Blues Blog #1: The Origin of Rock

I apologize. Much like the Wachowski brothers, I've let you all down. My trilogy was ruined by some half-assed, phoned in third segment. I admit, my heart wasn't in it. It felt like a chore, and it showed. But I hope we can move on and find some solace in new projects. The Broken Leg is now a thing of the past. Now it is the future that concerns me.

When we left off, I was recovering from knee surgery and looking for a job. Essentially my days consisted of physical therapy, internet surfing and playing drums. One time at PT, the trainers were talking about this guy named Paul, a professional wrestler with the WWE who they knew from the clinic. I didn't know who they were talking about, or that he was coming in that day, but all the sudden I turn around and HHH is standing in the gym. Now for those of you who don't know, Triple H is kind of a bad boy wrestler, but he's been around for a while, even back when I watched pro-wrestling. He's still so jacked, so huge. With his straight, long blonde hair and menacing stature, his presence surely had an effect on me. I definitely tried harder in my exercises. Failure is not an option when HHH is watching you, and I refused to let the stairmaster beat me! As I worked out, Triple H sat on the massage table and got a rub down. He's very smart, very put together and knowledgeable on a lot of subjects. It was funny to see the real man when you only knew the character. Now on your normal star-struck gauge, HHH wouldn't score high, but for me, that day, it was very exciting. Any dude can remember those 12 year old days when dropping the people's elbow on your friend or younger sibling was oh so much fun. Even though it wasn't the Beatles or Brad Pitt, it was still a funny little episode that made my daily life seem much more interesting.

At nights I would hang out with Courtney and watch TV, deflecting parental comments and questions in the hopes creating an image of a productive, hard working me that spent his days really trying his best to make it. Courtney was working, hard. Props to her, of course. She's super freaking smart and is leaps and bounds ahead of most kids our age, and she deserves everything she's got in store for her. I was more than happy to assist in making her life easier during this transitional period. I dropped her off in the mornings and picked her up when she was done. But somewhere in between the picking up and the dropping off, the staying in and sleeping, I realized I was in a rut. I was barely trying in my job search, feeling like shitty insurance companies were the only places that would possibly hire me (I've turned down 3 shitty insurance jobs to this date, because I just don't want that to be my life). I felt I couldn't really commit to making my life without doing something a little off the map. I had to go somewhere, do something, anything that would allow me to move on past this summer and really start to work. Then it hit me.

One night, after Courtney had gone to bed, I was watching a documentary about the blues, narrated by the super smooth Morgan Freeman. I thought about the class I had taken Sophomore year, History of the Blues, I thought about the Mississippi Delta, the Dockery Plantation and the Road to Memphis, and I knew exactly what I would do. I would trace the early evolution of the blues, experience where it began, breathe the same air and see the same hills. It was perfect. Not too long and crazy, like that dude from Into the Wild, and not to cliche like a cross-country RV trip (don't get me wrong, I would love to do that). It would be my own little adventure to the origins of rock. I would get down to the root of it all, away from New England and the New York, away from MTV and daytime TV (I'm starting to watch way too much Scrubs), I would rediscover myself by rediscovering the blues.

I told my parents my plan, and they encouraged me along through cynical teeth. At the moment, I am planning my 5-6 day long journey to the heart of early blues. I am going to drive 20+ hours down to the Mississippi Delta and see the Dockery Plantation, where Tommy Johnson, Son House and Willie Brown all lived, worked and played. I was going to see as many cool little shit holes as possible in Mississippi and then head up to Memphis for a Weekend. There, I want to see some live music, eat good food and be on my own in a brand new city. If all goes according to plan, I'll be back here in CT by a monday, ready to pucker down and get myself a real job in the real world.

I can't think of anything else to write at the moment, so I'll leave you with this haiku that explains what I did today. It's called "My Mom is Really Mad at Me for Causing Costly Damage".

While mowing the lawn

I chopped up a garden hose

and broke the tractor.

Broken Leg Blog #3

It's back! After countless hours of anticipation, it's finally here! You've waited and waited to see what would happen, and now the moment has come... the climactic conclusion of the Broken Leg Blog. Spoiler Alert: I get better!

After 6 weeks on crutches, I finally had my appointment with the doctor. I was feeling better and was hoping to get rid of my arm extenders for good, but after a 4 hour drive back to Pennsylvania, I was told I'd need them for another 2 weeks. This time, however, I was able to bear 50% of my body weight. I walked around normally, but just used my crutches to help support the leg. Essentially, I looked like a giant jackass faker. The shear embarrassment of walking around like Jimmy from South Park was motivation enough though. I started to leave my crutches when taking small walks and going out in public. Using it more, combined with physical therapy 3 times a week, low and behold, I'm walking around like a normal person again. I can actually carry something from one room to another without making it an afternoon-long event.

Physical therapy is the bomb. One hour long, I basically get to sit on a massage table either icing, stretching or getting my knee rubbed down. The place is really nice. All white interior, basically looks like some rich bastards private one floor gym. The walls are lined with personalized autographs from professional sports players, bodybuilders, wreslters and the North American mambo dancer champ. There's even a pair of Shaq's giant shoes, as long as my arm shoulder to wrist, signed personally for "Dr. C". I don't have Dr. C though. Dr. C is too busy flying to Arizona or Miami, or wherever Shaq plays these days to personally rub the goon's oversized feet before every game. My therapist's name is Jeff, and he's pretty fucking cool. Now I'm not saying there's any developing bromance or something, but I am glad that the guy turned out to be normal. The experience would be so much less bearable if I was being rubbed down by some bi-curious macho creep.

The last month has been quite an experience. Paradoxically, so much happened and yet I didn't do a god damn thing. Physically, I've just sat around all day and gone to therapy. Mentally, its been like a roller coaster. Looking for a job, just out of college, getting pressure from my parents all while relearning to walk. I've had some downer moments, maybe I was a negative nancy for a minute or two, but in the end I think I'll survive... I just have to find a job! Doing nothing all day was great when I had an excuse, but now my excuse has healed.

I hope you enjoyed the Broken Leg Trilogy. Personally, I'd rank it somewhere in between The Mighty Ducks and Back to the Future, but maybe your more of a Matrix fan...