My Dang Foot Hurts

A notable part of my life for the past week and a half is that I am Injured. I was playing some basketball with my friends while wearing sandals, and I managed to land on my right sandal in such a way as to bend my foot under and bruise the hell out of it. I don't think it's broken or even sprained, because I've been walking around on it fairly well. I pop a few ibuprofen in the morning and try to keep it elevated, but otherwise I've been trying not to let it get in the way. I don't think I'm being unreasonably stoic. I'm pretty sure there's nothing you can do with a hurt foot/toe other than try not to piss it off even more. So I've spent the week hobbling around like a scholiosis-free Quasimodo. I don't like it very much at all. Nothing hurts more than an injury, plus my team lost the b-ball game once I left. Sucks.

One amusing moment to come out of this ordeal was the day following the initial harm. A group of my friends were having a barbecue, the same group who witnessed the injury the night before. The weather was perfect, and frisbees and water guns were coming out. My foot hurt a lot, and I was having significant troubles moving around, but I didn't want to seem like a party pooper who was just sitting around on a perfect backyard-fun day. I thought to myself, "what would a Cool Dude do in a situation like this?" I thought of House, M.D. one of the few TV shows that I actually know a little about. The main dude, House, in undeniably a Cool Dude, and he straight up walks with a cane and makes it look badass. Well, I didn't know about the second part, but it occurred to me that I do have a cane. I mentioned a long time ago that I went as Waldo for Halloween, but the cane I made was purely decorative. However, with the advice of my dad I attached a little thing made out of "metal" that made the cane sturdy enough for practical use. Consequently, I saw no reason to use part of the costume when I sported the whole thing so well, so I put it together. I showed up early, and as each person came in their face lit up as their attention turned to me. I was still involved in the rest of the fun day, but it seemed to make sense that I wasn't participating as physically. This kid's dressed like Waldo, he doesn't have to play four square. It worked.

Now I've finally bitten the bullet and made a doctor's appointment. I fully expect him to tell me that there's nothing terribly wrong with my foot and I should just stay off it. It may be unsatisfying, but at least I'll know I don't have some double-secret fracture or alien infection.


"Nothing hurts more than an injury." Words to live by, Jack Mack 2006.

That's not how you spell "sammiches"

A little while ago I said "One thing I like" and ended up talking about something unrelated. Such is the beauty of a blog. Sometimes I will carefully craft my thoughts into pithy bits of interesting writing. Much more often I will turn my head down towards the keyboard and let some thoughts spill out. I assume if you have made it this far in the blog, you are down with that style. Let me say, bless you for being down with that style.

The other thing I was thinking of on that day in question was: AMBULANCES and, more specifically, the idea that their sirens elicit such a universal reaction. I'm sure there are awful exceptions, but almost universally people will pull to the side of the road and let an ambulance through. I was just talking with some friends about the pace of everyday life, how it's nice that we can abandon worries of "will I eat today" for worries of "did my email get through?" It may seem equally life-and-death to the person emailing, but when they hear that siren, it momentarily falls into perspective. No matter how late you are, there's someone dying and that just takes societal precedence. I doubt most people even think about that moment when it happens, which just proves my point even more. No one can say our culture is entirely narcissistic as long as people make way for ambulances.


This is one of my favorite quotes of all time:

"Outside of a dog, a book is a man's best friend.
Inside a dog, it's too dark to read" - Groucho Marx

An Open Letter To: Portobello Mushroom Sandwich

Dear Portobello Mushroom Sandwich,

You put me in conflict. I find you delicious, but for some reason my gastrointestinal tract does not digest you properly. That is to say, it does not digest you in the manner to which I'm accustomed: effortlessly and inconspicuously. Is it because you are hard to digest, and my GI tract become discouraged? I doubt it, because that would be a rather grand personification for a GI tract. I was told once by a vegetarian that most humans, as omnivores with an almost limitless diet provided by modern foodstores, have very inefficient digestive systems because they had to be so encompassing. He further argued that since his digestive system was streamlined to only break down fruits, vegetables, and spices, he never had gas. I don't know if I believe him (he also believed that the calcium in milk was BAD for your bones). But perhaps that is why you, Portobello Mushroom Sandwich, and my GI tract cannot get along, despite my personification? That would make me sad because if I had to choose between you and All Meat, I have to go with All Meat. A. Meat is great.

Should I eat more Portobello Mushroom Sandwiches to offset my digestive laissez faire? That could get unfortunate for the people around me. Perhaps my only hope is to save a Portobello Mushroom Sandwich experience for when I am not going to be around anything with a nose. I was lucky today. The only things around me with noses were my parents and they are required to love me by evolutionary mandate. It could be a lonely friendship, PorMusSand. You will be like a mistress that I steal away to visit on "business trips" away from my friends and my Meat. Fortunately for everybody, you and feta cheese are an unbelievable combination. I will carry the torch for you. I will be back.

The Government is Awesome, Maybe?

Guess what I just heard! The tinkling of an ice cream truck coming down the street! Usually trucks are associated with being loud and smelly, and making annoying beeps when backing up. But not ice cream trucks, no sir! Their beeps are delightful, playing Scott Joplin's "The Entertainer" or something else that will please the young and old. They are the beeps of the masses! The heart of the proletariat beeps with ice cream trucks as the pacemaker.

There were two children and one adult standing next to the ice cream truck. I can't imagine that the ice cream truck made enough off of their sale to justify the effort. It must be difficult to turn an ice cream profit with gas prices what they are, not to mention the varied means of obtaining sweets. They don't even have a solid customer base. They have to hope that people are hungry enough for their ice cream that simply by playing music people will walk out the door to spend money. My conclusion is that there is no way ice cream truck companies can be self-sufficient. However they obviously still exist, I just saw one! So my postulate is that ice cream trucks are subsidized by the government to promote nostalgia and good-neighborly feelings. Sort of like Amtrak, but less practical? I know it is hard to believe, but I can think of no other explanation. I bet the subsidies are buried in super-hidden triple-secret rules that say the people are paid back in the "priceless commodity of a child's laughter." If this is so, bravo government! As I always say, I think there should be more institutionalized fun and hilarity.

One Thing I Like

It has been days and days since I last added words to this blog. I have been filling up my head, and occasionally the air around me, with words, and have spared none of them for the world of 1's and 0's. This is largely because of the inconvenience of my only port of entry into digital space. I have recently moved from Cleveland, OH to Buffalo, NY, and (more importantly to the blogging world) from an apartment with the computer in the bedroom to a house with the computer in the basement. My father has quite a nice setup down here, but it doesn't have the friendly allure of my little iMac that seemed to smile at me, from the desk next to my bed, as I awoke. I used to stand, scratch, rub the eyes, et cetera, then wake the computer up on my way to the bathroom. We practiced our own morning rituals that prepared us for working together. While I occasionally felt like a slave to the heroin-like world of instant access, with my unassuming iMac as the irresistible needle, it was more often a convenient way to start the day. I enjoyed it, the morning ritual of checking favorite websites, planning my dress according to the hourly weather forecast and finding something to entertain my eyes during breakfast. But I suppose part of the reason I moved cities was to break out of my patterns and habits, and this is the roundabout way of me telling myself, "apparently it's working."

I started writing this with an entirely different intention. Instead, you are party to a small moment of self-discovery. My original thoughts, on something entirely different that I like, can wait. For now, I will see you in your dreams.