I went to see Wilco last Thursday night. It was, to put it simply, the best show I’ve ever seen. There are two types of bands, those that merely entertain you, and there are those who are artists, creating an auditory Van Gogh or Rembrandt (or in this case maybe Picasso?) while you watch. Wilco is the latter. They are simply brilliant in concert, and anyone who is a music fan should make it a point to see them. They are the kind of musicians who make a crusty white boy like me want to dance and sing along with everyone else.
So the other day I was helping my dad move some stuff from storage and in the process received a little sliver on my finger. Not a serious one, but the kind that’s an annoying little bugger, like a paper cut, that hurts whenever you touch something with it. This really wasn’t problematic until work the next day. Mind you I receive money from people’s purses and wallets etc and let’s face it, money can be a dirty thing. No problem I was wearing band-aids. Now through the course of mandatory hand washing at work the band-aid naturally fell off. So I am careful with it, no biggie. However, I drink a lot of coffee at work (of course) which then makes me pee like a racehorse. (Or as one employee claims…a walnut bladder) So on break I run to the men’s room. Being in a hurry I open the door, step in and reach up to grab the inside handle to pull the door close. At that point I felt a dull pain in my finger as the cut pressed against the door handle. I looked at my hand and to my horror realized there was no band-aid on my hand. Time froze, my stomach churned, panic set it. I had pressed my open wound against the nasty doorknob of the men’s restroom! (Everyone knows how dirty these doorknobs can be when people don’t wash their hands) I, for all intents and purposes, had pretty much pulled my wound open and poured a vial of virus’s into my bloodstream, mashing them in further to insure they were injected! I could feel them circulating through me already. I was surely now going to die of Ebola or something equally horrible. Fortunately, due to a past similar experience, I had a contingence plan. I ran over to the sink, poured soup into the wound and made like a surgeon, scrubbing for the very first time. Then I went to the dish sink and ran sanitizer over my hand for a minute, and finally to be sure I had ended all threat of malaria or worse, I went to grab a little alcohol scrub cleaning pack, the kind they use to clean skin before injections, and delicately cleansed my poor finger. After that I figured there was nothing else I could do. I now wait patiently to see if I die of scurvy, AIDS, the Black Death or consumption. If I die please send flowers.
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