Thursday, November 30, 2006


My first column for the Idolator blog as the Emo Sommelier.
Please enjoy it here.

Monday, November 27, 2006


It feels like only four months ago when Pamela Anderson and Kid Rock first exchanged heartfelt vows to one another, he, shirtless, and she, in a bikini. It was a wonderful time for the champions of monogamy and an effective argument for the blissful state of marriage. But after hearing the curve ball today that the once love-smitten couple are breaking up, I am in anguish and pain. I'm not sure if I can even bear to write this post.

And all these allegations of Rock's outrage and anger bursts directed at his virginal bride--I don't buy it for a minute. Is someone who writes poetry like " His d*** was metal, her p**** was a magnet" not capable of unadulterated and pure love? How can you accuse the man with song titles like "F*** Off" and "You Never Met A Motherf***er Like Me" of having an anger management issue?

Surely, you must understand that true love is never eternal. Sometimes, like in this instance, a gentleman and a woman must decide to amicably part ways and like mature adults, divvy up the Michelob Lites equally. And you know what? Kudos to GQ for naming Kid and Pam "Newlyweds of the Year." Bravo to this fine men's publication for acknowledging a love that can inspire the stars to shine. It makes this wounded heart hopeful that some of us still recognize true love when we see it despite the world's cynicism.

And for all the romantics out there, here are some pictures from the classy and dignified ceremony. In retrospect, I still can't imagine how this couple didn't last. But in the meantime, I think it'll help if we just focus on the good times.
Where's my stapler?

Dear Sloan,

You're awesome to the max. You make rock and roll that sounds timeless without sounding dated or ironic. It's power pop with two scoops of power. Precise, Exacto blade pop that cuts through aluminum cans. Granted you're from Halifax, Canada but you made make that country sound like high-five awesomeness all day long.


Ps You don't have Thanksgiving, do you? Eh, you're not missing much.

Sloan - "Who Taught You To Live Like That?"

Friday, November 24, 2006


Technically, I'm on vacation so I shouldn't even be posting a song of the day but I will in honor of O.J. Simpson.

James - "Getting Away With It"

I don't like cities, but I like New York.
Technically, New York is in fact a city. I know this.
I'm simply using my poetic license by saying that New York is unlike any other place.
Other places make me feel like a dork.
Yes, I just rhymed "York" with "dork."
But I thought on this particular lyric long-and-hard and realized I had no choice.
It was between "Mork", which makes no sense because a Robin Williams character has nothing to do with New York, "stork" and "cork", but surely you can see that "dork" was my strongest option?
Besides, who feels like a stork?
Um, besides a stork?
Now, Los Angeles is for people who sleep.
And for people who are awake. Either one really.
To be honest, I'm not sure what I meant here.
Paris and London, baby you can keep.

Baby you can keep.
Baby you can keep.
Baby you can keep.
Baby you can keep.
Baby you can keep.
I have to say it eight times.
I don't know why. I wrote it that way.
Baby you can keep.
Baby you can keep
Knock it off. Seriously. There's only one more.
Baby you can keep.
...And I'm done.

Other cities always make me mad.
Other places always make me sad.
I know you're confused. You're thinking, which is it?
Sad? Or mad?
Well, I've seen people who got mad and sad at the same time. It's totally possible.
It's intense but possible.
There's crying and there's yelling. And then more crying, and you're like, is she mad or sad? Or both?
No other city ever made me glad.
I bet you didn't see "glad" coming?
Because most people only rhyme their lyrics twice.
I did it three times.
That, my friend, is a lyrical curveball.
No other city ever made me glad.
Except New York.
I love New York.
I love New York.
I love New York.

If you don't like my attitude, then you can F-off.
Incidentally, the old Madonna would never have said "F-off."
How dorky.
Or Morky?
Or perhaps, corky...?
Just go to Texas, isn't that where they golf?
It isn't?
Hmm, I thought they did.
What do they do there?
Well, silly, "execute the mentally handicapped" does not rhyme with "F-off."
New York is not for little pussies who scream.
Or for big pussies.
Or for medium pussies.
Screaming is also discouraged in New York.
I just had an insane visual of a pussy screaming.
Okay, let me regain my composure.
If you can't stand the heat, then get off my street.

Get off my street.
Now I'm going to say, " Get off my street" seven more times so don't bother me about repeating things.
I'm saying it that many times for emphasis just in case you're thinking, Should I stay on this street or not?
I'm saying eight times that you shouldn't be.
I think there's no confusion there about where you should or should not be.
That street you're standing on. Stay off of it.
Get off my street.
Get off my street.
Get off my street.
Get off my street.
See where I'm going?
Get off my street.
Get off my street.
Get off my street.
I bet you're clear about you and the street.

Madonna - "I Love New York"

Monday, November 20, 2006

Not for the weak of heart

Monday. Blah blah blah. Blah blah blah blah. Ya know?

But guess what?
No, say it.
C'mon. Say "what."

It's a short week! Two-and-a-half days of work and then we're, well, surrounded by out-of-towners that want nothing more than to stop the whining of their children by showing them huge balloons! They want balloons! Now! Now! Now!

But that's still 60 hours away. In the meantime, jumpstart the lethergic day of a mini-work week (don't point. It's insecure about it's shortness) with Earl Greyhound, an enormous rock trio that gives Wolfmother the stiff classic rock competition. "S.O.S" starts off their debut album Soft Targets with an electrical jolt. You've been warned.

Early Greyhound - "S.O.S."

Friday, November 17, 2006


It's undeniable that Borat is funny. In fact, in certain moments, it's downright hilarious. Sascha Baron Cohen is a fearless, relentless comedian and as proven in one particular scene involving all-male nude wrestling, there's nothing he won't do. The absolute abandonment of inhibition is an admirable quality and Baron Cohen is wholly devoted to his craft. It's bordeline-brilliant, it's unlike anything we've seen before. It's as close to comedic perfection as we'll get in a movie theater these days.

But Borat is also the singular most uncomfortable movie experience that I've had in years. After the film was over, I left the theater unnerved and exhausted. Despite my near-overdose exposure to the film's effective viral campaign, I was still ill prepared for the year's most deservedly controversial films ever. It's one thing to expose racism, bigotry, anti-Semitism, and homophobia (commendable), but it's another thing to trick innocent and harmless people into feeling dumb (questionable).

Will the parodization of hatred leave the masses with an illuminating message of tolerance or will it only perpetuate stereotypes into the minds of the impressionable? It's a difficult question to answer but something I can't help but consider. As we left the movie theater, Shana told me that her students believed that the Jews made up the majority of America's population and that it was indeed factual that all Jews in Brooklyn were rich. I wondered if art like Borat--yes, art--creates a thought-provoking dialogue, or if it subliminally concretes the prejudices of others. Bear in mind, there are a lot of ignorant people walking into movie theaters.

I will admit that I'm a tad on the sensitive side, so, from a critical standpoint, I did laugh uncontrollably at certain scenes, but then again, I was expected to laugh. We were all told that Borat would be hilarious which worked in its favor (prepared to laugh) but also did not (expected so much more).

Despite my over-thinking, you should see this movie and then tell me what you thought because Borat is a substantial pop culture moment, the topic of conversation in 2006, or as the Staten Islander behind me said to his girlfriend, "Our parents remember where they were when Kennedy got shot. We'll remember where we saw Borat."

Like I said, there are a lot of stupid people going to the movies.

Wednesday, November 15, 2006


While watching Will Ferrell's new film Stranger Than Fiction, I realized how much I appreciate the rock elasticity of Austin songwriter Britt Daniel and his band Spoon (who soundtracks the Charlie Kaufman-esque movie).

I also realized how having low expectations before viewing a comedy may be helpful in enjoying it to the utmost. I wish I had known this before I saw Borat.

Spoon - "Advance Cassette"

Just what the hell is a Dogstar? Is it a dog that looks like a star, or a star that’s shaped like a dog? And while we’re on the subject, have you ever encountered 30 Odd Foot of Grunts? Frankly, even a couple of Grunt inches would qualify as an acceptable response.

As asinine as their names sound, the concept of a celebrity-led band is an even worse idea. Whether you’re Keanu Reeves, bassist for Dogstar, or Russell Crowe, the lead singer of 30 Odds, which, incidentally, is now called The Ordinary Fear of God (still a dumb name), time and time again, actors have proven that whenever they get on a stage, greet whatever city they’re playing in, and thereafter attempt to rock out, they’re making a big mistake. As philosopher Paul Stanley explained, you need to rock and roll all night long and party every day. Stanley made no mention of daytime thespian pursuits because rock is a commitment and roll is a full-time pursuit. If you want to be a credible, panty-worthy musician, you can’t then make the decision to star in horrific romantic comedies like A Good Year and The Lake House. This is almost as contradictory as being a vegetarian butcher.

Need proof that actors make bad rock stars? In 1995, Reeves and his two band mates Bret Domrose and Robert Mailhouse decided to not call themselves Small Fecal Matter (I kid you not) and began the recording of their first record as Dogstar. Not coincidentally, this is also the same year Keanu starred in A Walk In The Clouds, Chain Reaction, and Johnny Mnemonic, a trilogy of critically panned films (the latter even co-starred Dolph Lundgren). Definitively, this was the Reeve’s worst year of acting and not coincidentally, also the same year the future-Mr. Anderson decided to take his musical career seriously. Were both creative outlets partially diluted by the respective demands of the others? As Reeves would so eloquently say, Woah.

Over the years, I’ve interviewed close to a hundred musicians, maybe more. Just about every single one speaks of their recorded output with passion and determination, and while their product may not always match their ambition, it’s ambition nonetheless. “I’ve always wanted to be a musician,” most say in some clichéd variation. With this in mind, I can’t help but consider that the actor-to-musician transformation is just another vanity project like a worthless perfume, or a tacky clothing line. Did Jason Schwartzman, the ex-drummer of Phantom Planet, leave the band when he started getting too many acting roles? Did Juliette Lewis take The Licks more seriously when she started getting less? Or did Nicole profess her interest in releasing a record only after Paris, Lindsey, and Hillary had one too (this may not be the best example considering none of the aforementioned can really act)?

To reinforce the point, the inverse is also truthful. How memorable is Sting’s performance in Dune, Mark Kozelek’s passivity in Almost Famous, or Jon Bon Jovi’s forgettable contribution to Moonlight and Valentino?
Or for that matter, can you name one of Henry Rollins’ 10,324 cameo roles? Probably not. Why? Well, because musicians make bad actors. It’s a fact. Their job is to connect with an audience sincerely, to project with passion, to sweat all over the adoring fans with real perspiration, not water sprayed on by a prop assistant.
Musicians are proportionally successful to the seriousness of which they take their careers. We reward the ones that express themselves sincerely. Slipknot wears masks but they wear their god-awful masks genuinely. Chris Martin is as earnest as they come and yes, you may resent him for it, but Coldplay is still one of the biggest bands in the world. Paradoxically, the mass consumer always rejects irony and disingenuousness whenever the novelty wears off. The Darkness can tell us that their shtick was real but ultimately, they failed because their leopard-print unitards didn’t convince America. The same can be said for the Insane Clown Posse who, granted, was bold enough to put the word “clown” in their name, but also to their detriment, put the word “clown” in their name. Rock isn’t a joke, or a hobby. It’s not an opportunity for you to say, Now you have two reasons to be jealous of my inexplicable popularity. Rock is as real as the blood flowing through Bruce Dickinson’s veins.

But then how have rappers made the transition so smoothly? Have we not seen Eminem, Nelly, Ludacris, and Snoop Dogg all make noteworthy appearances in movies in the last few years? Well, unlike rock, for the most part, hip-hop is all about acting. Rappers are required to create personas, back-stories, storylines, and feuds, like an ongoing rhyming soap opera where the participants wear real jewelry. Dennis Coles from Staten Island is Ghostface Killah, or Tony Stark, or Iron Man, but never all three at once. Marshall Matthers can be either Eminem or Slim Shady, depending on the day you find his cantankerous white self. Keith Matthew Thorton, or Kool Keith, has as many as 57 aliases, one different from the other, all perplexing. Hip-hop has always encouraged reinvention and acting—it’s part of the game (no, not the rapper). It’s inherent and integral to your success in the business. That, and getting shot a few times.

There’s been a rumor circulating around the media that the uber-pretentious Scarlett Johansson is recording an album of Tom Waits covers (a girl does two Woody Allen movies and she thinks she’s talented). I commend the Esquire-assigned Sexiest Woman Alive for her audacious decision on taking on an underrated musician with the worst singing voice in rock music ever. Most of her fellow actors have probably never, even heard of Waits. But is it a coincidence that 2006 was also the year of Black Dahlia and Scoop, two of the poorest reviewed movies of Johansson’s career?

I once had dinner with the publicist for 30 Seconds To Mars and she told me that in actuality, singer Jared Leto has always wanted to be a musician and acting was just his backdoor into a career of rock. In fact, Jordan Catalano has even put his acting career on hold for full commitment to 30 Seconds. In an interview, one journalist even asked him how he’s made the successful transition from being a very pretty actor to being a very pretty rock star, like it was a holy grail of some sort, an irresolvable conundrum. Leto answers, “Hard work, perseverance, determination, conviction, passion, and a belief in what we do and who we are.”
I rest my case.
But incidentally, 30 Seconds To Mars is still a way stupid band name.

Monday, November 13, 2006


Geoff told me, "TV is always engaging. Just when you think you've had enough, the mind is able to accept supersaturation and take in more."

Today I sat on the couch and watched television for nearly seven hours straight. I had a lot of catching up on the DVR programming, and the rain didn't exactly encourage me to go out. At the end of the day, I feel unhealthy. My eyes are full like they have just ingested more than they should have at an all-you-can-eat buffet. My eyes feel like they need a cigarette. My eyes are saying, I can't believe I watched all that TV.

It's getting late and I'm tired, my vision is a bit glazed and I somewhat regret all that time lost. I'll put on the stereo and play one last song before sleep. And tomorrow, hopefully, I will be more productive. Tomorrow, maybe I'll watch less television.

Good night.

Frida Hyvonen - "I Drive My Friend"

Sitting in a well-furnished, leather-upholstered RV eating snow peas, Guster’s guitarist and co-singer Adam Gardner looks me straight in the eye, and says, “Okay, we used the bongos [a lot], but we’ve been weaning ourselves off them. Like all addictions, it’s a slow process.”

Gardner’s songwriting partner, the reddish brown curly-haired singer Ryan Miller is self-deprecating and wry and within moments of our introduction, he also reluctantly identifies both himself and his band as “uncool.” “I don’t get it. All the music I listen to is “cool,” and all my friends are “cool,” but we’ve somehow been included in the same category as John Mayer, Dave Matthews and the Barenaked Ladies and I know they’re sure-as-hell not “cool.”” The current Lower East Side resident (which, he tells me, is considered “a cool neighborhood”) begins our interview discussing the stigma of Guster’s alleged jam band association. Now, I say “alleged” because Guster is not a jam band. Despite its very involved past with the bongo, ultimately, Guster is an unrepentant pop band. Its four-minute songs are not solo-ridden, spliff-friendly exercises in masturbatory showmanship, but rather, terse, razor-sharp tunes with instantly memorable hooks. And like you, I had no idea. In fact, I only realized that I, not owning one pair of Birkenstocks, was capable of enjoying Guster’s music just a few weeks prior when their publicist forced me to listen to their winning and timeless fourth studio record Ganging Up On The Sun. “I’m totally into admitting that we were once good-time college frat band,” Miller adds. “But we’ve changed drastically. We’ve gotten a lot more mature, and yeah, we have to earn the reluctant listener. But wow—we never realized just how reluctant they were.”

And if ever there was a time for this band to win over the stubborn new ears, that time is now. But granted, as the amiable Gardner admitted, the bongo-allergic were once justified. When the trio (now a quartet with newest member and only Gentile Joe Pisapia), Gardner, Miller and Rosenworcel first met at Tufts University as aimless freshman, they were writing dorm-room rock. “Remember those people you first meet in college and then slowly drift apart from because as time progresses you realize you have nothing in common with them?” Miller asks. “Well, we never drifted.” After a series of critically ignored records (Goldfly, Lost And Gone Forever, Keep It Together), the band established a devoted college following. “We’re like the hand-me-downs of music,” says Gardner. “I keep thinking our fans will get older but they never age.” And after I see them live, I understand their youthful appeal. Their songs are naïve, sweet and sugary but, paradoxically, their lyrics encapsulate the brutal alienation of growing up (“You and I could quit this scene/ Build a town and then secede…Everybody, the sky is falling down/friends and lovers, the world is coming down” from “Manifest Destiny” or “Tomorrow I start in a new direction/ I know I've been half-asleep, I'm never doing that again/ I look straight at what's coming ahead and soon its going to change in a new direction” from “Come Downstairs And Say Hello”).

Eventually, Gardner leaves us for dinner with his parents (he rarely has the opportunity to see them) but Miller relaxes backstage and tells me why he looks forward to the live show. “It’s just a great vibe. The fans aren’t inhibited. They dance, sing along, and shout out song requests.”
He continues, “I’ve been to the Bowery Ballroom, and you know what? They don’t do that at the cool shows.”

Thursday, November 09, 2006

Dude, don't you actually blog anymore?

If you only knew how much work I wasn't doing right now by writing here...It's pretty crazy how three days of leg drama will offset your productivity. But I promise we're this close to getting back to normal.

Trust me here. Can ya hang for a bit?

In the meantime, I'd love to introduce you to the Feeling, a somewhat newish band from England (my SOADs are getting too British. In fact, they're drinking Earl Grey in the morning instead of coffee. Lame). The debut release Twelve Stops And Home will separate the men from the wusses. Apparently, I am a wuss. I have been listening to the Feeling since I got the record two days ago. Now, before you listen to the MP3s below, just know that this band is completely sincere about their hooks and smoothness. Hypothetically, if this band had a blog, they would probably called it Bring Back Sincerity. But then again, that name would be a pretty dumb blog name.

FYI: if you're really into kick-boxing, taking steroids, think death metal is too accessible, like stepping on cats, raise your fist regularly in the air for the sake of defiance, and/or dislike babies because they're useless, this band is probably not for you.

The Feeling - "Anyone"

The Feeling - "Strange"

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

I learned it from watching you.

Now every time I walk past someone with a limp, we give each other the right-on-nod. Like we're brothers. Like we're in this limping war together. I get you, fellow Limper. I'm with you, eye-to-eye, leg-to-leg.

Although, I regret to inform you, my brother-in-limp, I hope to move on in just a week or two. In a matter of days, I look forward to being my old self where I can run, swim, and walk briskly when I'm running late for something, which is quite often. So don't hate on me, co-limper, when you see me walking down the street and I am in full recovery. It's not my fault that the aforementioned crater in my leg decided to close.

Speaking of awesome, yesterday, I came across the remastered trilogy of awesome Pulp albums. His 'N' Hers, Different Class, and This Is Hardcore were wonderful back in the 90's but now with the repacking treatment, they're even wonderfuller. It's rare when a group releases such three strong records in a row. Actually, sometimes it's rare for a group to release one strong record (see yesterday's post; also Hinder) Lead singer Jarvis Cocker also recently released his solo debut simply titled Jarvis and it's a true return to form. Glammy and hammy crooning. Delicious.

Pulp - "This Is Hardcore"

Jarvis Cocker - "Don't Let Him Waste Your Time"

Tuesday, November 07, 2006

Oops, I did it again

After a follow-up today with Dr. Leghater, I am happy to report that the freakin' hole in my leg is healing and slowly regenerating the missing muscle and tissue. This is good news because I no longer have to stuff a country-sized gauze pad into my open wound. With all the anxiety building up to today's appointment, I was completely relieved about the cessation of my self-inflicting pain rituals. Today, I even high-fived my leg.

I explained to the doc about my bitch of a week. He sympathized in the best way a doctor could, a.k.a., not at all.

Me: I have a low threshold for pain.
Dr. Leghater: Well, I hope I never have to do surgery on you.
Me: Um, me too [awkward laughter ensues].

So, as Ice Cube said, today was a good day.

And by now you've heard that Britney Spears and Kevin Federline have filed for divorce. My first reaction was, Shocker. This was one gravy train that was short on the coal supply, if you know what I'm saying. And I think you do.
You do, right?
With this just-announced separation and last week's Ryan and Reese split, who can believe in holy matrimony? It's kinda sad when the only person you can count on for romance and love is Tom Cruise.

When I was a kid, I loved the Damn Yankee's "High Enough" because at the time, it sounded like love. "Don't say 'goodbye'," sang Tommy Shaw, "say you're gonna stay forever." Quite possibly still the best song ever. On Saturday night, I was watching some recent music videos on VH1--it's important that I keep up with modern rock--and came across the most awful/best song in recent months. It's painfully dramatic but it soars much like "High Enough" did. In fact, if I were a high school kid right now, I would probably love Hinder's "Lips of an Angel" unapologetically (admittedly, my liking this song now involves a teensy bit of irony).

After the shlocky video finished, I turned to Shana and said, "I kinda like that song."
She said, "You can't be serious."

K-fed knows, it's an effed up world out there.

Hinder - "Lips of an Angel"

Bonus SOAD (score!): Damn Yankees - "High Enough"

Ps it's also quite possible that the SOAD is a result of the irrational delusions I am experiencing from all the medication.

Friday, November 03, 2006


You know it's hard out there for a limp

I want to take this opportunity to thank all the well-wishers. I have received phone calls, emails, and one very special Lulu-comment (those don't come often, you know) based on yesterday's post.

Many have asked me what has happened to my leg, so I will explain it despite it's gruesomeness. I'm reluctant to present my first posting not for the faint-of-heart or not for pregnant women but in this instance, it hurts me more than it hurts you. Trust me.

First, I want to thank my doctor for his patience and his great sense of humor (who knew that I would come up with my best material while a grown man had his finger inserted in my leg). Secondly, I want to look down disapprovingly at the medical profession for promoting barbarism. Aren't we advanced enough to do everything with lasers? What's with the scalpels and such?

Last week, I discovered something growing in my leg. My doctor-friend Sheemon suggested that it was an abscess, which is neither sexy nor a a green-colored liquor. Which is disappointing because I wouldn't have minded either in my leg. Sheemon suggested that I needed to wait until the pus (ewwww. "Pus" just may be the ugliest word ever) in my abscess liquefied and was ready to be drained. And so I did.

Incidentally, an abscess is "is a collection of pus that has accumulated in a cavity formed by the tissue on the basis of an infectious process (usually caused by bacteria or parasites) or other foreign materials (e.g. splinters or bullet wounds). It is a defensive reaction of the tissue to prevent the spread of infectious materials to other parts of the body." My doctor did not know the source of my abscess but I assure you that it was not from a bullet wound. At least, I think so.

This past Tuesday I went to a surgeon at Mt. Sinai and he generously inserted four needles into my leg to numb the surrounding area of my inner left thigh. The surgeon then took out a chunk of my leg skin because he could. Now, as horrible as this is to read, imagine, just imagine, that you are on the table and this is happening to you. Then consider being a vegetarian. After a very serious uncomfortable and numbing few minutes, Doctor Leghater shoves a bandage into my leg to prevent the skin from closing. After all, we need the virus to drain. I mean, why not? What's a little bandage in your leg between friends?

Doctor Leghater tells me I have to change the bandages twice a day. Doctor Leghater is insane. A day later, in the shower, I am pulling the bandage out of my leg and like a magician with his magic handkerchief, I kept pulling and pulling. And pulling. And pulling. The pain was intense. I sat down on the shower floor and waited for the pain to end. I rarely sit on my shower floor, by the way. And blood...? Do I really make this much blood? Correction: did I really make that much blood [sfx: blood flowing down the shower drain]

The bandages are my hell.

So hours later, I go back to the hospital because Sheemon tells me there's too much bleeding. Doctor Leghater tells me he needs to cut a bit more out because, well, he hates legs. I tell him, no more of this bandage shenannigans. So he uses a gauze pad instead. Moral of the story: gauze hurts like a bitch too.

Over the next couple of days, I have to replace the gauze bandages (see above) twice-a-day. And the hilarity of this all is that Leghater expected me to do the gauze-change myself. Oh sure, I'll stick a bandage into my own leg because this is something my brain is prepared to handle. Just to be clear: there are only a number of natural holes in my body and I am reluctant enough about sticking things into them, never mind the new holes.

So this is me sharing. I think it's time for you to do the caring.

Now as far as the SOAD: I used to really appreciate Catherine Wheel immensly. Their supreme record Adam & Eve is still one of my underrated favorites of all time. Their song "Heal" is like medication in song. If that's the case, I'm gonna listen to it all day long.

Catherine Wheel - "Heal"

Thursday, November 02, 2006


Where ya' been, eh?

Hey dude. You haven't posted in like two days.
What's that? You were in the hospital? Twice?
Yike. What happened?
You had an absess in your leg that went horribly wrong?
You had to what? You had to get it cut out? Holy...
And you have to change your bandages twice daily? No biggie, right?
Oh. You have to stick bandages into the open wound to prevent the hole in your leg from closing? That's pretty gross.
Yeah, I could imagine this is all pretty tedious.
Painful too. Oh yeah, I see that. There's like blood everywhere.
You've been bleeding for two days straight?
Oh man. I cannot imagine. And that pulling the guaze-pad-out-of-your-wound-routine makes me queesy just thinking about it.
This totally sucks.
There's worse? A doctor had to stick his finger into your wound to clean out the infection?
Okay, we can stop talking about this. Can't we?
Good. Feel better.

So...why haven't you been blogging?

Jimmy Eat World - "Pain"