If Only I Had a Spare

Too late do I realize that the guy who tried to steal my bike was hoping to do me a favor. Last night, riding home from the Townhouse Tavs, I fell off my bike and broke a rib. The longer version is whinier and more embarrassing, so I'd do better to keep that to myself. (Maybe I will share it on a vlog and finally realize this descent into utter ridiculousness that I find myself pursuing as of late.)

I walked away from the accident wary, as I'd felt a ping in my side, but convinced I was find because I didn't feel any pain. I even rode the rest of the five or so blocks home. Only this morning did I realize I walked away scathed after all: my leg was a horror show, and moving was not so much an option. On the bright side, I haven't been coughing, which is good news, because coughing is supposed to provoke a miserable cycle of violence (coughing, pain, more coughing, more pain); but putting on my pants this morning took approximately 45 minutes. As I was walking home from the hospital I pulled something out of my pocket, and a five-dollar bill fell out and fluttered to the ground. I stared at it longingly, but let it go in the end: apparently, I will pay $5 to not endure the pain of bending down.

Now, writing about art is less lucrative than you've been led to believe all these years. No one covers my benefits—national health care really can't come too soon for the long-suffering freelance members of the creative class—so, a while back, I bought a modest catastrophic coverage policy. In fact, I was shamed into doing so, perhaps inadvertently, by a (liberal) friend who said it was irresponsible and also unfair to go out in this trapeze of a world and expect society to catch me when I fall. But of course, the class of catastrophes that my insurance will consider (without the benefit of a ludicrous premium) is quite queer. I imagine that were my bike-oriented demise to put a dent in someone else's property, some ebenezer at insurance HQ would reluctantly issue a check to cover a fraction of his damages. I've always been a miser, but I'll pay $5 to spare myself extra pain; my insurance company won't pay a damned dime to help alleviate the cost of this injury. I'm not blegging, only moaning.

To add insult to injury, the bike is fine. Topanga leans there against the wall in smug self satisfaction, as if she played no part in this casualty.

On puns: Originally I was going to go with a Pavement reference (as that's what pounded me)—maybe touch on "Transport Is Arranged," the inspiration for the title of this very blog. But I must tip my hat to Amanda for the choice pun she let me steal.

On helmets: Bell helmets are both stylish and reliable. May I recommend one in matte black? I may, and I will.

On hospitals: Elizabeth Barrett Browning writes,

I think it frets the saints in heaven to see
How many desolate creatures on the earth
Have learnt the simple dues of fellowship
And social comfort, in a hospital.

On drinking: I'm the sort who meets a really agreeable guy out at a bar and likes to cement the new friendship with way too many terrible shots. Agreeable guys, being so agreeable, will always respond in kind and with enthusiasm. There has to be a better expression of mutual admiration than the kamikaze.

On pity parties: Oh, I'll let you tell me.