Well, who knew? Turns out, according to the Washington Times, Reed Doughty, Redskins safety, has a hearing loss. Don’t get too excited. He’s definitely not deaf. Just has a hearing loss.

Gotta give up a simultaneous eye-roll and kiss-fist for the headline of that story: “Redskins’ Doughty tackles hearing loss.”

Get it? He’s a football player. He tackles. He has hearing loss. Ha ha ha! Ha. Um, ha.

If his name sounds familiar, you’re right. He’s the safety that was called up to replace the late, great Sean Taylor, #21 forever. Doughty’s story was only made more memorable when we found out his hefty paycheck was going towards his baby son’s medical expenses for battling chronic kidney failure… and it almost wasn’t enough.

Anyway, this is newsworthy why? Because he’s been able to get by without hearing aids pretty much since childhood, but since this year the NFL is permitting an audio linkup for a defensive player, Doughtry won’t be able to watch defensive signals on the sideline. He’s gotta hustle to make sure he can see London Fletcher in the huddle. ‘Cause, y’know, if he can see him, he can hear him.

Other than that, is his hearing loss a big deal? Eh. Not really.

Hey, cool.

(Pic from here.)

In DC, is there a place you can go where everyone knows your name in sign? (Okay, sorry for the lame attempt at trying to re-create the spirit of the theme song from “Cheers” … Where everybody knows your name, and they’re always glad you came. You wanna be where you can see, our troubles are all the same. You wanna be where everybody knows your name… )

I’ve got one. This summer I’ve fallen in love with Sticky Rice, a sushi place that just opened on H Street NE, between 12th and 13th. With it being a mere ten minutes walk from my house, I find myself there every week (sometimes even twice in the same week despite the complaints of my painfully thin wallet).

When I go in, one of the hostesses, who does know how to sign because her mom’s deaf (although she’ll soon be leaving for college again once the summer ends), greets me familiarly and asks if I want to sit at the bar, my usual location. The bartender with the mohawk will pour me a particularly potent gin and tonic while I linger over the menu with prettily named items (”snap, crackle, pop”) when I already know I’ll just order the dirty vegan with a couple of sushi rolls.

If I’m there with my friends (usually Kristi Ann and Michelle - we stay for hours just talking, laughing, and ordering another plate of garden balls), we’ll opt for a table on the first floor, although there is a sushi bar on the second floor that sometimes has deaf sushi chefs (is there some technical term that I am ignorant of? I guess I could google it… itamae!). Our table is the first booth, which Kristi Ann thinks the better electronic waterfall sign is located. I like it because I get a good view of the Asian soap operas (subtitled!) they play above the front door.

The bartenders and the waiters might scribble away at their pads, resuming conversations that we started the last time I was there. Like Erik, the general manager, wants to know how to make their Blingo nights ASL-friendly. Blingo nights are the speedy bingo games held every Thursday night. Once they gave away a free iphone for the prize! These games have even hearing people going “what did he just say??” So the matter of making it accessible to ASL users is no easy matter. I brought another friend of mine, Jen Kaika, a brilliant ASL interpreter and awesome friend, over once to discuss strategy on this very matter but we were too distracted by the bucket of tater tots and sinfully delicious coconut rice dessert to make any concrete plans. But I have confidence.

Sticky Rice, you’ve become my Cheers (minus the guys at the bar with business suits, remember Norm? and insert young and hot-looking tattooed waiters and waitresses).

So what about you? What’s your place, your Cheers?

It’s that time of year again, the biggest DPHH of the fall slate! We’re hosting the September DPHH at the Washington Harbor, with a new, unprecedented twist: choices galore! Meet at the water fountain that is adjacent to our usual location and  have your pick of the bars that encircle it. Last September, a happy group of DPHHers docked their boat at the Harbor and came ashore to join in the fun. If you have a boat, avoid the road traffic and take the water route for a fun evening (be sure to exercise caution, just as you would on the road)!

The outdoor waterfront/patio area is serviced by establishments which you can choose from, such as Tony & Joe’s outdoor bar, Nick’s Riverside Grill, Cabanas, and Sequoia. The waterfront provides a spectacularly dazzling view of the Potomac, the Kennedy Center, Key Bridge, and Washington Monument among other District fixtures. While you enjoy that ice-cold beer, or the tasty flavors of your favorite drink, you’ll have a nice background to rest your eyes on, before someone spots you and chats you up!

The nearest Metro is the Foggy Bottom stop on the Orange/Blue lines. From Union Station, you can take the D.C. Circulator Bus which traverses the city directly from Union Station to points along K Street in Georgetown. One of its two Washington Harbor stops will leave you with an easy eight-minute down 25th or 27th street stroll to the waterfront!

Nearest Metro: Foggy Bottom (Orange/Blue Lines)

Link to the DC Circulator bus map:
http://www.dccirculator.com/routemap.html

Washington Harbour link:
http://dc.about.com/od/neigborhoodprofiles/a/WashHarbour.htm

Please visit the new Washington, DC DPHH webpage for the specific address and the latest photos at:
http://dphh.com/washingtondc

You work hard. Put in the proverbial elbow grease. Pull teeth in order to get what you want or need, and you got the bite marks to prove it. And then… someone else comes along and shamelessly lays claim to the fruits of your labor.

Sounds like a typical cutthroat workday, right? Wrong. I’m talking about making arrangements for an interpreter.

Throughout the years, I’ve noticed two different types of people who ride on the coattails of other people’s efforts. There are those people who realize you have first dibs and follow your lead because, if not for your efforts, the interpreter wouldn’t have been there in the first place.

One time, I secured an interpreter for an event that was hosted by the county public school system. It just so happened that a deaf couple showed up, and they were not aware of the procedure for obtaining an interpreter. During the event, while we all were utilizing the interpreter’s services, the deaf couple respectfully yielded. “GO AHEAD YOU FIRST PERSON ASK,” they would sign in fluent American Sign Language (ASL).*

I’ve also been on the other side of the fence. There were occasions where someone else had already snagged an interpreter, and I have deferred to the person. In situations like these, the interpreter usually does his/her best to evaluate the situation, and makes sure we get equal treatment. However, it’s an unwritten rule that the person who made the request first gets first dibs.

An interpreter friend of mine recounted the time when four interpreters from two different agencies showed up for the same job. It turned out that the two deaf clients each requested interpreter services without being aware of the other’s actions. They all came up with an agreeable solution, which was that one interpreter from each agency stayed. This was to ensure that both agencies get reimbursed properly.

Then there are those people who need to consult Aretha Franklin and learn about “R-E-S-P-E-C-T/find out what it means to me.” To put it bluntly, they are just plain selfish, rude, and inconsiderate.

A colleague of mine requested a cued speech transliterator for a workshop. An unfamiliar deaf person showed up. Upon seeing the cued speech transliterator, the person nearly threw a fit in demanding to know where the sign language interpreter was. Turned out the person didn’t bother to log in an accommodation request. Tough cookies.

An experience took place a few years ago that left a sour taste in my mouth. I had finally secured an interpreter for a personal event, after battling the famously ubiquitous line spouted by the organizers: “You need to bring your own interpreter.” Upon arriving at the venue that night, I was enjoying myself until I noticed a man slowly slithering his way to where I was. “DEAF YOU?” he inquired. After affirming that I was, he declared, “SAME SAME.”

After a short period of time making small meaningless chit-chat, his ulterior motives became clear. He attempted to whisk the interpreter that I fought hard for away from me for whatever communication purposes that suited him. Even the interpreter darted a questioning glance towards me regarding his shenanigans.

“WAIT WAIT WAIT! DO DO?” I signed to him in an urgent manner.

“WRONG WRONG WRONG?” he responded, repeating that sign in rapid succession that is the loose ASL glossy* version of the phrase: “Whatsamatterwithcha?”

“STOP PLAY. ME SERIOUS. WHAT-DOING?” I demanded.

“NOTHING TAKE EASY. NO BIG D-E-A-L.” The last word he fingerspelled each letter with a flourish.

“YES BIG D-E-A-L! NOT RIGHT TAKE INTERPRETER WITHOUT CHECK WITH ME FIRST!”

Then he said something that took the interpreter and me by surprise. “FOR FOR ASK YOU? ME HAVE RIGHT USE INTERPRETER. YOU MUST LEARN SHARE.”

Then the interpreter, who generally did not like confrontations, was becoming slightly alarmed at the turn of events. She then stepped in and informed him that she could not just pick up and leave with him without checking with me first since I made the request for an interpreter, and not him.

“ME NOT ACCEPT. SHOULD SHARE PERIOD.”

“EXPECT ME ACCEPT ACCEPT LET YOU GO?” I shot back. “NO NOT ACCEPT! INSULT ME.” I glared back at him. I then motioned for the interpreter to come with me, and we left him in the dust. Of all the nerve! Needless to say, I did not see him the rest of the evening.

“There are deaf people who feel an automatic entitlement to things without actively making some kind of effort,” confessed an interpreter I contacted. “This is true in other demographics, but especially predominant in the Deaf community.” This interpreter requested anonymity due to the potential backlash from clients, who are a part of the Deaf culture, an extremely small world indeed.

Sometimes, unique situations arise and you stand up to the occasion– simply because its the right thing to do morally, even so it may not be legal. There was that time I participated in an intensive all-day seminar. A Latina woman happened to be the half of the interpreting duo. Early on, it was discovered that one of the deaf participants’ mother did not have a strong command of English as Spanish was her native tongue. We all felt bad for the mother because she was struggling to understand what was going on.

Evidently, the ball was dropped somewhere, and a Spanish translator was not available. The interpreter asked her partner and us if it was OK that she step down from her role as a sign language interpreter and provide translation services for the mother. All of the participants unanimously agreed, much to the relief of the mother. A short time later, the agency sent over another sign language interpreter, and the company that organized the seminar agreed to take on the extra expenses for their oversight.

My general philosophy is that if you put in the elbow grease, you should be able to enjoy the fruits of your labor. However, the fruits of your labor would be sweeter if you share them with someone respectful of your efforts. Have you experience any horror stories about obtaining an interpreter only to have someone waltz in and think s/he is entitled to their services?

* Important note: Because ASL does not have a true written format, glossies are American Sign Language (ASL) signs transcribed into English, sign for sign. It’s a common misconception that ASL glossies are “broken English,” but that is not true. ASL is a language in its own right. I do not profess to be a linguistic expert in ASL, and the above glossies are derived from my particular experience.

Here’s a joke about America’s Energy Plan for you: A guy walks into a bar filled with average Americans and randomly asks them if they’ve ever heard of global warming (and the potentially serious impact it could have on future generations of human beings all over the world).

“Of course,” almost everyone replies.  “I saw An Inconvenient Truth!  I know all about…”

“Have you ever heard of peak oil?” the guy asks, interrupting them all. 

Practically nobody has, and that’s the joke.

If you don’t get it, don’t feel bad.  As recently as last April I wouldn’t have gotten it either.  Oil has been around my whole life.  I have never had any reason to question its presence or potential absence.  Yes, there were dim and then more urgent warnings in the background, but these were always related to pollution, to environmental devastation.  And after all, I’ve seen An Inconvenient Truth too.

I never thought that worldwide oil production might peak in my lifetime.  I never thought about what would happen if it did peak and then remained flat while worldwide demand for it continued to rise.  And I certainly never thought about what might happen if worldwide production entered terminal decline in the midst of that overwhelming demand.

Then a friend of mine told me what peak oil was all about, and I haven’t been able to look at anything in the same way since.  I can’t look at the furniture in my living room without trying to calculate how much oil went into its manufacture and transport.  My bookcase, for example, is made out of the wood of an old barn (I recycled and did my part to save the environment, yay me!) but how much gas did the carpenter burn driving out to the site of that old barn to load the two by fours into the back of his pickup truck?  How much electricity did he burn cutting the wood with his table saw?  My television, this laptop, how many barrels of oil?  My easy chair, my front door, its lock, my son’s plastic swing, the light bulb glowing in my lamp?  The entire townhouse I live in, the city I live in? 

How much oil?

I’m from Wisconsin, land of row upon row of corn green and wheat yellow in the summer.  How much diesel (derived from oil) to power the tractors to plow and harvest the fields?  How much more to transport the kernels and grain to the trucks and boats and planes that take it all over the world?

How much mass starvation if oil hits three hundred, four hundred, or five hundred dollars a barrel?  You can maybe put a solar panel on the roof of a tractor’s cab to run some of the air conditioning, or the radio, but can that solar panel drag a plow?  How much oil goes into the production of a solar panel, anyway?  Or a wind turbine?  How much oil to mine the metal that makes a propeller blade?

I’m not an energy expert, so I need to know the answers to these questions.  Because there are things that I just don’t get.  John McCain wants to build nuclear power plants.  Barack Obama wants to temporarily tap the Strategic Petroleum Reserve to bring down gas prices.  How much oil does it take to mine and transport an ounce, a pound, a ton of uranium?  If you release a million barrels of oil from the Reserve, how many barrels of oil does it take to fill it back up again, especially if (and probably when) gas prices go back up a few months or a year from now?

I don’t know if this is going to amount to much, but I’m not going to vote for the guy who can’t or won’t answer this stuff.  And for what it’s worth, I’m going to tell my wife and everyone else I know not to vote for him, either.   I want both candidates to discuss their views on peak oil on public television.  I want them both to tell me what they plan to do if the peak is five years off, twenty, or if it occurred five years ago.  “America is addicted to oil” doesn’t cut it anymore… that’s like saying human beings breathe oxygen and water is wet.  “I’ll get America off foreign oil in ten years” isn’t good enough for me either.  I don’t care if oil isn’t going to entirely vanish tomorrow.  I want a president who plans—and acts—as if it will. 

Did you know, for example, that algae holds great promise as a third generation biofuel?  What do our candidates think about that, and how will they scale up production beyond a few demonstration plants?  Does either candidate have a plan for creating hydrogen production facilities that run on renewable power?  How about installing an infrastructure to transport and store hydrogen so our cars and trucks and tractors can run on it… without relying on petroleum?  How do we rebuild our electric grid so that plugging in our hybrids five years from now doesn’t black out an area the size of Los Angeles?

I don’t know the answers to these questions.  But my President has to.  If the era of cheap and easy oil is over, the political era of cheap and easy promises is over, as well.