It happened again. Yesterday, while enjoying an outbreak of sun and warmth in the pines, and throwing the magic tennis ball for the Special Forces team, I leaned over stupidly and was immediately attacked by the savages who live in my lower back. This was no hit and run engagement, which I enjoy almost daily, but rather a dastardly and sustained combined arms attack, an attempt to overrun the fort entirely. Given that I am a long-time fan of Maj. Jim Gant, have repeatedly deployed my tribal engagement teams to win some hearts and minds down in the lower vertebrae regions, and have for several months been lulled into mistakes by the apparent ceasefire; it’s my own damn fault. They are a fickle bunch, these Tribesmen of the Lumbago, never to be trusted.
The worst part of all of this, naturally, is that I lost an absolutely perfect February day to a handful of muscle relaxers and ibuprofen–my own kind of airstrike–Flexeril as an on-call A-10 Warthog, if you will. That’s the only course in this terminal pain management issue. Some day it will come to surgery, I suppose, but that’s the nuclear option I’d rather avoid. And hey, Chuck Yeager broke the sound barrier with two broken ribs. What am I complaining about?
There is always good news, folks. And here is some of it: I was able to find, while hacking my way through the internet elephant grass, a copy of Papa Hemingway’s recipe for an excellent burger, typed by Ernie himself, with handwritten notes. I absolutely must share:
I haven’t tried it yet, but most certainly will, for as we are told in the preface to this masterpiece “There is no reason why a fried hamburger has to turn out gray, greasy, paper-thin and tasteless.” Indeed.
That’s all for the moment. I need to keep moving. The tribesmen are acting up this morning, taking potshots from beyond the wire. But I will leave you with this short video, a magnificent and somewhat dreamy vision of Lightning storms as seen from space. It’s 25 seconds of magic, folks, and I swear you’re gonna love it.