March | 2011 | Exile on Pain Street

This pic accompanied a story in The New York Times about Bob Porbert, a member of the Detroit Red Wings who passed away last July at age 45.

An autopsy revealed that repeated blows to the head caused a degenerative brain disease. Probert was an “enforcer.” An enforcer, for the uninitiated, is a guy on a hockey team who will skate out onto the ice and beat the shit out of someone in order to intimidate the other players or payback an opponent who has fouled his team. A 2007 Hockey News poll rated him the “Greatest Enforcer in Hockey History.”

Bill Daly, deputy commissioner of N.H.L., commenting on the autopsy report, said he thought the findings were “interesting science” but, at this time, couldn’t recommend taking any steps to address excessive fighting.

Hockey will always be a bush-league, second rate sport until they clean up this mess and get rid of idiots like Bill Daly. And the scariest part of that photo isn’t the blood. It’s the look on that kid’s face.

Speaking of idiots.

* * *

I saw Green Day’s American Idiot, currently at the St. James. It has had a pretty successful run but I had mixed feelings about it.

The music was, of course, great, which comes as no surprise since I already know and like the album. The performances were good enough. A lot of pseudo-punk Broadway kids. The staging and lighting was genius. There was an wholly unexpected hallucinatory dream/flying sequence between a wounded Iraq war vet and a veiled Middle Eastern dancer, that was beautifully rendered. It whetted my appetite for Spider-man.

But, Holy Mother of God, what were they all so angry about?! The play starts and everyone is very, very pissed but you’re never given any context as to why. I think it’s because they live in the suburbs or they hate Republicans or they’re angry at their their step-dads but I’m not entirely certain. I thought the choreography was amateurish. :90 minutes of fist pumping, head bobbing and foot stomping does not a dance make.

Most surprising of all, I had no idea the show was so damn dreary. I like a little dramatic ebb and flow to my plots. This thing was one long ride straight to hell without a breather. So I don’t know what all the fuss is about. I think I must be the wrong demographic.

I’ve received a few random comments and e-mails inquiring about the status of the wound on my forehead from when I had a small piece of skin cancer cut out a few weeks ago. [Strong content. View discretion is advised.]

I haven’t written about it because there’s no story. I had a cracker jack dermatologist who was a whiz kid with the needle and thread. A true star! People assured me that I’d be scared for life and that I should have had a plastic surgeon in the room to sew up the wound. I was further assured that I would need a skin graft to fix that mess. I got all worked up. People are such busy-bodies.

Well, as you can see, I have practically NOTHING to show for all that agony. (And, believe me, it was a horrific experience. Sewing the wound shut was a violent act!)

I have to confess (perhaps foolishly) that I am deeply disappointed. I wanted a big, prominent scar. I’ve spent my whole life looking like a goddamn actuary accountant. I wanted a scar in the hope that it would toughen-up my look a bit. Like I fought off ninja assassins or something.

I had to walk around the city with a thick bandage on my forehead for two weeks after the operation. When people asked what happened, I told them that I got it the night Voldemort murdered my parents. It was fun! Perhaps I’ll go back and insist that he reopen the wound and restitch it in a more careless, less professional manner.

I was commenting to Mrs. Wife that perhaps the scar won’t tan and that it would become more prominent in the summertime. She callously reminded me that too much sun is what got me into this mess in the first place and that, henceforth, I would be wearing a hat to the beach. What a killjoy.