I tweeted yesterday that I fractured my ankle, but didn’t really give any details, so here goes. My wife and kids and I are visiting my parents in St. Louis. We went to an awesome place called the City Museum downtown (citymuseum.org).
We were having a great time in their “skateless park” (a collection of ramps and quarter pipes you can run around on), when I decided to run up a short quarter pipe. When I got to the top I started to lose my balance. I ran back down the pipe, and when I got to the bottom, I stepped wrong and rolled my ankle. I heard a pop, and jumped up on my good foot screaming “I think I need to go to the hospital.”
The crew at City Museum were amazing, and they got an ambulance there and got me taken care of as quickly as they could. After a couple of hours at the hospital, the diagnosis was a small fracture.
What a way to start a vacation!
“cool. story. bro.”
My 30 day musical theatre challenge posts have been derailed for the last few days, because in my 5 person family, we have 5 cases of strep throat, an ear infection and a double ear infection. I’m hoping to put something new up today.
Sinatra with a cold is Picasso without paint, Ferrari without fuel — only worse. For the common cold robs Sinatra of that uninsurable jewel, his voice, cutting into the core of his confidence, and it affects not only his own psyche but also seems to cause a kind of psychosomatic nasal drip within dozens of people who work for him, drink with him, love him, depend on him for their own welfare and stability.
Sinatra’s intonation, precisely clipped, yet full and flowing, gave a deeper meaning to the simple lyrics — “In the wee small hours of the morning/while the whole wide world is fast asleep/you lie awake, and think about the girl….” — it was like so many of his classics, a song that evoked loneliness and sensuality, and when blended with the dim light and the alcohol and nicotine and late-night needs, it became a kind of airy aphrodisiac. Undoubtedly the words from this song, and others like it, had put millions in the mood, it was music to make love by, and doubtless much love had been made by it all over America at night in cars, while the batteries burned down, in cottages by the lake, on beaches during balmy summer evenings, in secluded parks and exclusive penthouses and furnished rooms, in cabin cruisers and cabs and cabanas — in all places where Sinatra’s songs could be heard were these words that warmed women, wooed and won them, snipped the final thread of inhibition and gratified the male egos of ungrateful lovers; two generations of men had been the beneficiaries of such ballads, for which they were eternally in his debt, for which they may eternally hate him. Nevertheless here he was, the man himself, in the early hours of the morning in Beverly Hills, out of range."