HEAR THAT? IT'S THE GRINDSTONE


I went back to work for the first time in almost a month today. It went smoothly, despite my new shift. Getting home just after five o'clock was disconcerting, after a month of not working and having previously worked the night shift. I watched the Simpsons, read a bit, ate, and then watched the bonus material for JFK. Speaking of that ever-mysterious dead president, the recent anniversary of his passing has crowded the information-inhaling orifices of the world with all sorts of commentary about the assassination. Much of it, from what I've gathered, is triumphalist we've-proven-the-Oswald-as-single-shooter-theory-so-fuck-everyone-that-thinks-otherwise stuff. I have reached no conclusions regarding said presidential murder, so I honestly can't say what happened; however, a little knowledge of American intelligence operations, the unceasing smugness of major media outlets, and the attitudes of politicians makes me think that if- that's IF- Oswald was the only shooter, he was probably still a patsy. Of course, it could be my cynicism talking. After all, as one writer noted, so many Americans are reluctant to think that a lone nut could have offed a President, and God knows that I, trusting soul that I am when it comes to power structures, am one of them. Ha.

One of the good things that came out of my car accident was getting to spend so much time with Sara. Now, whenever she's not around, I miss her an awful lot. I'm excited by the prospect of living with her again in a month, back in the Heights.

It's not even half past ten, and it feels late. I think I'll finish this glass of scotch and this pipe, read some more, and hit the sack. I might as well be an old man, an idea which has amused me for many years, and will continue to do so until I actually am an old man.

I'd say that life's punched me in the face again today, but it would be more accurate to say that it's simply sighed and walked off, leaving me hanging.

I swear, the last few months have been terrible. Today I found out that I won't be able to recoup any of my losses from my car wreck, and that the next time I get car insurance (which will be ages, I'm sure, since there's no way I'll be getting a car anytime soon) it'll be twice as much per month as it was before the wreck. Because I refused to lie about my accident, and flatly state that the other guy was at fault, my insurance company decided that I was culpable, and therefore would give me no support in filing a claim against the guy who hit me.

To make things worse, I have to go back to work soon, but I have no idea what my schedule will be. I'm not in the shape to adhere to my old one, since it'll require walking to work, and I can't do that yet.

I don't even want to think about any of this. I wish this year was over, and that Sara and I were living somewhere new, going to school and worrying about grades instead of Mammon.

MAN THIS STUFF REALLY MAKES ME FEEL SO GOOD

By "stuff" I mean Canadian Club whisky (I hate that spelling for some reason, but Canucks and Scots use it, and they make great whiskey, and let's face it, water of life is water of life), Thames-imported Welsh ESB, and Old Speckled Hen ale. On top of that, I mean my buddy Bill's mom, who's always treated me with utmost respect, and Brant Bjork, who, despite the fact it ain't summer, is top fucking notch.

If I didn't know better, I'd think I hadn't ruined part of my thorax in a car accident. But I do, so I'll just daydream about next summer, when I will BUST MY ASS to get "All Right" filmed. Really, Andy, I'm gonna do it. I can't wait until late March, when the weather's cool, the beer starts flowing, and... well, I won't say anything until I'm out of the car-wreck-attorney imbroglio.

I'D TITLE THIS ENTRY AFTER A MURDER CITY DEVILS ALBUM, BUT IT AIN'T APPLICABLE


Christ, the last fortnight or so has been rough.

October 29: Got in a car wreck, broke a rib, collapsed a lung, and spent the next three days in the hospital with a tube in my chest. My car is fucked.

November 1-present: Recuperation. I stayed with Sara at her folks' place for a week, doing very, very little. Since I came back to my own apartment, I haven't done much either. The doctor said I could go back to work no earlier than the 24th, and until then, I'm supposed to do nothing. I'm all for leisure, but having to spend most of the day sitting gets old. On top of that, my mobility is severely limited, my left arm isn't up to snuff (which is exceptionally shitty, since I'm left-handed), and doing simple things like tying my shoes or washing my hair are difficult and painful. To top it all off, I can't smoke. Yeah, I was trying to quit when the wreck happened, but I'd really like a cigarette now and then. Thankfully I can still drink, so drink I do. Alcohol is preferable to the codeine I was prescribed in many ways.

Today's the first day I haven't spent with Sara. Since the wreck happened, she's taken care of me non-stop, and I can't thank her enough. I'm at a point where I can get by without any help, but I'd rather have her company.

The worst thing about the car wreck isn't the physical damage I've sustained, but rather the financial and bureaucratic nightmare that's resulted. Not once, even when the doctor told me my lung had collapsed, did I think I was going to die; instead, I found myself thinking about the fact that my health insurance hadn't kicked in yet, and that I'd have to put up with all manners of bullshit from the hospital (who, to be fair, have given me a chance to pretty much waive my bills), the insurance company, lawyers, and so forth. I disgust myself by worrying more about fucking MONEY and RED TAPE than my own corporeal and spiritual status. Thankfully, though, the further back in time the accident moves, the less I care about anything related to it. The only thing that bothers me now is going in for my follow-up with the doctor, and going back to work.

There have been some good things to come out of the wreck. I've been able to do a lot of reading, buy some cheap BOC albums, hang out with my friends, and spend time with Sara. I've pretty much stopped smoking, too; I say "pretty much" because I know I'm going to have a cigarette once I'm told my lung is back in shape.

I guess I could say more, but I'm tired, and don't want to write anymore. I think it's back to my recliner, where I'll read more of Neal Stephenson's new novel and fall asleep.