July 11th, 2001

hat

I suffer non-virtual blood loss

I CHOPPED OFF A PIECE OF MY FINGER!!

A little piece, but still. Last night I was having at a particularly tough piece of Gouda, and I accidentally sliced through my left index finger with a butcher's knife. I cut off part of my nail and the tender flesh beneath. It was gushing rivers of blood, so I slapped on a bandage and tried to sleep it off. This morning it still hadn't healed, so I spent most of the afternoon in the waiting room of UCSF Acute Care.

I hate doctor/hospital waiting rooms. I always think of all the germs that other sick people must have left behind. You walk into the waiting room with nothing more than a cut finger, and by the time you're done waiting you've picked up Ebola, tubercolosis and a bad case of shingles. (shudder) It's enough to make me just stay at home.

When the doctor finally saw me, he said the cut looked worse than it was, and I'd be fine-- I just need to keep it wrapped up for a few days. Thank god, I was afraid I'd have to give up playing the piano. My days as wide-receiver for the 49ers come to a tragic end...

While I was waiting at UCSF I saw this lady reading an issue of Mojo. She wasn't super-foxy, but the Mojo intrigued me. I thought of writing a missed connection. Missed connections are these personal ads people write, usually very inane. "Saturday, at the Roxy. You: flashy brunette doing the funky chicken. Me: svelte greaser with a ducktail 'do. Can I rock your world?"

Lately I've been avidly perusing the missed connections on craigslist, not because I'm looking for someone to date, but because there's something in the hopeless, shot-in-the-dark nature of these ads that appeals to me. What are the odds that two total strangers make a connection through these ads? Impossibly slim, yet people still feel compelled to try. I find that kind of touching. Plus it's interesting to see what characteristics make someone memorable enough to describe in a m.c.

For this lady my posting would be something like:

"UCSF Acute Care, Weds. You: skinny brunette reading mojo. Me: indian guy with begimped index finger. Would have pointed at you, but bleeding was profuse."

Shawn's going to be here any minute now. Major glitch showcase tonight at Sno-Drift. Kit Clayton, Kid 606 & a cast of thousands. There will be drinking. I wonder if drinking makes the wound heal slower? I wonder if glitch music makes the wound heal faster?


Even though you don't care, until Shawn arrives I will pass time by typing things I thought about today / songs in my head / misc.

Have you seen that creepy Levi's Jeans commercial where belly buttons are singing some old r&b song? "I'm coming out... I want the world to know, blah blah blah blah, blah blah..." It's sad that so many classic songs like that are now mainly known through commercials for beer/jeans/cars. Puff Daddy appropriated the song for "Mo Money More Problems".

TIME SPENT:

  • considering whether or not Puff Daddy is talentless biter or a creative remixer: 1 min (biter)

  • fulminating @ how US should have universal health care & it's so fucked up that we don't & why can't we cut defense spending and plow that money into desperately underfunded public health care system? 10 mins

  • plotting ironic demise of George W: ongoing. (possibilities include drowning in an oil well, getting eaten by angry polar bear from arctic refuge, and long-delayed cocaine-seizure)

  • making list of differences between this world and my perfect world: 5 mins (got as far as "universal healthcare" and "legalize weed", but then got distracted by notion of "universal weed")

  • trying to imagine what the world would be like if nobody was poor: 10 mins. (kept getting stuck on "who makes the shoes?")

  • imagining worst-case scenarios re: finger injury (can't type, can't program, can't make sweet love, can't make "whatever" sign): 5 mins.

  • thinking about A, sex, or conflation of the two: 10,000 mins (approx.)

  • thinking about making this list, and how it's really just a paltry imitation of device originally used by Nicholson Baker in The Mezzanine: ZERO minutes. the thought never crossed my mind.