On this rather warm Wednesday evening I thought I’d stroll down memory lane and post something that was actually one of my very first posts, way back in December of 2011. But I must go back a few months before that, to September of 2011. Step in my wayback machine. Hey, all hands inside the car while the machine is travelling through time, please.
So our neighbors, God love ’em, have a trampoline. I know, I know, just hours of wholesome fun for the entire family(even fat Uncle Phil…watch him wiggle). Well, I was always hesitant about my kids playing on the damn thing. Why? Because I’m a paranoid guy who borders on OCD-like tendencies, plus I’m a party pooper. But I relented and let the kids play on the death trap next door. Well, one Saturday afternoon in September of 2011 my son was walked home by the neighbor lady. She said he fell off the trampoline. He was sort of quiet, but had a very worried look on his face. Like he was waiting for her to leave so he could break down and cry. So he sat on the couch and my wife tried to get information out of him. He said he was on it and fell off(it was later revealed there were four kids, plus various BALLS to make the fun a little dangerous, I suppose). After an attempt to get him to move his wrist made extreme yelps of pain and agony I decided we needed to go to the E.R. Turns out, he broke his right arm, just below his wrist. It was a clean break and would heal well, said the orthopedic surgeon. So for the next six weeks my son would be wearing a black cast(yep, jet black…his choice) on his right arm. He was a resilient little guy, as within two days he had started writing with his left arm as well as he did with his right. I was amazed. Had it been me with a cast on my right arm for six weeks I’d a been in a depression and would’ve demanded my meals served to me in a bed with rubber sheets. Anyways, one Friday evening we were hanging out and listening to music. I’m not sure if there was chocolate, or sugar, or amphetamines involved but my son in the black cast, all of 6 years old, started dancing around the living room to Rage Against The Machine’s version of “Renegades of Funk”. It was like he was possessed by the spirit of Afrika Bambaataa, Deney Terrio, and that animated cat from that Paula Abdul video, all at once. It was insane. My oldest daughter had the good sense to record a portion of the show, so I’m sharing it once again.
One more thing…the smell that emanated from that cast after that night was horrific. It was like a thousand feet had died in a pool of parmesan cheese. It was unholy.