Leg Dreams

I miss leg. Like, a lot. And I’ve missed leg for quite some time.

For those who've never read the funny story of how I got gimp'd while playing soccer, I give you this link. And no, “gimp'd” is not a new, more sadistic Ashton Kutcher show.  Sidebar: how wild of a show would that be? Instead of Demi getting dumped, she did the dumping and he gets so angry he convinces HBO to film him and his crew luring celebrities into traps and beating the shit out of them. (self high five!)

Just before Xmas I get some bad, but expected, news. Dr. Leg looks at me, then back and my MRI, and says, “You injured this a year and a half ago?" I nod. "Brad, he says. "I look at this and wonder, ‘How have you been living like this?’* You don’t have an ACL. Normally when people snap theirs, you can see remnants. But with you, there’s nothing. And usually people tear their Meniscus." He draws me a quick picture of the Meniscus and points circles the place where people usually tear it. "You flipped yours.” The second circle is much larger. 

Alright, I get it doc. I’m a badass. But what's nex–WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?! He frantically tries hiding the plastic knee joint model, but it's too late. Involuntary nap time. 

They cut me open on January 24^th and life was pretty good for 2 weeks. I was ahead of schedule with strength and range of motion and began walking sans crutches and brace 10 days out.  Life was looking up. Then one Tuesday I was in a rush to get the recycling out before my bus came and like a total asshole I tried some hop skip maneuver and FUCK! What the fuck was that? Searing pain in the hamstring area helped me conclude that it was my hamstring. You see, part of it was taken by that thieving jerk and repurposed into a new ACL. He made an incision, went up there with a reachy army thingy, snipped, stole, drilled, and installed. So my hammy was already weak, and I tweaked it something fierce. “It’s not the worst I’ve seen, but it’s up there,” said my physical therapist.

Do I get a ribbon? NO?!  How about a blood clot?

If you’ve ever torn your hamstring, you know it’s fucking painful; in my case, a lot more painful than the surgery. Unless I wanted a thousand hot needles to shoot up the back of my leg, I didn't move it because it needed to heal, which is precisely why I got the blood clot. Post-surgery appendage movement is apparently important so a blood clot doesn’t land in one (or more) of your veins. And since a clot can lead to death, it's kind of a big deal (but a bigger deal to me is how lame of a death that would be). So now I'm on blood thinners and a sexy compression sock is on me. 

But hey, I’m doing alright. Two weekends ago I went drunk biking. 

Now, some of you may be saying, "Brad, it's not a good idea to bike around at night, with high levels of blood thinning meds in your system, while under the influence of a liquid that both diminishes your coordination and thins your blood, thus increasing the chances of blah blah blahg I have A TINY WEINER!" Two things: 1) you're absolutely right, especially about the weiner bit and 2) see number 1. 

Anyway, as much as I like to write that I’m kicking life in the balls, living so long on a bum knee has not been fun. It’s been one.five years since I could do a slew of knee related activities (and there's a lot) without the worry it would pop and lock, sending it to bed for a few days. It would jostle and swell anytime I stepped wrong, anytime I spun or twisted, and anytime I jumped over a stanchion at a Rise Against concert because I couldn’t get floor tickets and I wanted to be on the floor. I'd tweak it every 3 weeks for so, a reminder of the "I can'ts" that lead me everywhere.

And now I got it fixed (trumpets and crash cymbals). I am thoroughly excited about this (crash cymbal falls to the ground and makes awkward spinning sound). Um, ahh, he he... sorry about that. Anyway, I've been so excited by this that I’ve done my fair share of dreaming about what I’ll do when I have a healthy leg (cue dreamy music and blurred focus)…

When my leg is betta, I will dance. I will dance so fucking hard you have no idea. I will line dance with a gay cowboys. I will swing dance with a random woman on the street. I will break dance naked on the wooden floors of my house and then swear up and down while rubbing ointment on my burns. My wood burns. THAT'S WHAT HE SA— Uh, oh. I've said too much. 

I will play drinking games that involve running. I will play drinking games that don’t involve running because I’m tired of running. I will pass out.

I will run after a departing train and make eye contact with a random beautiful woman as if she is the love of my life and I just made a massive mistake. I will mouth “I Love You” to her as the train pulls away from me, inciting a fight between her and her jealous boyfriend. I will wait patiently for our relationship to start through Missed Connections. “You ruined my life!” her post will begin. No I didn’t. I ruined his life. The best chapter of yours is about to begin.

When my leg is right as rain, I will hike. I will camp. I will rock climb. I will boulder. I will climb to the top of boulders, hike down from them, and have sex with 2 hot hiker/climber chicks in the rain. Yes, I will do this. It will be nice. AND THEN WE'LL WATCH HOCKEY! God, I love the outdoors.

This interruption is brought to you by Roommate, who enters the room while showing off all the awesome moves he can do with both of his good legs.

I will break Roommate’s knee.

I will karate chop a cop in the balls. I will surf on top of a shark. I will back-flip kick said shark in the balls. Oh, a shark doesn’t have balls on the outside of its body thus making said balls difficult to locate? Well, I’ll invent a shark with outside balls and motherfucking back-flip kick that fucking shark in its OUTSIDE-SHARK BALLS DON’T INTERRUPT ME! (clears throat) Where was I? What came before shark balls? Well, I know cop balls! But what came before any mention of balls in general?! Really?... (clears throat once, then again) Ahhh fuck it.

I will break into song in the middle of a crowded street. I will immediately regret my song choice because no, 80-year-old grandparents, I don't want to fuck either of you like an animal. 

I will play Twister. I will play Twister, in my house, without others and without clothes, just before Roommate gets home from work. Boom! Remember that rubbing it in shit? Gotcha, fucker!

I will write a public apology to my female roommate because I didn’t expect her to be right behind Roommate.

I will eat a salad.

I will run after the bus if I miss it. I will miss the bus just so I can run after it. I will join a sorority.

I will lose my gut by working out 4 days a week. I will devote one weekend to climbing a 14er with my sorority. I will take a shit on the top of that 14er . I will get kicked out of my sorority.

I will give myself a hug everyday. And by “hug” I mean hand job.

I will give nude modeling another shot. I will be a nude model inside. I will be a nude model outside. I will be arrested and charged as a sex offender. I definitely will not be a nude model outside.

I will build a bear at my local Build-A-Bear workshop. What do you mean "why?" Fuck you, why! I need a reason to build an adorable and cuddly bear? His name, Chester. His role, my nightly confidant: 

"And then she looked at me for like 2 straight seconds! What does that mean? Does that mean she wants to nibble on my bits? Or does it mean she was trying to figure out where the cereal was and she thought I was a stock boy? Whatever. (Brad hugs Chester) She's probably a bitch anyway." 

I will begin to draw inspiration from looking out the bus window. I will eat fried chicken. I will eat McDonalds. I will eat tire. And fence.

I will play Ultimate Frisbee. I will play Ultimate Stand On The Sidelines And Hold Back Puke While I Catch My Breath.

I will learn to laugh at myself. And I will learn to stop laughing at myself during funerals and other general death related occurrences like first learning someone's family pet died or while telling them I killed their family pet...

I keep reminding myself that things could be worse.

I had a follow-up appointment with Dr. Leg the other day. We managed to look at the photos they snapped during the surgery without vomit climbing up my word pipe. He held me and told me to be a big boy. I cried. Then he pointed out a few things about it while whispering, "It's gonna be alright." He admired his work and, once again, commented on my wearwithall. Then he had me lay on the table where he violently tested the strength and stability of the new ACL.

"Oh, that's great," he said while jarring my calf and quad back and forth. "That's really great." He literally did it about 3 more times before I blurted, "Alright, that's enough." He apologized, admitted that his fascination with knees could probably qualify as a mental illness, and said I'm right on track.

I can ride a bike outdoors in 1.5 months and in 2.5, I can make turns while running. This is all great news to me, because it means I will...

*My answer: I didn’t have health insurance. I injured it while I had a job, but got laid off soon after. Ya fucking make do. And I’m glad I did, otherwise I’d be $46,366 in the hole. THAT'S WHAT SHE SA— Fuck! Will I ever learn to use that properly? Huh, Chester? 


Click here to be rerouted to your nearest emergency room and/or to the humerus story about me smacking my knee up. 

Give This Man Money

This is a rare blahg entry because it's not talking about me. I know what you're thinking: BORING!! But quell your fears and anger, it's gonna be alright. The post is about a friend from college: Tim. Tim's good shit. He's a musician, a great guy, and you should give him money. Why?

Because Tim is a man with a dream, to make music about what he loves: hookers. K, probably not hookers. Well, maybe. It's been a while. His current dream is to make an album about raising two boys with a beautiful wife in smoking hot Minnesota. Wait, two smoking hot boys— wait. His wife, she's the hot one. Minnesota isn't. His boys aren't either. Well, I mean they're cute. But not in a weird way. 

Minnesota hot dish! Yeah, that's what I meant.

ANYWAY! All Tim wants is to serve up some melodic mind bombs for the noodles of the willing. But you need coin to make a studio album, coin he doesn't have, which is why he asked me to write "snarky" post asking my one or two readers if they'd help him out. 

So I encourage you to donate on his Indiegogo page, and here's a list of reasons why you should: 

1) His music is ahead of its time! So ahead of its time, I tell you, that I've already listened to his entire unwritten album and it sent me to the doctor for an erection lasting longer than 4 minutes. HOURS! I meant hours, douche. 

2) He's got a pretty simple, non-controversial goal: making music he loves that will hopefully provide joy to its listeners. It's not like he wants to inspire a "Ripped from the headlines" Law & Order episode or to make love to four legged creatures. 

3) His hidden track is about his true desire to make love to four legged creatures. 

I moo! 

Reason 4) The album will blow your balls off. Like, boom! Your balls? Gone. So do yourself a favor, do your balls a favor, and do this over populated world a favor, give this man money so he can blow tons of balls clean off. Don't have balls? Well, sorry. This project isn't for you. 

5) I'm kidding! It'll grow you balls if you don't have them, then blows them right the fuck off! And guess what, if it makes you sad that you're not gonna be able to play with your new balls before they were blown off, that's what the pause button is for! Let his tasty licks grow you some balls, hit pause, play with the new balls, and when you realize you were better off without 'em because they're awkward, they itch a lot, and you sometimes sit on them, which is really fucking painful, press play. Boom. Ballz-b-gone. 

6) Have I cleared up any remaining confusion related to testicle destruction? 

7) You know what? Fuck you. I don't need your sarcasm. 

8) What, you think I need to stick to proper list format? This is my fucking blahg! 

Reason 9) Tim said something to me that I'll always remember. I was on the verge of a bipolar episode, something I didn't have a handle on back then. We were in the basement of the art building at our college and I mentioned how I wasn't feeling my best. He told me that I need to take care of three things: my mind, my body, and my penis. Now you may be thinking, "Brad, isn't the penis a part of the body?" Well, at that point mine wasn't. Kidding. I just can't remember the the third thing he said but just trust me that it was actually spot on and meant a lot to me at that point in my life. 

Look, in all honesty, I don't know what his music will sound like. I don't even know if it will even compare to the 40+ revenge songs that Taylor Swift has written (I doubt it - just when you think she's used every possible way to express her now-unnecessary rage toward a boy who's slighted her, she comes up with something totally new!). But in all seriousness, what I do know is Tim is a really, really good guy who truly cares. He cares about being a great husband, a great father, and a great musician. So help him out. Donate $5, $20, or $20 here. He's just another person like you or me, chasing his something. 

Why Don’t You Blahg About It? - Sleeping In Cars #1

It had been at least 5 years since I stepped foot in the NE Minneapolis bar and tonight it was giving off a completely different vibe. The first time, Roommate and I were living in a duplex a few blocks away and we went in looking for women (so we could awkwardly glance at them during lulls in conversation and between sips of beer, but never talk to them). As it turned out, there weren’t too many women there because it was a gay bar.   

But that was five years ago.

“The Front” now has much more women, but still plays the same great dance music.  So on this cold September night, with dancing in our bones, we land there to bust some moves.

Enter the main character of the night, a man I shall call Cryin’. We all went to the same school, but none of us knew him because he graduated 5 years ahead of us. His age may have been a factor in why, on this particular evening, he made the unfortunate decision to wear a shirt with regular buttons, not the pearl snaps that are so popular now a days. Wild Child, a girlfriend who gets a little crazy when she’s on cloud alcohol, starts ripping the shirts off of all the males in our party; and let’s be real, most of the people in our party are male. Team men realizes this is a fantastic idea, and we join the disrobing ritual: hooking a finger above the top snap of each other’s shirts and tearing downward. By the time I come to Cryin‘, his shirt isn’t fairing so well and only 2 buttons remain, their fallen comrads MIA beneath the antsy feet of giants.  I go to unsnap them before realizing they’re buttons and he grabs my hand forcefully. Oh shit, they’re not snaps, I think. My bad. I brush off the mistake and the dance, and the drinks, continue.

Funny story, I actually did some silhouette modeling 

back when I had long hair.

I’m busting my moves, getting all hot on some Brazilian knockouts that have somehow landed in one of the coldest states in our great nation. I ask them why, why do you live here? There are warmer, brighter states. They say something about work or family or both. I’m a little bit blurry on their answer, their smoking bodies and booze blocking my recall receptors. They trade up to taller, more “attractive” men, the kind who were poppin’ collars when collar poppin’ was popular. See also: tools.

I jitter bug it back to my friends. Cryin’ is down to one button keeping his shirt together so I point at it to tell him he should just unbutton it so others aren’t temped to tear. And he slaps me. Yup, you read right. He slaps me. I am literally too shocked to be angry. Plus, I’m not an angry-first or angry-second type of guy.  I drop into the Why zone, trying to figure out his reason for slapping me. As the shock fades the answer appears: he thought I was trying to send his last button home to lie with its brothers.  Another question replaces the first: why would a man slap another man over something so little? Is he self-conscious about his chest? I mean, he’s a fit climber so I don’t really see anything to be self conscious about. Or is Cryin’ just not a big fan of me like I’ve always suspected? He doesn’t really look me in the eyes when I try conversing with him, a tell tale sign someone’s better than you. Or does it boil down to this: he's a fucking douche? At any rate, these questions are far too heavy for a night like this, so I toss them aside, take a gulp, and get down. 

We leave with food on our minds and stop outside to smart phone it. The group has whittled down to 4: MC ProcrastinEscher, a college, climbing buddy who hails from Colorado but has been finishing his Master‘s thesis in Minny for going on 100 years now; Guy Who’s Name I Can’t Remember, a really cool guy I met tonight whose name I can’t remember; and Cryin’. My phone is dead, the screen on Guy's is so mangled it's now considered a dumb phone, and MC's is minutes from death. Still, he gets a txt and shows us a photo of what his friends were up to earlier today. They were slack lining on the North Shore.

Now, I have to explain two things before we get to the crux of our story. First, slack lining is a technique used by climbers to bridge a gap and traverse over a drop without having to down climb, cross over, and then climb back up the other side. It’s pretty much the same thing as the tight rope at a circus, although it's less tight, swings a bit when you lose your balance, you don’t carry a goofy looking pole to help you balance, and you’re not walking on a rope; you’re walking on piece of webbing about an inch and a half wide. It’s fucking tough to do and takes a lot of practice.

Slack lining.

Second, "The North Shore" of Lake Superior runs from the Duluth, MN to somewhere in Canada (I mean, do they even have towns up there or what?). It's one of the most beautiful and majestic places in all of Minnesota and it can be quite unforgiving, with some cliffs towering 100-200 feet above jagged rocks and shallow water.

"Palisade Head," just outside of

 Duluth, MN on the North Shore of Lake Superior. 

So MC’s friends were slack lining across a gap on the North Shore. MC, Guy, and I find this to be pretty damn impressive.

“Oh, that’s nothing,“ Cryin’ says. “Probably a 20-foot drop over water.”

I jump on the comment almost immediately, for this dismissive arrogance will not stand. “Oh, that’s nothing for Cryin’ the great!”

“Oh yeah, Brad,” he fires back. “Why don’t you blog about it?”

I pause a moment before losing my shit, giggling like a little girl. “What?! Are you kidding me?! Who says that?! ‘Why don’t you blog about it?’” My voice is high, except for the delivery of his line, which I say low and dunce-like.

His level of amusement doesn’t come close to mine and he tries ignoring it by walking to the Panera a block away. We follow, because if it’s open, soup and sandwiches would be heaven right now. However, food used to be front page before breaking news bumped it to page two. I just cannot stop laughing.

“‘Why don’t you blog about it?’” I’m gasping for breath. “That’s fucking hilarious.” We’re outside of Panera and for some reason it’s not open at midnight. We turn around and cross the street. I’m still laughing and Cryin’ is visibly irritated. He pulls ahead of us, crossing the other street without the walk sign. His pace quickens from speed walk to jog to run and before we know it, he’s a half a block away and gaining and we haven’t moved.

“What the fuck?”

The plan was to grab some food then crash at Cryin’s friend's place. But plans change, especially when the guy who was gonna get you in the door runs away.

“What the fuck was that?”

“What do we do? Do we run after him?”

“I don’t know. I can’t believe he just ran away.”

I'm still giggling.

“Whatever. Let’s go to White Castle and figure it out.”

Maybe this is why I'm single.

We realize the problem of where we’re sleeping tonight can’t be solved as easy as a colon cleansing from the world’s shittiest burger joint. Our cell phone situation is looking dire. MC's is seconds from death, mine is still dead and buried in my pocket, and now Guy's has passed away. MC successfully calls a cab company, but we end up flagging one down before keeping the appointment. The kind sir takes us to my brother's SUV, which I parked near the first bar we began our night at. 

Apparently Global Warming isn’t a constant and tonight is fucking cold. We’re all drunk, but for the sake of survival, we break the law and start the car to warm it up. I put on a couple more layers and make my nest in the far back. We decide the best place for the keys are in my pocket because I’m farthest from the ignition, a decision that turns out to be terrible for my scantily clad compadres. But we survive, and the morning brings shivering, massive headaches, a healthy hunger for eggs and bacon, and a few more giggles.

“Remember that time when Cryin’ ran away and we had to sleep in a freezing car?”

“Yes. Yes I do.” 

And hey! Would you look at that: I blahged about it!