Bob Wire Has a Point (It's Under His Cowboy Hat)

It’s Sad to See a Grown Man Whine

By Bob Wire, 9-15-08

	This was the last time I was able to put on my own shorts.

I tell you, there’s not much more dispiriting to a writer than a taunting, empty page. We’ve got two computers in the house: the family laptop upstairs, and my high-powered work computer down in my studio. They’re both currently displaying a new Word document that is empty except for the little blinking cursor, which seems to be saying, “Loser. Loser. Loser. Loser…”

But when you’re typing one-handed, and can’t sit in a chair directly facing your desk, well, the motivation is a little hard to come by. Pain killers have long since lost their appeal (except for killing pain), and I can no longer sit on the couch and watch a movie in the middle of a weekday without feeling guilty. (Although that didn’t stop me from watching the “Making of the Blues Brothers” featurette yesterday.)

I’m coming up on four weeks since my shoulder surgery, and I’m just about at the end of my rope. I’ve been strapped into this goddamn sling that holds a chunk of foam rubber the size of a Barbie Dream House under my left arm, to maintain the proper angle for healing. It feels like when you get off the couch and part of the couch comes with you. It’s cumbersome, looks ridiculous, and has become the object of ridicule any time I leave the house, which is rare. “Hey, did you bring your own cooler?” “Whoa, is that your purse?” “Wow, how come you’re carrying that mailbox around?”

And that’s just from my own kids.

My band and I played a show last weekend, for the Poverello Center fund raiser. Great party, great people. I can’t play guitar, of course (I know there are some of you who would say the same was true even before the surgery), so I just sang the songs and shook a pair of maracas. A couple hours into the gig, I took to hiding in the kitchen while offstage, to avoid anyone else coming up and clapping me on the shoulder, saying, “Bob! What happened to your elbow?”

I’ve begun the long process of physical therapy, at last, so now I can take off this S&M beanbag chair a couple times a day and start moving around my scrawny limb. I’m still amazed at how fast the arm has shrunken to the size of a broomstick, from just a month of inactivity. But these times when I’m out of the sling are absolutely delicious, free of the clammy hunk of foam pressing up against me, free of the unforgiving sling holding my arm at a right angle across my belly (which is growing as fast as my arm is shrinking).

I’m bored shitless, with nothing to write about aside from my slow-but-sure progress. Bored shitless and sleep deprived. I’m getting an average of 4-5 hours a night, tops, never more than two hours in a row. I’m logy, forgetful, and having completely unrealistic thoughts like, oh, the Dolphins might win more than three games this year. I find myself humming Christmas carols for no reason. I fed the dog four times yesterday (he did not complain).

Wednesday morning I get to take the Dream House off my sling rig and throw it in the dumpster. Then it’s a regular sling for two weeks. That will be a major improvement, hopefully enough to allow me to return to my bed. I need sleep, and thrashing around in a recliner is not working. Barb and I attended a birthday party this weekend, and I mentioned to a friend that I feared I was becoming difficult to live with. Barb said, simply, “Becoming?”

I’m working on a couple of stories I want to run in this space, concerning some local musicians and what they’re up to these days. But I can’t even muster the desire to call them on the phone and ask a few questions. I wish I could just live in a cave for six weeks. A cave with a TV and a laptop and four cases of PBR. And some beef jerky.

So I apologize for all the pissing and moaning, but this is why you’re not reading much in the way of fresh stuff here lately. I tell you what, though, if you have an idea for a subject for me to tackle, lay it on me. I’m all ears. And elbows.

Oh, and I should tell you that you can now subscribe to an RSS feed of this column. Do it, and I’ll make it worth your while. I swear.

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