Happy New Year! It's 2014!

Wait. That was a long time ago.

Damn.

Well, a lot's happened since then. I went to the hospital because my potassium sucks (potassium is stored in muscle, which is Out of Stock and backordered in the body of Shea). Then I went to Australia because the rest of my body doesn't suck. Always. Then I went to the set of Mockingjay for the last time.

But those all deserve their own posts. I'm writing a different post.

Take your forefinger and your thumb and make a loop by pressing the tips together. Ask someone to try to break through the loop. 

Go ahead and find someone. I'll wait. 

Well? They shouldn't have been able to. 

The other day I went to the doctor. He asked me to make the loop. I flexed my finger muscles hard, wanting to impress him. 

Alright, fingers. Get your crap together. I never ask you to do ANYTHING but search for hot guy interviews on YouTube. DO THIS. 

Swipe. The doctor's finger broke through the loop. Pinky finger. 

"Let me try again." 

You have typed novels and pressed guitar chords. Are you going to let a pinky finger be stronger than you? Are you gonna take that? 

The doctor's finger swiped through. Break. 

"Wait, one more time." 

YOU ARE FINGERS OF GONDOR. WHATEVER PASSES THROUGH THAT LOOP YOU WILL STAND YOUR GROUND. 

Swipe. Break. 

I am weak. But I am fascinated by my weakness, in every way a person can be weak. I bend and break and fall at the touch, words, and love of others. My fragile heart and body are handled by humanity because I let them be. I've always hated machines. 

Yes, your loop will break sometimes. But choose whose finger swipes through it. Make sure it is tender enough to let you form that loop again and again. 

I cannot stop my loop from breaking. But I can choose who swipes through it. 

And mine is worth being broken.

This has been a beautiful Christmastime for children. I know, because I count myself among them. I refuse to relinquish the embrace of childhood magic during the holidays. I construct gingerbread houses, I visit Santa, I revel in Disney movies and milk and cookies. I celebrate Christmas – the Lord says to be like children. We always are.

I was reminded a few days ago, while delighting in Disney’s new movie Frozen, that twenty children will not be asking to go see it this year. Twenty children will not laugh at the jokes and reach for the stuffed animals. Twenty children rest without this story – and the many other surprises of Christmastime – in their precious heads.

My aunt, uncle, cousins, and a dear friend live in Newtown. Because they are hit even harder by this tragedy of one year ago, I am hit even harder. Their pain is my pain.

It’s one of those pinnacles in history where you know exactly where you were when you heard the news. Me, I was driving home from the Aquarium in Baltimore after a wonderful day with my father, who is gone more often than I’d like since he took a new job in Manhattan. I cried all night that night. By something else was born in me.

I would often say “I’m not big with kids.” In other words, I preferred intellectual, adult, no-need-for-patience interaction over…need-for-patience interaction. Something changed in me that night though. I now know what it was.

I teach a class of thirteen students in religious education. I love them so deeply I could tear up every time I stand before them, but for their sake, I resist. They have are more intellectual and adult than numerous adults.

I flashback frequently to the thousands of little students I’ve spoken to upon a stage in a cafeteria or gymnasium around the country about my children’s book, Marelous Mercer, and how they can become a writer, too. In Ohio, I visited four underprivileged schools. All the children created storybooks for me with crayons and stapled paper. I bent over with each of them, one by one, and found something to compliment in every creation. They flung their arms around me. They told me they wanted to be like me. Funnily enough, it is them I want to be like.

I'm an author of ten novels. My job is writing about heroes. But every time I stop and look at the blinking cursor on the page, I realize what I'm actually doing. I'm hoping I'll see myself in one of them. There is so much we can do for children. There are acts of kindness, love, and courage we may fight back against evil with. There are strangers we can grasp and eyes we can delve into. There are lone tables unapproached and flies unfreed from the spider’s web. There are laughs yet to be given and blushes yet to be drawn. My favorite, there are unexpected, moments-after-meeting “I love yous” yet to be spoken.

28 lives were lost total on this grim anniversary. We are left with broken pieces and hands untrained to repair such grief. But we know that love is the answer. We know what we need to do. We just need the courage to do it. Those children-turned-angels, from where they now perch, know this all with unimaginable clarity, and, from my guess, always have.

On the horrible day of Sandy Hook, my love for humanity that I so arrogantly flaunt was plunged further – plunged. Down. To those below me – in physicality, not in worth.

There are few things in the world I am not shorter than. Belts and shoes are my line of sight in a crowd. My life consists of looking up. Looking up to see. Looking up to hear. Looking up to be heard. Human eyes are my stars. Pockets of rest in the sea of chaos.

But there are sparkles below me. There are sunbeams on rivers and fireflies burning through tall grass. There are twenty of them I can count.

To the fireflies and the sparkles on water. We love you.

And we want to be like you.

My blessings and love to all in pain today. I share it.

Shea  

At the risk of sounding overbearingly deep... I'm fascinated by weakness. Fascinated by how hard we try to hide it, to the point where it almost becomes a second identity. Even from ourselves, a lot of times. That's when the battle inside starts to wage. Which am I really? Which side do I fight for, which banner am I wearing? Sometimes you're scared of which side will win. After eighteen years of war, after bloody tears and dark holes, weakness has become my strength. Fear has become my courage. Don't allow those two identities to battle. Let them battle for you. Let your weakness and your pain become the marks and the banner of what your spirit has not retreated from. Whatever the struggle.

Today is the anniversary of my first novel, The Breakers. The main hero is mentally haunted. His best friend is handicapped. His bravest apostle is scared. And me? I'm all of the above. And my tattered banner is raised high. 

Thanks for enduring me, you strong, brave lot. I love you each. Light Find You.

What does this poem make you think of?

For most, it brings Nelson Mandela to mind. It brings resistance to injustice and defiance of society, prison bars shadowing a face and courage holding the breath of a nation.

President Mandela is a beautiful man. He recited this poem again and again in prison to encourage the inmates and himself. He believed in its words.

But he did not write the words.

Ahh, yes, history hurts. But I think there might hold a pleasant surprise when I tell you who did write it.

The author’s name is Williams Ernest Henley. Just by the name, you can guess around the era in which he lived. In the 19th century he wrote few poems and was a husband and father before being called an author. His daughter was the inspiration for Wendy in the quite popular book at the time, Peter Pan. As legend proclaims, the bold and maimed pirate Long John Silver was modeled after him in Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Planet. A burly, red-bearded man who is described by Stevenson to be "jovial, astoundingly clever, and with a laugh that rolled like music [along with fire and vitality]," William Ernest Henley visibly made a mark in literature. And, notably but not primarily, as that of a disabled Englishman.

At a young age Henley contract tuberculosis, which resulted in the amputation of his leg from the knee down. It is here, shortly after the procedure, that he penned his austere poem, “Invictus.” I love this poem. It exudes defiance and strength and is the hidden mascot of disability, the unsung testament in our sacred text. But poetry, like any other art, is subject to interpretation, which explains so tenderly why an inmate may be inspired by it as much as Henley’s fellow handicapped should be.

The point of this post is not to lecture you in history, though I’ve confessed already to loving the topic (how many Hail Mary’s is that penance?).  The point is to illuminate to all of us that our battle – whether disabled or not, the one that you scowl towards every morning when something hurts or feel a rush of bitterness at insolent misunderstandings – is not a new battle.

Actually, the battle has thawed. The war, though still irrefutably being waged, has turned.

Imagine the suffering of poor medical treatment, unmotorized transportation, injury to the revered masculinity (or feminine expectancy) of the Victorian age (which, I might add, has not become extinct today). You think that’s bad and imagine it in the Middle Ages. Unless you were of nobility, apt to be cared for, what choice did the common man have but to attempt their best with a disability or a disabled family member? I do not believe they were naïve. Yes, the more suspicious or uneducated might have tried to parry their newly-abandoned pagan roots in thinking it a cursed punishment rather than biological twist. But most, I think, were strong and silent, willing but weary, knees-sore-from-prayer caretakers of the afflicted or afflicted themselves.

It has never been easy. Disability is not new. Hurt is ancient. And as I always preach, the most courageous triumphs over the challenges have perhaps not been recorded to the scholar’s eye. After all, that is why it is deemed "his-story."

We are lucky today. We are blessed. I wake each morning and think – in theory, I admit – of how predestined it must be that I was born in this generation. That the world has evolved and locked hands to care for me in ways unimaginable centuries – and even decades – ago. But even before, even when that war was bloody, their heads were unbowed.

So must ours be.

My friends, find me unafraid.

S

P.S.I thought this comic went along perfectly:

I'd like to share my Facebook post from the 13th anniversary of 9/11.

About once a day, we lean over to tie our shoes. 
Imagine bending over, blood pounding your face, and when you take a deep breath to inhale - you can't get up. Your strength is lost. And you're stuck down there.
At the end of the day, this happens to me sometimes. After I've spent my energy like currency and splurged one last time to discover I am broke. This is when I admit to being scared. This is when I find ways not to weep. 
I'm not scared for me. I'm scared for you. For the people I love. For knowing that if they fell, I would not have the strength to lift them up. I wouldn't have the strength to hold on if our fingers were locked. 
Every day of their lives, the families and friends of loved ones fallen on September 11th, 2001, carry a burden that splinters joints and uproots hearts. They don't have designated days for grieving. They don't feel that loss once a year.
So for one day, one day of respite, I will carry that burden for them. I will use the strength I have in me. Today, WE can shoulder that excruciating weight. Damn, it hurts. God, it is heavy. But I will hold it. 
In the rapid blur of colors and bodies that makes our world, the greatest accomplishment is freeze-framing one, five, as many as you can to see who is inside them. Yesterday, someone asked me, "Did you know anyone who died that day?" 
I answered; "I knew 3,000." 
So help me. Help me carry 3,000. Help me hold the only weight I know I can lift.

I usually have a vague planning of my posts. Notions I jot down mentally to turn into a topic. Thoughts become words, words become actions. The keyboard sounds a lullaby that I hardly notice as I drum to its rhythm. But I think there comes a time when...you realize picking the colors of your new wheelchair (something I've been lingering over for about two months) is really...so irrelevant. 

So I want to write about something relevant. 

When bad things happen, one of the first things I hear people saying is: "I don't understand." For example. "I don't understand why anyone would do that." "I don't understand why so many people had to die." "He was so young, it doesn't make any sense."

"I just don't get it."

My answer is always: "Good. You're not supposed to."

Let me say this slowly and clearly:

We are not supposed to understand evil.

I would be scared to live in a world where we did. 

There is darkness in all of us that is locked away, never meant to engulf. It's a warning. A forbidding inkling, an unopened door. Just the thought of it...scares us. At least, it scares me. That darkness exists so that we may recognize what darkness is and therefore be able to fight it. Therefore be able to say: "You are not who I am." That doesn't mean we're to understand why it sometimes wins. 

So I don't understand what's going on in Syria. I don't understand why infants are being wrapped in blankets, gone. Thousands of innocents mowed down what seems to be every day. 

I feel so helpless. I can't sleep.

But we need to do everything in our power to let that grief drive us. We can't invite those at risk into the safety of our homes. We can't neutralize the chemicals with USPS-delivered vials of medicine. We can't even shut the light switch of the world off and wait for the gunfire to be swallowed in a supernova. But, either directly or indirectly, here are four small ways you can help those heartbroken in Syria. From where you are right now.

1) Be kind and welcoming to foreigners 

A few months ago, I met a brave young man who fled from the turmoil in Egypt to live in America, having learned almost no English and trying to be true to his culture, religion, and fatherhood in a completely alien land. We encounter accents, mocha skin, and outlandish religious ornaments every day. It could be our next door neighbor, the cashier ringing us up, or the passenger next to us on the subway. Instead of Plexiglass-window silence, disarm them. Look directly in their eyes and ask a question about their homeland, their experience living here, or simply give a compliment. After a heartfelt, friendly chat, I always say, "It is an honor to have you in our country." Because it is. I, for one, am honored to be the citizen of a country which, for many, is their one true hope. 

How does this help the victims in Syria? 

At the very least, it makes that hope a reality. They ARE welcome here. The dream IS an actuality. For refugees and immigrants alike.

2) Write your Congressman about issues that are important to you

Whether this involves outreach programs, domestic security, or threats to injustice and inequality (even in your community), having a say and participating in government is a privilege to be called a right. The best way to protect freedom is to be active and educated in the practice of it. I am so proud that my Grandpa, a retired Admiral in the U.S. Navy, exercises his right to freedom of speech all the time by writing his Congressman about matters he finds vital; he's not afraid of his voice not being heard. And neither should we.

3) Donate, volunteer, or fast in the honor of those who perished in Syria

This, again, will join the effort of bringing positivity out of negativity, and financial, physical, and timely sacrifices are all good ways to keep those affected in your thoughts and a part of your actions. As troubling as it is to have open eyes towards the horrors that go on in the world, sure thousands of which we are unaware of, it is our responsibility to empathize in all that we do, every movement we make, rather than close our eyes.


4) If you believe in prayer, do it.

If you don't, believe in the energy of human love and its ability to make changes in the world.

We need to thirst for a better Earth, we need to parch for it, enough to have the initiative to do it. As one human in a world of billions, I choose to manifest my love here, my commitment to our race, in these very words, for those who are suffering, near and far. May my hands and yours be galleons in carrying them, one day, to safety.

Stay thirsty, my friends.

Shea C. Megale

My dad, Larry, was born in Freeport, NY. My parents, New Yorkers, raised a little Virginian. One who fell in love with the state’s history, warmth, and gold-and-emerald dappled woods that I walk through every day for an hour. But despite the touch of Washington, D.C. – the red and white stripes tangling my wheels and fifty stars swimming through my veins like leaves in the river –  engrained in me, my parents were successful in instilling the staunch-hearted, pride-of-the-pavement that is New York as well.

Dad, in his most valiant attempt, began with music. I remember during some of my earliest nights, he’d inflate with excitement and lean over the back of the sofa, telling me to wait and listen.

 His hands shuffled around CD cases I couldn’t see and then, minutes later, stadium-like, saxophone-strung music would blast from the speakers and Dad would straighten with a grin as Bruce Springsteen performed in our living room. (And yes, for you ravenous Bruce fans, I know he was New Jersey, but the northern spirit flares equally in both states). 


The enthusiasm, relief, joy, and revelry this music brought to the house may have been greater appreciated in retrospect, or maybe mostly appreciated by me. As you see in my provided photo, Daddy and I are still the only ones in the family who carry musical prowess through the floorboards. 

Summer is the season of concerts, and music abounds. But for me, music abounds all year. I listen to an average of three hours a day. I play the guitar, drums, and piano, with my skill level in each instrument about in the order I listed them.

But what do you do if the desire for music, and the creation of it, is overflowing, but the physical challenge is barring your way?

For me, my greatest hurdle is strength in my fingers and the size of my hands. Fingers are needed for difficult guitar chords. Size is needed to reach the keys that join together to make a harmonious chord on the piano. I’ve struggled ever since I picked up the tremendously small neck of my guitar and fell in love with it as if I were gazing at Liam Hems-- nevermind.

 But it never stopped me.

I do have a few tricks I’ll list with those who share my challenges.

For my guitarists:

The F chord, which is a bar chord for those of you who don’t know, meaning one must press down on the ENTIRE fret board to produce the chord, I’ve accepted, will forever be (near) impossible for me. So what do you do when you see the song calls for the chord? Well, personally, I find you can usually get away with a couple strums of the G chord…but if you really have your heart set on attempting it, a dear friend of mine tipped me off to adjust my guitar to a D tuning, where you would only need two fingers to cross the whole fret board.

But now we’re getting technical.

Another fantastic tool I use that will sound elementary is the capo, which will hold down the fret board and change the key of the guitar.

For my pianists:

No, we can’t push the pedals. We can’t do crazy keyboard jumps with our hands. But we can focus on smoothness. Play what you can. And instead of worrying about how many keys you can press down, how fast you can leap up and down the upright, how fully you can perform the song, focus on rhythm. Focus on smoothly transitioning your fingers from one note to the next. Focus on the richness of what you CAN play and let it bloom past what you can’t. 

For my drummers:

Just freakin’ rock out until your physical therapist has to roll you off the floor.

Because really, music is one of the best therapies there is, right behind love and basketfuls of puppies. 

Enjoy the summer of music. Me? I’ve already been to one of my top two favorite bands, Imagine Dragons, twice, where the lead singer, Dan Reynolds, saw my from the stage, pointed at me, and melted into a grin as he sang (might have done a little melting myself). I’ve been to – don’t you dare judge me – the Jonas Brothers, from which my ears still ring after the inhumanly high- octave screams of preteen girls. 

(Imagine Dragons ↓)

But no matter where I am, what I listen to - from country, to Muse, to Tourandot - or if the music is created from myself in those moments of indescribable freedom, individualism, and being human, I let it surround me, throw the lyrics against the canvas of the world and try to make sense of it. Let it penetrate me, be my refuge, and carry me through another stanza of my life.

Don’t look down at your hands feeling like they will never be capable of this.

Look down knowing they were meant to. 

I used to have school anxiety.

I don’t know why.  But I took shaky breaths before walking inside the building, coaching myself forward. The lesson is ahead.

I’ve graduated from high school, but I haven’t escaped this anxiety. I face it almost every day. And one of the most uncomfortable yet poignant examples of this happens almost every time I walk through New York City once or twice a month. I know I’m not alone in this stress. The sign blares WALK and you do. People move but one stays seated. One a bit tattered, unshaven, cup resting alone on the ground before him.

You see the man before you approach him. And twice you look at your feet but realize the timing is off. It seems unnatural. Look at the cab. Look at the curb. Look anywhere but him. The anxiety is there because of a forlorn sense of responsibility and guilt.  The stress is because it’s upon you. The lesson is ahead.

And I’ve noticed a habit in me. At the very last moment, having waited too long, I turn my eyes and meet his. Smile. Speak softly. “Hi, sir.” And keep going. I have no money.

I don’t guarantee they will break into grins each time. Sometimes the gesture is so foreign they don’t know what to do. But I know for some, it is greater than any bill you could drop.

It’s because of these experiences that I wonder sometimes if others feel that same anxiety about me. Someone a little different. People move. One sits.

There’s a lot of “What not to say” homilies, I thought I’d do an instruction of how to say (although I realize the risk of losing all male readership in providing an instruction pamphlet. (It’s ok. I can say that. My dad’s a guy)).

You want to know how to talk to us?

Try words.

You don’t have to ignore the chair. If my wheel ends up on your shoe either intentionally or unintentionally, there’s no need for “My, what is that peculiar unpleasant explosion of blood inside my foot?”

And to my fellow crippled brethren, you’re not the only ones. If you’re feeling a bit overlooked, experiencing some of the understandable bitterness at the occasional ignorance of this place we live in, relinquish the conviction of your loneliness. Every day in every corner of the world sit the ones that want to connect and can’t. All it takes is one turn of the head, one shift in the seat, and you become the combination of one of humanity’s greatest potentials. Connection.

In part, the responsibility falls on us. What we emit, how we approach what differentiates us, projects onto those around us and either draws in or repels. Either welcomes or warns against.

Welcome.

That is our job.

To the rest of you, wanting to know how to talk to someone with a disability…

You do it every day.

As I’ve said before, each of us are disabled in some way. Ours is visible. Yours might be felt or seen or heard or hidden. But in any circumstance, “hello” is a good place to start.

So walk on. Roll in. Don’t look at the cab. Don’t look at the curb. Look over.

No matter who you’re passing; wealthy or poor, young or old, rolling or strolling.

The lesson is ahead.

You know what really bothers a lot of people? Besides Segway tours?

“Hey, Timmy. Should we wear your red shirt or your blue shirt today?”

(For some reason my narrative has chosen Timmy to be incapable of dressing without assistance. Like me. Shut up.)

After not mulling over the fact that “we” is plural and suggesting both persons wear the shirt at once, Timmy replies with “I don’t care” and promptly doesn’t remove the two shirts from the speaker (Hi, Mom) who is still baffled as to which to choose.

It happens everywhere. “Water or milk?”

“I don’t care.”

Well which one is it? Freaking water or milk?

Left or right.

Fish or meat.

Puppy or shark.

Sometimes it really matters. And indecisiveness, leaving you to answer your own question, is infuriating.

But let me tell you where “I don’t care” is the best possible answer you can give.

I just turned 18. And for my eighteenth birthday….*drumroll* my parents got me a trip to Australia. (I know, I know, I’ll shut up and let you hurl envious rage at me in about fifteen paragraphs). About two weeks ago, Mom and I went to a travel agency to seek help on disabled travel. And while we didn’t find much expertise, we did find kind and enthusiastic agents with plenty of “warnings.”

And to each one, I grinned my reply.

“Well, it’s going to be a bear of a flight.”

“I don’t care.”

“You’ll be pressed to get everything done.”

“I don’t care.”

“The weather will be blazing hot.”

“I don’t care.”

“You’ll have to be careful with handicapped transport.”

“I don’t care.”

Don’t leave everything up to fate. I know to be realistic. Be prepared. Highlight travel guides and call ahead. But above all, be excited. Be willing to let go and know that somehow I will land back at my doorstep. I may test my limits physically, mentally, and emotionally, but the limitation is constituted only by what’s in my head and what I'm willing to relinquish control over. After all, what is adventure without a little uncertainty? What is uncertainty without a little courage? 

Not all who wander are lost. 

But those who don’t wander may very well be.

I’ll keep you posted, even though you all may despise me with jealously now.

Frankly, my dears…

I don’t care.

It's been a big week for entertainment.

First, I want to congratulate my friend who talks almost as fast as me while managing to be far less awkward, Jennifer Lawrence, who took home the Oscar for best lead actress in Silver Linings Playbook; an awesome, upbeat film demanding new regard towards mental challenges. Jen, I wore your coat for twenty minutes and feel like I should sell myself on eBay now. You're that hot in Hollywood. Congrats.

 

Ah, film. I've forged such an intense bond with the movie industry through my Hunger Games experiences and love for the art, power, and humanity behind this business. So what are my Oscar rituals? This year I bought a red carpet and an award to give to whoever guessed the most winners correctly, but mostly it's a constant struggle between  

A) Sighing nostalgically at how classy Christopher Plummer is

and

B) Sighing nostalgically at imagining one of my movie adaptions earning such an award. 

Movies from books, other than backhand work, such as costume, cinematography, and original score (all extremely important ingredients, by the way), have more particular challenges when it comes to being recognized by the Academy. It certainly happens -- this years' Silver Linings, last year's The Help, Lord of the Rings, etc. But these recognitions mainly occur, I think, when the film warriors completely pioneer and eclipse the novel into its own craft of filmography. In some ways, I think Peter Jackson's rendition of The Lord of the Rings honors Tolkien's story even more powerfully than the novels, not the mention the sheer beauty of his scenery and presentation. 

But where is the love for the authors? 

I understand Tolkien went to be with Frodo, but even when authors do have their stories acknowledged at the Oscars (notice, sadly, the novels of public sensation - Harry Potter, Hunger Games, etc. - largely disregarded, in part due, I think, to the commercialism such success gives; which unspokenly seems to disqualify them for sophisticated commendment) they're never called up. In fact, are the authors even THERE?

Okay, let's just run things over again.

And authors get the Pulitzer, Newberry, and Oprah's Book Club stickers. None of which allow authors to stand upon a stage with millions of viewers and an audience in tuxedos, blinking tears from their eyes as they explain the meaning behind their work. I know we're arrogant enough. But our art is as poignant to society as any of the awarded crafts you see above. 

Anyway. Moving on. To what this post is really about.

Damn straight.

The Bachelor is one of those rare shows of who's participation in I would wish upon both my worst enemies and my best friends. I had the immense pleasure of describing the show to Laura last night, who had no idea what it was.

First, I disclosed the concept. Twenty girls, one guy, Hunger Games battle to the death for him. 

Which, yeah, when you put it that way it sounds even more ridiculous than it really is (or...nevermind).

But while some Bachelors/Bachelorettes are real jerks or got nothing but roses upstairs, there are worse situations one could be in than competing to the death for Sean Lowe. 

Here is why I would win the Bachelor. 

We all know this is a pageant. However, with such amazing and unrealistically glamorous dates planned, paid, choreographed, and documented by ABC for the Bachelor/Bachelorette, MY dates would be EXCLUSIVELY HAND-CHOSEN TO REQUIRE EXCESSIVE AMOUNTS OF *SPECIAL* ASSISTANCE AND STAND OUT FROM ALL THE OTHERS.

It would be really good publicity. Really good television. ABC could even sell us to Lifetime and Hallmark afterwards. And Oprah. (She likes me! She really, really likes me!) 

And then, of course, everyone who knows me would know that the only real reason I was on the show would be so Liam could pull a Gale and watch the screen with hidden, heartbroken jealousy whenever I kiss the gentlemanly blonde. 

But if you're like me, a humble VIEWER, the only reason you WATCH is so Chris Harrison can appear out of NOWHERE for the Rose Ceremony, rub his hands together sympathetically, and, although everyone SEES it's the final rose say, "Ladies, Sean...this is the final rose tonight. When you're ready."

Cinematically yours,

S/