LOUSIEST WEEKEND EVER
Saturday night I felt a lot of thumping around in my chest. I've had a little chest gnome for years, but I've ignored it and it's ignored me. However, on Saturday, it was as if the chest gnome had a family reunion and all it's chest gnome buddies were there, drinking and causing all kinds of havoc.
I went to the emergency room around 3 AM, because I am afraid of chest gnomes.
The doctors hooked me up to a chest gnome checker, and went back to playing UNO or whatever it is the doctors do in the emergency room. I fell asleep and later woke up, so that was good, or bad, depending on your outlook.
The doctors said my EKG (chest gnome test) was abnormal, and said I might want to hang around for a few days so they can monitor me. I thought it strange that they would invite me to stay like that, so I took them up on the offer. I figured they wouldn't have asked me if they weren't at least a little concerned.
So, I said yes.
I was moved up to a bed on the 7th floor of the hospital around 1 PM.
I missed lunch, but the kindly lady snuck me an egg salad sammy.
I slept most of Sunday, waking every few hours only to get blood removed from my arm and have doctors ask me questions and hook me up to machines and have nurses drop pills down my throat. It was downright sadistic.
Monday I took some more chest gnome tests and was told that my chest gnome, though annoying, is mostly just that. I decided if that was good enough for the doctors, it was good enough for me and packed up my goodies (a free tooth brush and some baby lotion) and headed to Chinatown.
As I was walking south towards my homestead, I turned on my cellphone (which I wasn't allowed to use while in the hospital) and checked my messages. Four new messages. Around message number two, something happened - a car drove by really loudly, or perhaps someone yelled something that sounded like my name and I panicked and practically threw my cellphone down a NYC sewer grate. You should have seen it, all in slow motion, bounce out of my hand, dance across the pavement and in three tango steps, commit cellphone suicide.
I gasped as it slid so gingerly through the bars, as if it were trying on a dress that fit perfectly. It was as if it was trying to run away. It actually made a "ker-plunk!" sound as it hit its' spit, piss, shit and rain water demise. I saw it's little light flicker and then go out.
It was practically sad.
A few passers by saw the commotion and exclaimed, "Oh, shit!"
I'm celebrating the life of my loyal cellphone with a Dirty Folk Rock show in Indianapolis, IN on Wednesday, March 22nd at 8:30 PM at a little joint called Birdy's. In lieu of flowers, please buy a CD.