Life In The Slow Lane...
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San Diego, CA, United States
This is a commentary about the slow lane, about the slowing of time since I suffered a severe brain injury while skateboarding with my dog. This is a blog about recovery; about our '82 VW Westfalia. It's about writing, surfing, camping, married life, bleeding ulcers that make you feel old at 32; about family, friends, and my dog Artie; it's about cruising in fourth gear, getting passed by every car and learning to appreciate every second of it.

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Jiminy Click

My recent absence is for good reason. I'm working on another large article. Once again about skating, helmets, and, of course, my battered brain.

Last night Aimee and I went to a new Tapas restaurant by our house. We ordered a few appetizers. She drank some glasses of wine and I had a few beers. We started talking about the article and my beginning outline. I told her my idea to start out with that clicking sound inside my head, the one that sounds when the pieces of skull rub against one another. She liked the idea.

We ordered another round and talked more. We spoke about how sometimes I choose to defend skaters that choose to not wear helmets. On occasion, I still try and convince her that my incident was different than the average skate session. Aimee said it's crazy that after all I've been through that I remain unchanged.

She said she had a perfect title for my article. I asked her what it was.

" until it clicks."

I've been laughing ever since.

Friday, February 11, 2011

Two Sense Short...FIRE!

As we sat and watched some lame movie that featured Edward Norton in corn-rows, Aimee wrestled herself from her cocoon on the couch.

"I smell fire," she said.

"What? Where?" I asked, all hot from a flood of adrenaline.

I got up from the chair and headed to the clothes dryer, which had been running the entire day. No sign of fire. I went back to the living room. Aimee was still in half-cocoon.

"Well, where is it coming from? I don't smell."

"You still see don't you?" Aimee said. She emerged from her comfy sarcophagus and tilted her head up. She walked towards the heater in the hallway.

"Oh, it's only the heater."

We spent the next five minutes in a playful argument. I tell her that I need a little help from time to time, like when asking me to find the origin of smoke. She tells me that I still can see. I tell her that blurting out that she smells "fire" might just panic me a bit. It's like telling a blind person to watch out, or a deaf person if he or she hears something strange. She laughs at me.