It should be apparent, if you're keeping up with these posts (or even if you're not), that Michael is on the road schlepping drum boxes, and there is a price to pay for those shenanigans, the slings and arrows of outrageous (if self-inflicted) fortune.
Gluteus Maximus Right-Sideus Michaelis
Sounds just like it is. Exactly like that. My right ass cheek. I crushed mine while breaking down the Mt Dora Art Festival last night. Let me get something out of the way here. I am not clumsy. Whatever forces perpetrated this insult upon my body will, therefore, be dealt with in the cosmic scheme of things. Of this I have been assured by voices I heard in between my spasms of pain in the immediate aftermath of the event. Voices. Sympathetic, empathetic voices. None of them was that of my oldest son and business partner, Joah. Why is this no surprise? There is a reason his Latin name is Buttheadeus Joahnus. I’ll get back to him - trust me.
In the aftermath of my very recent open heart surgery I was advised that I was to do absolutely nothing to stress or strain the stainless steel wire mesh that had been sewn into place in my sternum to close the wound left from the operation. I wasn’t to stretch my arms wide open or drive or to lift any but the lightest of objects for the foreseeable future. The damage, I was warned, would be in some ways worse than the surgery. Got it. I have complied, by and large, with these edicts. But, as we all know, shit happens. While breaking down the booth last night shit did just that.
The corners of our display tent are typically tethered to cylindrically shaped concrete weights of approximately sixty pounds each, equipped with rebar handles to which we affix tie down straps for the purpose of holding the tent in place in the event of threatening winds. I routinely lifted and moved these weights around even up until the weeks and days leading up to my surgery even though I was, at the time, a spring chicken of but seventy eight years of age. They were now strictly off limits and during our show set up Joah had removed them from the van and placed them in the booth. I had cinched in the tie downs.
We’d been breaking down the booth for some two hours when it came time to remove the weights to the vicinity of the van for packing away. Joah was still busy moving fifty to seventy pound boxes of unsold instruments from the display area to the vehicle and lifting them inside. There I stood looking at the weights and wondering when Joah would at last be able to get them out of my way so that I could take the tent down. A light bulb came on. I couldn’t lift or carry them so why not simply push them onto their sides and roll them to him using my feet. Seemed like the perfect solution and one that wouldn’t stress my chest in any imaginable way. I set about the task.
Weight number one was a piece of cake. Even Joah liked my trick. The second was going great until suddenly it wasn’t. Somehow I managed to push my right foot up and over to the front side of the rolling cylinder from whence the forward motion took over, I lost balance and went tumbling forward. I realized that breaking my fall with any portion of my upper body, hands and arms especially, would likely tear loose the knitting mesh in my chest. There was but one choice and that was to throw my weight backward and land on my ass or back.
I keep my admittedly too stuffed wallet in my back right pocket. Full of business, credit, I.D. cards and some folding money it is about an inch and a half thick and way too hard. My butt cheek landed on it dead center and I went through the roof in pain. Joah, hearing my yelp, came running over thinking I’d done the unthinkable and messed up my chest which thankfully I hadn’t. Things went downhill from there.
It hadn’t been the best day for the right side of my body. In the morning, I had pulled my right hamstring hiking the hilly terrain around Mt. Dora and, favoring it as I walked back to the show, had rolled the same ankle on uneven ground. Later I had smacked the right side of my forehead on the wall of the building behind our booth while reaching for a box. The contusion required a large bandage to stem the bleeding as I am now taking blood thinners. Finally, I ganked my right wrist on a concrete block I was placing in the van requiring three more bandages. The good news is that I was stung by no hornets.
Back to Joah. When he discovered that I had suffered a severe ass bruise he proceeded to begin laughing at me. Not fair. The bruise was sufficiently severe that I could barely limp around and sitting on the toilet seat later on sent shooting pains to places I was unaware I had places. The day had turned me into a walking field hospital. I got no mercy from Joah.
You know, I begat him. No, I did not bake him for all those months - true enough - but I was the begatter. You’d think this fact would have yielded never ending respect. Perhaps even reverence. Nope. No such luck.
I’m not the sort of guy that gets angry with others. I don’t “get even” and I’m not all about vengeance. I do, however, take steps to, shall we say, balance things. Yup. I’m a balancer. So, for example, perhaps one morning while he’s preening in front of the bathroom mirror a sudden intestinal illness overcomes him - a malaise due to someone having poisoned his mirror. Hashtag SAD. Or maybe one day he opens a package from the mailbox inside of which is a spider whose bite induces random insults to emanate from his mouth at inopportune moments - say when he’s lying in bed with his lovely wife. Hope he has a comfortable sofa. Wouldn’t it be a shame if someone put voodoo pins in his car doll? Perhaps in the area of his engine or transmission.
Shit happens, remember? I have wounds to lick. Have a nice day, Joah.
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