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January 29, 2008

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I'm not sure how I hurt my back in the first place,
but it was hurting as I gingerly pulled on my boots
and caught the morning bus to work. Then while
four of us hauled the labor-saving cranklift up the
soft slope beside the house, something seemed to
go pop and I knew I should've stayed at home. I
tried to work around the pain, but it's not easy to
do when moving 21'5" glulam beams into place, so
I quit for the the day just ahead of noon. The wind
was blowing from the south, shrouding the 100-y.o.
recycling plant across the street in a veil of steam,
so I crossed and took some footage, the smell like
what you get when you pour water on a hot skillet.
To my pleasant surprise, there was a 54/55 bus stop
closer than I'd thought and as soon as I arrived the
55 pulled up. I rode it well past home to Chupacabra
punk rock Mexican restaurant and had a fake meat
burrito and pint of Pabst. It made me somehow glad
that the bureaucrats at the next table were washing
down their business lunch with vodka cocktails. On
a whim, I left my card with the tip then hit the can
before leaving. The waiter was interested and told me
they'd had DJs before--"Poke vs. punk," he said,
"country and punk rock." We were in back by the
pool table, where a game had been abandoned. "I
found your 3 ball on the floor," I said. He thanked me,
I thanked him. The pain followed me out the door.