Typing with my left hand while my right is in stitches. Yesterday, I fell over the handlebars of my bicycle at the bike shop, and walked the bicycle to the store clerk, who fearing a threatening law suit, did not mind the blood on the frame. After eating a vegetarian meal with the folks, drove to GBMC with my mother and signed in with no signature. My mother always tells hospital stories in the waiting room, but this time she mostly read her school books while I watched Gene Wilder's Frankenstein and Jack Nicholson's One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. The physician's aide sewed the laceration on my hand after injecting me with several needles. She had very nice eyes, neither of which I will dot with my handicap, though worth noting Dottie coincidentally asked a Rabbi in Florida if he married my parents in GBMC and he replied, yes. Here is a resembling drawing:
The lovely blond nurse at the desk asked if I had a tetanus shot in the last five years, and I mention her because of the blondes in the Wilder and Nicholson movies, because the question was not unimportant. I could not remember the last two years of college but I did remember my last tetanus shot was after smokey scratched my toe which became infected and turned green and moldy. That was when I was reading Kant, after I had read Joyce which puts me in the Spring 04. Today I am laying low and watching 80s movies with oddly nurses bed fellows with wanted men.
