Recently in What Are: Things That Start with B Category

"Not enough, but never too much...leave a trail of busted stuff..."

I am busted stuff.

I went to Chicago to see DMB in September. After the first night's show, Dave threw a guitar pick. It landed in front of me, but over the rail between the people and the stage. A man, I don't know if he was a photographer or security, picked it up and handed it over the rail.

I reached for it, and the girl to my right, the one with the big LoVE sign, reached for it.

Except she then, with my fingers still in her hand, yanked. Hard.

When I got my hand back, my ring finger was on top of my hand, and bent 90 degrees counterclockwise.

I turned to the girl, held my hand up to her and said, "Oh my god, you broke my finger!"

When I turned to the people on my left, people I had spent all day with, and asked them to try to find some help, my finger flopped off the top of my hand and started dangling around. No free will, just gravity.

I'm pretty sure that was when I freaked out.

Girl that broke my finger said, "Sorry." And kept the pick.

Security took me through the crowd, to a medic, who took some information, and then gave me a wad of gauze to bite down on while the doctor put my finger kind-of back where it was supposed to be.

The doctor wrapped my whole hand in gauze and said I needed to go to the emergency room.

So the ambulance took me to the emergency room. I had three rounds of X-rays, some anti-anxiety medicine, and walked out six hours later with three prescriptions to be filled, a CD with my xrays on it, and a cast covered in two inches of padding going halfway up my right arm.

(Oh, had I not mentioned this was my right hand? My bad.)

Note: I didn't put the arrow on the xray but I did laugh at seeing it. I'm pretty sure even without the arrow a doctor could pinpoint, with some speed, the finger that needed attention.

I took a cab back to my hotel, made a few critical pone calls, put the do not disturb sign on my door, and slept for a few hours.

When I woke up, I put the hotel laundry bag over my arm, showered the best I could, got some coffee, and headed to Wrigley. I found a CVS near there, got my pills filled, and caught up with friends at Bernie's.

T'was there that Busted Stuff got her name.

But not before I found out that the guitar pick that Dave threw out was a Taylor Swift pick he had in his pocket. (Presumably from when they played the NFL show in New Orleans.)

(Yeah, I got broken for a Taylor Swift pick. Which is rather embarrassing.)

On the other hand, (ar ar), I found true compassion and care (and good humor) in the folks I spent that second afternoon and evening with. They know who they are. And they know that I am forever grateful.

The show was awesome, as expected. I took the train back to my hotel, got a decent night's sleep, packed up in the morning, went to the airport, and came home Sunday.

Tuesday I had an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon. He took a look at my X-rays and said it was a very bad break. And he wasn't comfortable fixing it, he'd prefer I see someone that only does hands.

So Wednesday I went to see another doctor. He said the bones in the knuckle were "pulverized." He'd do surgery the next day. Possibly with external pins, but the authorization form I signed said he could put hardware inside if that was what it took.

Well, that was what it took. A T-shaped plate, extra bone, and six tiny screws.

I came home with another cast half way up my right arm.

He did leave my index finger and thumb out of the cast. I could get my index finger to the keyboard if I turned my hand, so I was able to type with left hand, plus a finger.

A week after surgery the cast came off and I got a splint.

And started therapy. Which made me cry. Not because it hurt, but because up to that point I guess I didn't have any idea just how severe this injury was. Yes, there was only one "break" per se, but my middle finger and pinky finger had both sustained quite a bit of trauma as well.

I had been prepared to have one finger that wasn't working properly, but wasn't prepared to see three fingers refusing to bend when I told them to.

Right after that first round of therapy, I had a follow-up with the doctor.

"This was one of the worst breaks I've seen." (I'm number one, or two!")

He explained that I was looking at months of rehab, and a lot of hard work to get my hand right.

He also said that I should expect him to take the plate and screws out in a few months. Yes, they are meant to be left in, but because there is so little room on top of one's knucke and finger, he'd take the plate out, and also would be able to address any scar tissue problems at the same time.

I asked about work, and he said I'd be out for three months, maybe less depending on my progress.

And that's where I'm at today. I've got another physical therapy appointment this afternoon. I'm excited to have the therapist put the little measuring thing on my fingers to see how much further I can bend them today, from the baseline measurements last week.

And whatever it is, I'll take it.

There have been times when I wished the alphabet had more letters.

This is not one of them.

***

I go to work for Bob.

I marry Bill.

I get a new job. Working for another man named Bob.

I divorce Bill.

Then meet Bruce.

I quit working for Bob. And go to work with Bruce.

I meet Brett.

I tell Bruce about Brett.

I meet a guy who lives down my street. Also named Bruce.

I play golf with the first Bruce the day I meet the third Bruce. We all three work for the same company.

I date the third Bruce for over two years.

My job moves to Boston. I don't.

The third Bruce decides he wants out. I now call him the bad Bruce.

I get a new job. Where I meet the second Brett.

The first Bruce, still around after all these years, can’t keep them straight.

Then the bad Bruce shows back up.

And my neighbor Bruce rejoins the picture.

For one very confused time all four of them were here.

Three Bruces and one Brett.

I quit my job.

Brett, well Brett turned out to be like the first Brett. A scenic overpass, so to speak, on the trail of Bruces.

Through the land of men whose names start with B.

I realized the bad Bruce hadn’t changed a bit, so this time I left.

Then my neighbor Bruce left. Moved to another state. He needed a change.

Then I moved to another state. And was down to one Bruce to give a forwarding address to. And, even with his help fixing up my house up north, I didn't like it enough to stay, so I moved back.

And went back to working with Bruce. The first Bruce. The only Bruce still around after all these years.

If you've been paying attention, then you already know how that worked out.

Hello, again.
It seems like forever between now and then.
How have you been.

So, a little hiatus for me.

I don't think it's exactly writer's block.

It seems like the opposite. I don't know what that would be called, however.

After a brief trip to dictionary.com, which, behind Google is probably my most-frequented site, I find that it may in fact be writer's block, in the traditional sense, namely the inability of a writer to continue writing. Usually temporary.

So I tripped a bit on the word writer. I like to write. And type really fast.

It's just that the word writer conjures something for me.

So did writer's block until I looked it up. Only the later definition, which wasn't really a definition but more an example, said something to the effect that the writer wouldn't write because the words wouldn't come.

See, I don't have that problem.

Words, I got.

Melancholy (in the soberly thoughtful sense) ones, every time I hear that blazing sax, from about minute 4:30 to the end of the Warehouse. That magic flute on Say Goodbye. And his part in Proudest Monkey tells a whole story by itself, methinks.

Methinks too, to comfort myself, that LeRoi is playing now to a much larger audience, on a different plane.

With John Denver.

Words.

Words, words, words
Have you heard
A word in hand is much better than
Any number free to ponder.

Come to think of it, you probably have heard that before.

Words. Back to the dictionary. Words: one or more morphemes and are either the smallest units susceptible of independent use or consist of two or three such units combined under certain linking conditions.

I wonder if the word count feature of Word takes into account these linking conditions. If it doesn't, the cumulative count in the document folder might be off by a few thousand words.

But since I got over a million of them, I think it will be okay.

It's remarkable how many of those words start with B.

So I think I'll start with B.

As in Barry. Manilow.

I played his songs on the piano as a kid, so I grew up with a fondness for his music. One of his songs is on my all-time favorite list.

I don't mind admitting that.

In fact I think I'm about not to mind admitting a whole lot of things.

I think, therefore I am.

Words. Metaphoric therapy. And just the way they come to me.

You've probably heard me say that before too.

Words, people. Words.

You had all the warning in the world that we’d have words, so to speak.

Or rather that I would have words with you. Well, properly put I’d have more words for you.

What do you think that wit and to whit stuff was here for. I hoped you’d figure it out.

Not sure how many of you did.

Don’t guess I really care.

To quote me, it’s not subject to post-fact debate.

It’s my story.

And I'm starting with the Bs.

So back to Barry. I believe the lyrics are by a man named Jim Steinman. Barry sang it though.

If I could only find the words then I would write it all down
If I could only find a voice, I would speak
It's there in my eyes - oh can’t you see me tonight
C'mon and look at me and read 'em and weep.