2007-09-11 - 10:32 p.m.
You know what Iíve learned is a semi-important thing in the last week? A fucking wrist. I fell off my scooter about a week and a half ago and sprained my right wrist. The one that likes to do the writing, and the whiskey holding. Heís a odd little codger, but heís also a helpful bugger, and having him on the fifteen day disabled list has quickly gone from being a semi-cool battle scar to just a flat out annoyance.
I already actually wrote a post about my fall from the scoot. You may have noticed its absence, but you see I wrote it good and drunk, and I, upon rereading couldnít take the level of forced melodrama, spelling errors, and grammatical horrors committed therein, so itís gone to that great big blogroll in the sky.
Believe it or not, Iím actually kind of anal about these posts. I generally write them in a word processor so I can unleash a full on spell check upon them to drive those devils in the details far, far away. Then, after a copy-paste-post, I end up reading over it, finding a few errors here or there, end up clicking back over to edit post, changing one thing, updating immediately, then going back to my site to continue reading, until, inevitably, I find another sacrilege on the next line, and repeat the same process all over again. The time Iíve wasted correcting Ďitsí is kind of absurd. Itís the devil in its own way.
I sometimes feel bad for the people who jump to read my posts since fifteen minutes after I introduce them to the big bad net Iíve rewritten the thing, and only then, hopefully, has it turned into something approximating sentiency. Really, with this context, go back and read any of my older entries. There enough gramatical errors in them to cause an aneurism your standard copyeditor as they stand. Think of their earlier incarnations.
Little know fact: All of my posts, in their first draft, begin with the tag line, ďNow I donít want to get off on a rant here...Ē Thankfully, every time I think better of it.
I feel especially bad about those who check in quickly, as they have to endure my drunk posts. I think Iím only up to about five over the last four years, and each and every one of them has been systematically defenistrated in the morning light.
If anyone feels like theyíre being left out, hereís a quick summary: Gloom, self-importance, horniness, and in closing, badly explained bit of half-pogeincy that really doesnít make too much sense after more than a moments cogent thought. And then, as a final note at the bottom, cause I seem to think itís funny when Iím inebriated: ďOop, tumbled over...Ē
Why Bridget Jones entertains me in the dredges of a Sunday morning is beyond me.
I should have been back on before now, as the last week has included a ďresearchĒ trip to a Burlesque festival, a game at Shea beside a loudly vocal dysfunctional family, and a return trip upon Jeanette up to the Water Taxi park in Queens. Instead, my busted up wrist has left me languishing in annoyance, perched on my couch, watching DVDís and coddling the wounded appendage. Unable to type or traipse about.
Hell, I finally got to doing my dishes after two weeks this morning. I know my slovenly lifestyle has been well recorded in these bits of HTML but Iíve been somewhat good about it lately, and considering the fact that ninety percent of my dishes have been caked in the remains of my latest batch of artery clogging four-cheese mac and cheese; the kind of substance that congeals in to a hateful liquor that can eat away olfactory comfort and flatware with equal pace; this week would have been an excellent time to be more Johnny-on-the-spot with the scrubbing.
Typing still seems to anger the beast a bit, so I still have to take regular breaks to relieve the stress, then wrap, then unwrap for circulation, and finally, down Advil like theyíre skittles. (I prefer the yellow ones. Lemon flavored pain relievers are the bomb, yo.)
Working doors has become a bit of a bitch. Brushing my teeth with my left hand has become something more than a metaphor. In fact, my left hand is getting so much play as of late, I worry that its ego will expand beyond its means before this is over. Sometimes when Iím sleeping, I wake up to find it mocking righty. Itís a terribly odd thing, waking up to find one of your palms calling the other ďgimpy.Ē If I start playing my Wii with lefty, it might just get out of hand.
When the other shoe drops, Iím afraid Mr. Sinister will spiral down with the shame second place tends to carry. Thems the breaks, kid. Thatís football. Thatís all it is.
At least, despite the sad fate that awaits my second side, when this heals, Iíll be back to fully functioning human being. Picking up the phone at work with the gingerly pace of an octogenarian is something Iíll be happy to see settle into the sunset. Jeanetteís only seen open road twice since we had our spill. (Though some kids on the street managed to rip up the cover and mess up the mirrors, some way or another. Loverly.)
Iíll be happy, as well, to be able to type up some random occurrence again. Once a week has past, all those little tidbits about said event tend to flicker away.
What I recall:
The Burlesque Festival - Standing at attention in my steel-toed boots amidst a pit of oddly tressed onlookers, trying to dodge the six-foot-tall wall of a man, who irritatingly stood dead center, making space for his diminutive compatriots, who took a little too much pleasure in the widening gap behind him. The man had to bend a full ninety degrees to make comments in their ear. Really, when youíre trying to watch a half naked woman and a man dressed up as an ďEvil Hate MonkeyĒ recreate scenes from ĎDirty Dancing,í you really donít want to be on your tippy-toes trying to find an unencumbered sight line.
The Mets Game - When Pedro Martinez is pitching his first game back at Shea in almost a year, I do not want to hear about your ever expanding 401k. While I donít want them googling their name and finding these disparaging statements, I will say, pulling a ďPhunkelsteenĒ is now a verb amongst a certain pocket of my friends. More universally, if I didnít come to the ball game with you, the only things I want to hear you say are obscure stats about the players on the field, the occasional chant, and a well phrased cut to the opposing pitcher. Thatís it. Please donít try and start up small talk, or even worse, a diatribe about your professional successes.
The Trip to the Water Park - In what has to be my largest convergence of geekitry, I drove up to a verifiable hipster hotspot to meet up with a gang of fellow scooterists, only to arrive early, and poorly funded, passing the time waiting for my fellows by watching a couple episodes of Veronica Mars on my video iPod. (I bought the thing a month ago. The geeks amongst you will know why my soul took a solid body shot from Steve Jobs this week.) Honestly, I'm only a few fantasy sequences away from turning into J.D. (Oh yeah, and a medical degree.) When the scooter clan did finally did arrive, I was able to bask in a world of experience, a charitably provided micro-brew, and a good dollop of envy, as one of the motorists is off to Germany in a month or so.
Not bad for a weeks worth of entropy, but those could have been full entries full of pithy observation and sarcastic judgment. Tasty, tasty judgment. Truly the manna upon which a New Yorker finds his will to live on.
Regret and recrimination weigh heavy on my wilted wrist, but he will rebuild and regroup, eventually returning to his swaggery self. It could not come faster. I canít take another night eating crackers with my left hand, watching the special features on the Sin City disc for the umpteenth time.
I really, really canít.
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