Sorry for the infrequent posting as of late, but my arm,
as feared, fell off at an inopportune moment early last week.
August the 28th started off like any other Monday. I awoke, breakfasted, guzzled half a pot of coffee while perusing the blogs, scribbled out a short an uninteresting post of my own, touched up a small graphic design project, played the bull fiddle a while, walked Carl Weathers, landscaped about Casa Camino until it was semi-presentable, showered, shaved, luncheoned while checking in on my Spanish language soap operas, and then headed out. I ran a few errands and perused out the used sections of a couple of guitar stores before making it the square. I browsed the library first and then dropped off my watch at a jeweler’s to repair some damage sustained when I rather stupidly kept it on while kayaking on Center Hill Lake the previous Saturday. I then thought about getting my monthly headbuzzing a week early at my barbershop across the square, but it, like any respectable barbershop is closed on Mondays. No problem. Liquid Smoke was open and a beer and cigarette while trying to finish Brideshead Revisited seemed like a good way to wait out an impending afternoon thunderstorm.
I should mention two things here.
First, I’m more of a social smoker. It is rare to find me smoking either during the day or while sitting alone, but it is good to know that there are some public places that allow one to give one’s lungs a warm hug in a comfortable indoor setting when in the mood. Smoking, despite the numerous examples of cold and shivering smokers standing demeaningly outside office buildings, is cool. I can understand how it falls into the category of things we must lie to children about, but it, if done correctly, can be a rewarding hobby that lasts a lifetime. Moderation is the key, kids. Also, never buy those generic cigarettes that taste like cardboard. If you’re going to do something, do it correctly.
Secondly, I highly recommend the novels of Evelyn Waugh to anyone in the need of some reading material, though I won’t put the seal of approval on Brideshead. It was quite un-Waugh-like and a bit too soap opera-esque for my tastes. Check out Decline and Fall and you will not be disappointed.
Get on with it, damn you!
Patience, Captain Howdy. Patience.
I emerged refreshed from Liquid Smoke an hour later, rummaged through the record shops and the square’s used book store for over another hour without buying anything, and then settled into a corner table at a coffee shop to wait out the afternoon’s second wave of semi-thunderstorms with some green tea. Once that had passed I began the trek back to the Caminomobile, as the hour was getting late and I still needed to swing by the new Indian grocery store down the road from Casa Camino and find something adventurous to have waiting on the table by the time Mrs. Camino got home from work.
Then, as so often happens on my saunterings around the square, a carload of visitors pulled up beside me to ask for directions. This turned out to be a group of Honduran cedar bucket enthusiasts nearing the disappointing end of a pilgrimage that would only lead to a slab of charred concrete. I hadn’t the heart to tell them the
fate of the bucket and instead attempted a conversation comprised mostly of phrases I had picked up from watching Spanish language soap operas. However, I don’t really understand Spanish myself, and a later consultation with a Spanish dictionary validated the troubling looks I received when I told them I was carrying Pedro’s baby. At the time I only knew that the conversation was wearing thin and that I should probably send them on to the former site of the world’s largest cedar bucket. So I smiled politely, pointed them in the right direction, and then listened to the terrified reaction elicited by having my arm fall into their rented convertible.
By the way, the Spanish word for leprosy is
lepra, while a leper would be called a
leproso. It certainly seems that the two should be reversed, though it didn’t matter much at the time.
Anyway, I was going to try and play it off—you know, casually pick up my arm, wave goodbye (perhaps even with the severed arm, as if that sort of things was a common American occurrence), and then continue about my sauntering. However, their quickly driving off prevented this and created a rather embarrassing scenario in which I had to chase them across the greater downtown portion of Church Street before I was able to leap into the car and retrieve an arm that was rightfully mine.
I spent that evening attempting to save money by festooning the arm back onto my person myself, but it was no use. So it was that I sought the assistance of a licensed medical professional and spent the last week in a rehabilitation that consisted primarily of my conversing with multiple handpuppets for the better part of the day.
Anyway, that’s where I’ve been.
