. An old Black man in the bathroom combed my hair
for me when I was done pissing. I gave him five dollars. He had a
little black and white TV in there. I wanted his job.
But like it says inside the Bohemian club above the entrance to the main room, “Spiders weaving webs need not enter here”. It's carved into the stone. I had
no idea how they felt about wolves so I didn’t apply for anything.
I knew in my heart that I needed to meet you and just say thank you for being you and sharing. It’s inspiring man. Your life is inspiring. You’re helping the handicapped. You can tell people that!
[FOUR] Is there anything you miss about having legs and what’s the thing
most people get wrong about not having them and are there any tricks
to fucking when you do not have legs?
STEPHAN: Man the list of shit you miss about having and using legs is endless.
I miss skateboarding the most. When I had just paralyzed legs I couldn’t ride at all because my legs wouldn’t bend with all the metal and screws in them. But now without my dead legs I can get on a board and push around a little now and I love it.
I would like to take more risks skateboarding but I just can’t put my wife and kids through all that medical shit again. I don’t want to amputate anything else man,
for Christ’s sake enough is enough. God fucked up! He let me keep my dick and my brain! The best two parts of the human male.
I miss weird little shit like cracking my toes in bed and running on the beach racing seals up and down the Sonoma coast.
But I think the thing most people get wrong is that it’s just a physical thing or a physical problem or a problem at all. All the physical shit sucks. Would you like to drive a 1986 Ford Escort that had been in a couple of crashes for the rest of your life? Fuck no! My bio-hardware is shit! But it will do the job for another 20 years.
So not having legs is a huge mental and emotional battle you have to fight everyday. Some people are depressed and shit and they have no problems, just mental problems. Mental health is a bitch for everyone it seems like. Serious shit. But your suicide rate quadruples the minute you’re paralyzed.
One of my best friends in a chair took his life six to seven years in. He told
me he just never wanted to live like this. I told him but we live like the Kings of ancient times, our feet never touch the ground, beautiful women open doors for us….He couldn’t do it.
I don’t blame him, it sucks to live in a body that does nothing and feels nothing but pain.
Breathe, meditate, talk to doctor, take the meds, smoke a joint. I’ve done all those things to survive living like this. I meditate an hour a day. And I take meds for depression. People need to be open about their mental health. Lots of people are willing to help carry your cross to the mount get you through the process of dealing. There’s no one right way.
And it fucks with you knowing that half of your body is cremated and in the grave. It also motivates you too in a way that most people will never have access to. It’s just a deeper depth of human existence. You have to say “Fuck It I’m still a God Damn good looking mother fucker” to yourself when you look in the mirror. Even though I look like Salvador Dali’s “The Persistence of Memory” naked. My lower half just melting away. Don’t get hung up! You’re still here fucking shit up. Give head get head! Hump the Stump!
So I miss a lot of shit. Just being able to climb on my own roof and try to fix shit. I really miss blow jobs. And titty fucking. I loved fucking titties! I can still do it. But if you can’t feel your cock it it’s just not the same! Yet liberating! There’s a lot of sensual
knowledge for a man to be gained when he’s liberated from his cock, or “just getting off.”
I told the escort at the Porno Shop, when she told me she had afternoons free, that I would ride her around like a backpack! Think about it: a human backpack with a hard cock whispering sweet nothings into your ear. I only weigh about 70 pounds. It's a CrossFit workout!
I have to say I love fucking with no legs. With legs? The best, of course. But when I had dead legs they just got in the way of everything. Cutting those dead shits off was so good for me. I don’t know why I was so scared to bury half my body.
No legs sex!
Yes, I got back all of the positions except pile driver variations and standing shit obviously. But I can move around really fast now, it's rad! I can go from North to South in an instant. And ride a woman around like a backpack! While she jumps in the pool! I’m straight but I’m not square. I cook up a nice batch in the bedroom. One part kinky straight guy. One part R. Crumb and a little Genesis P-Orridge. Study up on the Kamasutra and you’re gold baby.
I use my strong wheelchair arms and hands for oil massages. I listen to her. What she says. I just breathe. She knows what she likes. Watch her body see where to go next and with what. I like healthy sex. It’s a workout for the mind, soul, and body. Sometimes it’s just fuckin’ animal style. All good even when it's bad.
[FIVE] Did your art precede the accident or was this something you picked up afterward?
STEPHAN: I chose the Art Life when I was 14 years old. I was a skateboarder. And outside of an all ages punk rock show I saw my friend Andy. He was the sickest dude there. He is a painter and an artist. He started a skateboard company named Molotov. Dude had the best style and the cutest girl hanging with him and I was like whatever that shit is that’s what I want to be doing. Skateboarding got me into skaters like Mark Gonzales and Natas Kappas. They both did art and were the sickest skaters. I was stoked. Skateboarding was the first Love I chose in my life. It led me to some many good things and people.
During the Midwest winters you have to have something to do. I always would draw, paint, make music, and read comic books and beat poetry or the classics. I watched lots of tripped out movies at the University too when I was in high school. I oil painted a lot in high school. It was really just another way to get girls when I was a kid. Honest! Creating things is super sexual. Giving objects the breath of life just because you can. Nothing more.
Isn’t that what Bryan Ferry said years ago? “You know there’s nothing, more than this.” Well at least nothing else is guaranteed. From No-thing comes forth Some-thing and
All-things.
The Art Life is the best. It’s pure at times. Full of comedy and humanity. Lots of hot girls like Artists. And Artists get to float along the social structure. We’re welcome almost everywhere. I got into digital out here in the Bay Area. I worked for a dot com for 14 years in Foster City. I really like digital art. Always have. Warhol is one of my favorites. What would Andy Warhol’s Youtube account look like? Or Picasso’s? They would be so sick!
I really am just turning my memories, experiences, and feelings digital so they can live on long after me. I love Art because it’s often pointless. I love the way Art makes me feel. I always have. Like there’s magic alive in the World. I love knowing a part of me is oil, ink, light, and sound.
I am just L-I-V-I-N Wooderson. The Art Life is just where it’s at for me. Two AM black coffee clubs and stinkerettes. A beautiful woman and a little whiff of the Figg Farms, two eggs and toast, and I’m good. Living through my Heart instead of my head.
I am a simple man with a few simple rules, one of those rules being: Never eat hooker pussy.
¡I AM PURE:GOLD!
