Thursday, January 6, 2011

Getting Better

This morning, the injured ankle seems almost totally better, which is nice because I was worried, immediately post-fall yesterday, that I had broken it based on the pain ... pain that almost immediately subsided. Today, it's just a nice shade of light purple, is all, but the residual pain, which is next to nothing, in no way interfered with my morning workout (stretching, weights, yoga, 4.1 miles on Morrissey).

You know an injury is getting better when other, formerly lesser hurts surpass the first injury in annoying-ness. As I mentioned yesterday, I also cut my hand when I fell, the worst cut being on the thumb, because it was still dripping blood when I got home. But there is also this round abrasion right on the tip of my index finger. It's not bad, but when (ow!) I (ouch!) type — I (yow!) use my (that smarts!) index fingers (owie!) exclusively because (ouchie!) I'm the world's slowest hunter-and-pecker1 — and typing this very post hurts me, probably even more than reading it hurts you.

But the ankle? I probably could have run this morning, but didn't. I just threatened to so I could see Teh 'Bride get all cross and stamp her little foot and say, "You are NOT running on that ankle!" Little wisps of steam come out of her ears. It's just tooo darling for words.

So despite my best efforts, I think I managed not to fuck my ankle up too bad. That is just total dumb luck.



Turn Me On, Dead Man is a blog I somehow stumbled across while searching for Beatles/Music blogs2. As you can see from the graphic above, it has exactly 3 subscribers, one of whom is me. I have no idea why more foax haven't discovered this blog because it is funny and intelligent and well-written and -researched. The latest post on Space Hippies on Star Trek being a perfect example of what I mean.


This guy's attempt to do a Liverpudlian accent is truly atrocious (still ... better than mine) but this video (h/t hey dullblog) is still pretty funny.


1 But Full Disclosure: You'd never have to hunt for my pecker!!1!

Am I turning you on, Ladies?

2 The title of the blog, Turn Me On, Dead Man, is derived from the Paul Is Dead rumor that was rampant in late 1969. It was alleged that Paul died in a car crash in 1966 and was replaced with a doppelganger who, conveniently enough, not only looked like Paul, but sang like him and possessed equal bass-playing and music-composition skills. Totally plausible. Anyroad, the other, non-dead Beatles went along with this replacement hoax, but left clues to Paul's Death on songs and album covers, etc.

One of those "clues": If you play the phrase "Number nine, number nine, number nine ..." that occurs at the beginning of "Revolution #9" backwards, it sounds like "turn me on, dead man".

It's true. It kinda does, if you want it enough. You can hear it here and judge for yourself.

7 comments:

  1. Give your injured fingers a rest, especially since you need them for your loving activities.

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  2. Glad to hear the ankle is better, that would have sucked to start this new year with a major injury.

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  3. I knew immediately what episode Space Hippies was going to be. It was one of the most cringe-worthy things, not only of that show, but of television in the 60's; the episode where Teri Garr plays... well, a version of Teri Garr in the 60's... does the hippychick thing better.

    "Run.Race.Repeat" comes from playing "Mull of Kintyre" backward. (That obscure enough for ya?)

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  4. @SteveQ - "Mull of Kintyre" was the wedding song of friends of mine and Teh 'Bride's (they've since broken up); it stiffed here in the US, but in the UK sold faster than "She Loves You" had in 1963.

    I actually bought the single way back when. I vastly preferred the flip side, "Girls' School".

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  5. Wasn't sure if the "SLY" comparison was valid, bit I checked and it is.

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  6. Dude, I'm sorry ... had no idea you were on the DL. There's no internet in Kentucky. Actually there is, but it's run through a tin can so I'm just now finally getting this blog update.

    Love the video. That's awesome.

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  7. My head-smack, which I was sure had very nearly fractured my skull, never quite turned into the epic anecdote-provoking bruise I (kinda secretly hoped) thought it would, and instead it was the knuckle-gash, a tertiary concern at the time (after the forehead- and chin-bashings), which became the bane of my existence. You become acutely aware of how much your hand casually brushes against things when part of said hand contains an open gaping sore. And, with it being the leading edge of my hand, so to speak, it casually brushed against a great many things, all of which caused me to bark, "JESUS FUCKING CHRIST GODDAMMIT THAT FUCKING HURT!"

    Volume of utterance was inversely proportional to proximity to other people, small children, co-workers. There fewer people around, the louder I yelled.

    Oh and then of course there was the SCAB that I couldn't stop picking at...

    Take care of your ankle, you clumsy oaf.

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