can't . . . not . . . do stuff.

Haven't written a darn word in almost two weeks.

Did I die?

Sort of.

Actually, two days after my show I threw out my arm.

No big bang, no little pop, just woke up and everything hurt.

Can't sleep. Can't move. Can't make non-fat lattes, can't pick up a guitar. Left arm totally en fuego. (that's spanish for %$@$^).

In italian it's "basta!"

In french its "eaux"

Now a normal person might find this predicament rather enjoyable. Lay back on the lazy boy and rewatch six season's of Buffy the Vampire slayer. Have the wife fetch you a corona with lime and a handful of ibuprofen.

(Yes dad, I do know that you can't mix alcohol with Tylenol or your kidneys will shut down and you will die a horrible death. my way's just funnier)

Sit down. Put your feet up. Ain't gonna heal if you don't sit still.

But I can't not do stuff. I need two good arms to do my job. I need to drive places, I need to pick up toys from the floor, I need to reach things in the cabinets that are too high for my wife. I need to play music, I need to write my stupid blog.

But it hurts. Oh my god how it hurts.

I hurt typing "It hurts"

quick story before I go.

So my dad (known to my boss as my personal physical therapist . . . shhh) was working on my shoulder. (he actually is a physical therapist, but it sounds much cooler if I don't mention the bloodline when asking for time off work.)

After about an hour of torturing me (get a terrorist to talk by kneading a bruised tendon), my Calvin came up to the table.

"What are you doing Grampa?" he asks.

"I'm fixing your daddy" says Grandpa.

"Daddy?" he asks.

"Yes . . . ow . . . what is it sweety?" I reply.

"Why are you broken?"

If he keeps feeding me perfect song titles, I might have to get him his own ascap card.