The Carpenter and the Blogger

Miserable and gurgling and coughing, I was sitting in the doctor's office (again) when a man in work clothes walked in cradling his bloody hand in a plastic bag filled with paper towels. The way he carried himself, he might have just been walking in to deliver flowers or something. Coolly, at the receptionist's desk, he crooned:

"Hi. Ah...I was working down the shore, and I chopped off a big section of my finger. They told me to go to some hand center -- something affiliated with Jefferson Hospital -- and it is supposed to be near here, but I can't find it...Do you now where it is?"

The receptionist was, as they say, nonplussed. She started to stammer. She asked the woman next to her if she knew of a hand center in the area. She did not. They asked a nurse. She did not know. They took out books and typed things into computers, all the while glancing nervously at the man's bloody hand. This went on for some time. It was not unlike a scene from the Keystone Cops silent films, behind the office glass, except that the comedic action was punctuated by nervous whispers.

A Bouquet of Sardines

H Armstrong Roberts:
"Men Shaking Hands"

I once had a guy look at me with a cheese-eating grin and a superior attitude, and say: "Life is simple, really." I didn't punch him. I really should have, but I refrained, especially since he was my boss at the time. (See? Complicated.)

My point is, that even the seemingly simple is complicated. Handshakes, for instance.

As long as I live, I will never understand how a man makes it through life with a flabby handshake.

The other night, I was playing a job with my band and I saw a fellow I hadn't seen in a long time. I reached out to shake his hand. [Long Pause. Me, looking skywayrd to find a way to describe the indescribable.] It was like squeezing a cluster of warm sardines. This, as many of us know, is one of the most unpleasant social interactions possible.