Tonight's my 500th post plus the one year anniversary of that gigantic cut on my left shin. I had fallen after leaving the printing plant, fell through slush onto a parking block. I had long underwear on, the temperature was below zero, the bus twenty minutes late, all good things for me. Leg hurt like a bitch, and I noticed my pants torn as I sat on the bus. Wasn't until I got off the bus and had trouble walking home that I knew something was wrong. Got home, ended up having to cut my long underwear off because of the dried blood. (I kept the underwear, no reason to not at least have my right leg warm, the polak raised by hillbillies said). Still there, looks like a fake scar now, more shiny if I tan a bit. Add this photo to all the rest (never mind a few that I can't even look at without shuddering), and you gotta wonder why I'm not a stunt man working for Wes Craven or George Romero. I work cheap, I don't each much. I fall. I get up. Gimme job.
2 comments:
I think you've "uncovered" your secret calling, Wayne. Not everyone is a natural zombie, my friend.
Romero was here in town last week. Giving lectures and showing his films. I couldn't go. Alas. I'm sure that you two would get along fine.
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