And now, a guest post from Pops. Take it away, Pops!

" You're hit,man. You're bleedin'."
"I aint got time to bleed."
" Yeah? Do you have time to duck?"
____________________________

It was as if I got hit by Quintin Jackson himself.
The sudden feeling of confusion.
That feeling of not knowing what just happened other than knowing than I just got hit. And hit hard.
Stars, man. Lots of stars.
And that dull sound as if I was in some Spielberg scene where a shell goes off way too close to Tom Hanks and the next 30 seconds are spent in muffled tones just above deaf.
My hand instantly shot to the top of my head as if to hold my brains in.
And my son. What of my son. Witness to this tragedy. With the look of puzzlement on his face. Watching dad writhe in pain.
My thoughts switch suddenly from "what hit me" to "how am I gonna make sure he's ok and how am I gonna get us both to the hospital."
Who watches a child at the hospital?
Where does he sit?
Do you call someone first?
And wait at home?
Do I call an ambulance?
But I can walk.
Who calls an ambulance if you can walk?
Man up.
Just man up.
Don't go to the washroom.
Stay away from mirrors for a minute.
Get a hold of yourself man!
Stay calm. You're hit, man.
You're hit bad.
Ahhh..but I've been here before.
And I think quickly.
I can walk.
I can talk.
I can't hear too well. Except the bells.
Oooh..look at all the pretty stars.
Hold yourself together man!
Don't pass out.
The boy will just as soon pick up a marker and write on the walls.
And that's worse.
Stay calm.
You're hit.
Hit bad.
Keep holding my head.
And peek.
Peek at your hand.
And expect to see red.
Alot of red.
Just a little.
Not too bad.
I've been red.
Real red. Like, cut those clothes off kinda red. There aint no washin' that out. Just burn 'em.
And I lived. Every time.
Where am I? What day is this? It's sunday. Yeah. Sunday.
We went to Home Depot.
We bought stuff.
My son learned how to handle an electric drill. And handed me screws.
Oooh..look at all those pretty pretty stars.
Hold yourself together, man!
" Dada. Big Ouch."
Ugh. he knows I'm down for the count.
Hide the markers man! Hide the markers! I just painted that wall!
9-1-something. 1? 2? 911. That's it. 911.
Wait. man up!
Ya gotta man up.
Ya got hit by a full swing of a putter. You lived thru that.
Man up. " It's ok. Play with your trucks for a minute."
And those shelves look nice. Real nice.
But that 3" gash on my head aint so nice.
"Dada. You ok."
" I'm tryin'. "
Man those shelves held up good. Too good. I wont have to worry about them comin' down.
Even when I bend down to pick up a toy 10 seconds after i secure them to a wall and then stand up at speed.
And get a 3" gash on my head.
Hold yourself together man!
"Dada. More tools!"
" No. We're done. Time to put tools away."
" Dada. I'm hungry."
" Ok. Let's go get lunch. And some ice."
It was the second day headache from the concussion that sucked.
And today I can't dial a phone.
And I think I live in Stickney.

Eat your heart out

Takeru Kobayashi better move over. There's a new champion in training. I'm not really into hot dogs because of the whole nitrate content, but I can sure eat a handful.

Mom almost had a heartattack when I shoved that orange in my mouth.

Ill Communication

I'm digging this whole talking on the phone thing. I miss my Pops a lot when he's at work. So to have the opportunity to speak to him makes me all happy, happy, joy, joy. We talk about a lot of things. I ask Pops how the forklift is doing and where he's at. We share some good times when talking on the phone.

Ma Bell! Got the ill communication!