duck-shaped pain

I went to see my orthopedic surgeon about The Leg. I wanted to see him earlier this month, when it was acting up, but today was my only chance. I went in early on purpose so that I would have a chance to get some writing done in the lobby � something which, on further reflection, sounds extremely lame. Yet, that's a good sign of how life has gone as of late. My doctor seemed completely surprised that I was there, and actually sort of annoyed � he gave me this "what the hell are you doing here?" look throughout the entire appointment.

I have tissue irritation. That's what's wrong with The Leg. One of the bones that I broke still has jagged edges where the fracture occurred, and it's irritating the crap out of the rest of the leg. There's nothing I can do about it, however. He gave me a prescription for a compression sock (I didn't know you a needed a prescription for a SOCK) � a tight sock made out of Ace bandage material which helps keep swelling down. While there are no attractive ways to wear a compression sock � if I choose to get one, I will be doomed to wearing pants for awhile � I hope to be lucky enough to score a compression sock that stays up on its own. If not, the only alternative will be to get one that comes with a garter to keep it up � a combination that promises to get me even less laid than ever.[1]

To cheer myself up, I made a great dinner. Spaghetti with a near-obscene amount of garlic, [2] olive oil, the final basil of the year and a hefty portion of the Giant Asiago Cheese Wedge I bought last week.. It was luscious. It was exactly what I needed.

CD Report! I got around to listening to one of the Roy Montgomery CDs I bought last week in Denver, 324 E. 13th Street No. 7. It's great. I'm betting it's going to be better than Scenes From The South Island, the other one I bought. I can say this with some certainty because I planned to buy South Island -- I researched it and hunted it down. 324, however, was just a random purchase, since I happened to find it used. The least-planned things are always the best, at least for me.

So, I suppose I should tell you something about this CD, about this guy, other than just telling you that you should go buy some of his stuff. I don't know much about him other than that he's from New Zealand [3] and he has a big deep voice of the Nick Cave/Ian Curtis variety, which always makes whatever they sing, whether it's grocery lists or epic lyrics of the tragic fartiste variety, seem improbably deep and thoughtful. [4] His voice is burnt toast or a distant thunderstorm � it makes me even forgive song titles like "Submerged and Colorful" (track three). 324 is a collection of songs originally released as impossibly rare seven-inches. And you should buy it.

More as time allows.

[1] Unless I run into the dreaded compression-sock fetishists, that is.

[2] Not quite into dangerous Entire Head Of territory, but inching pretty close.

[3] Like half of the bands I mention in here, more or less, are from New Zealand, it seems. I wrote an entire entry a while back about The Dead C. a few months back, and the title of this journal comes from an album made by someone else from New Zealand. (Now you know, for those who keep asking.)

[4] Five months into this journal, and I finally get to use the phrase "fartiste."

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