Talk about the walking wounded: Herself, who brought a vile head cold home from Florida, joined me this afternoon for a hot lap around El Oso Grande Park.
I decided to leave the Darth Gimp boot at home and went with a simple Ace bandage wrap buttressed by an old Teva sandal. Didn’t quite burst into tears every time I saw someone soaring past on a bicycle. Waaaaaaaah.
Still, it beat listening to Marcus Wobbly, O.D., mumble about “very strongly” considering new travel curbs at the U.S.-Mexico border to keep the coronavirus at bay. Dipshit probably thinks you have to drink a case of Corona to catch a case of coronavirus.
Eric “Nohand” Crapton takes his solo. | Photo by Herself
One of the interesting aspects of occasionally wandering away from straight writing into “multimedia,” by which I mean short videos, podcasts, and what have you, is seeing how one thing can become another if you use a big enough hammer.
It’s not always a better thing. But it’s inevitably something different. So what we have here is a podcast that grew like a weed, a wart, or a boil from a couple of short blog posts.
When I blew up my ankle last Friday my instinctive reaction was to write a long blog post about the first time I did that, in 1983. I was a depressed 29-year-old fat bastard who had just quit one job in Oregon for another in Colorado, and suddenly, boom, there I was in a walking cast, on crutches, 1,400 miles from my new home.
A fiberglass foot makes it tough to drive stick. Hell, I couldn’t even load the truck. Stairs were involved. Plus I had two dogs who were nearly as ill-mannered as I was.
And then there was the time I broke a collarbone midway through a long-loop mountain-bike race. Lemme tell you, that shit will affect your finishing time. My cyclocross training proved useless. Couldn’t even shoulder the bike and run. Couldn’t drive then, either, and it was a long haul back to Bibleburg from Gunnison.
Happily, in both instances, I got by with a little help from my friends. Until this last time, when I was on my own.
Golly gee, Mister Dog, what happened then? There’s only one way to find out, sonny, and it’s not by reading — you gotta listen to the latest episode of Radio Free Dogpatch!
P L A Y R A D I O F R E E D O G P A T C H
• Technical notes: This episode was recorded with a Shure Beta 87A microphone and a Zoom H5 Handy Recorder, then edited in Apple’s GarageBand on the 13-inch 2014 MacBook Pro. Post-production voodoo by Auphonic. The background music was assembled from various loops in GarageBand by Your Humble Narrator, while the various sound effects were gleaned from G-band and the iMovie effects bin.
Waiting on the “provider” at urgent care. Is it just me, or does “The Provider” sound like some sort of third-tier Marvel superhero?
One of the sad things about modern medicine is the questions you get asked.
It used to be, “Where does it hurt?” Or, “What brings you to see us today?”
Now it’s “Do you feel safe in your home?”
As long as I can see the wife in my peripheral vision, and both of her hands are empty, sure.
Or, “Are you depressed?”
Not until you asked me that question.
Another popular one seems to be, “Have you had any other falls recently?”
I didn’t fall this time. I broke my ankle running and then hopped around on the good leg, screaming all of George Carlin’s “Seven Words” in no particular order. Then I limped home, got in the car, and drove a few blocks to visit some people who seem to enjoy probing strangers for weakness and financial information.
While we’re discussing modern medicine, here’s another observation about crutches. Not only do they still not come equipped with cup holders, shocks, or hydraulic disc brakes as standard equipment, but no matter where or how you park them, like Doc Sarvis’s bicycle, they still slide immediately to the floor.
And finally, if like me you suddenly seem to have some time on your hands that desperately needs filling, scope out this fine interview with Sonny Rollins. He’s had to give up the sax due to illness, but he hasn’t given up, y’feel me?
Bad ankle! Bad, bad, bad! Get in that boot and stay there, thinking about what it is that you’ve done.
Behold the latest in Empire Stormtrooper technology: the boot. Just call me Darth Gimp.
The doc I saw yesterday is a podiatrist and a cutter, but he didn’t see any pressing need to fire up the old circular saw and prescribe a piñon peg and parrot from Largo Juan Plata’s in Old Town.
Dude sez to me he sez, I am presently enjoying an avulsion fracture (basically a severe sprain with extra attitude) and it should respond quite nicely to immobilization (hence the sexy footwear a la Bootsy Collins).
We’ll meet again in a few weeks to compare notes. The doc and I, not Bootsy. Though I wouldn’t object to meeting up with Bootsy, too.
I liked this approach because (a) it reminded me of the spiel I got from an orthopod the last time I did this ankle, back in 1983. I was sporting a fiberglass walking cast, installed by others, that he considered an overabundance of caution. Questions of diagnosis, treatment, and masculinity were raised and examined.
Also, and too, (2), it means nobody is firing up a circular saw and murmuring, “He under yet? Yay, boat payment.”
They didn’t have any Reynolds 853 crutches with cup holders.
So there I was, JRA (Just Running Along), when my right ankle folded up like a cheap umbrella, only with an ominous crunch that said, “Try walking this one off, ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.”
I’m no stranger to sprained ankles. Don’t know why. A rolled ankle is just one of those deals that keeps coming around, like acid flashbacks or “Golden Girls” reruns.
But usually I walk that shit off.
Not this time.
Oh, I had to walk, all right. I never run with a phone. And even if I did, Herself was in Florida, so who was I gonna call to come get me? Batman? I never run with a Bat-Signal either.
So I hobbled home, wrapped the ankle up like a fat burrito, and drove to the neighborhood urgent-care outfit for an X-ray, expecting the usual RICE advice with a sizable bill attached to lend it some authority.
Not this time. Sumbitch ain’t sprained. It’s busted.
So I drove home with a removable ankle stirrup, a list of orthopods, and the obligatory pair of aluminum crutches.
And can you believe it? Crutches still don’t come with cup holders. I had to fabricate that sucker myself with a big assist from King Cage and the USB (Universal Support Bolt).
Mad Blog Media 