A Plea for . . . Rhinoplasty?

So I go to a hardcore/metal show (side note -- which is it, hardcore or metal? The answer depends on who you ask. Metal kids would call them hardcore. Hardcore kids would call them metal. I, of course, am not a kid.) in E-town on Friday night. GREAT bill -- a new favorite (A Pea for Purging), an old favorite (War of Ages), plus others. I'm there with my buddy Kyle and his 8-year old Jacob (how hardcore is that!), and we're ready to get crazy. Sure, as the token old dudes at the show "get crazy" pretty much means stand in the back and maybe head-bob, but still, we're ready.

Now -- as the old dudes, we look out of place. And it's not JUST that we have ten years on everybody there, it's that we're kind of like normal guys. Our forearms are tattoo-free, our ears don't have holes that you can see through, and our hair's the same length all the way around. I said we get crazy, right? But just because we may LOOK like rookies doesn't mean it's the case. I've been going to shows since '92, and obviously a lot of things have changed . . . but I've seen most of it happen. I have some idea how things roll. I understand pits and dancing and all that. I've even done my share, albeit not since the first Bush was in office.

All that to say we weren't taken off guard when the dancing began. Now as you might guess, this isn't "dancing" like on those tv contest shows, right? It's more like this (fair warning -- a couple of f-bombs in the song here). Anyway, the dancing started, and we all backed up . . . and up . . . and up . . . and . . . . There were like 60 people in the building -- which was a gym -- and there were about 8 people actually dancing. Which is fine, except those 8 people were given a space big enough for about 40. If we were at Keswicks, I would have had my back to the wall. If we were at the Bulldog, I would have been at the merch table. Seriously, I was about 40 feet from the band, and we were exactly 1 deep all around the perimeter. I actually thought to myself, "Why are we still backing up? How much room do they need?" I've literally been at shows with several hundred people where the dance areas were smaller. It's ironic, I suppose, that that was my last thought. BAM! Watch that video again if you want to, and check out the backward windmill action shots at 0:28 and 0:46. I took a fist flush to the nose. HARD. Hey -- it's a hardcore/metal show, and we've all taken our shots from either overly aggressive or just stupid dancers, but this bad boy was different. I felt something wet drip on my hand. I touched my hand to my face and saw crimson. Holding it to stop the bleeding I staggered to the restroom and let go of my nose . . . WHOOOOSH. Faucet, baby. I've never seen even close to that much blood come out of my body, to the point where I was a little woozy and could only half-way think straight.

For the next half-hour, let me say "thanks" to the dude who had been an army medic who helped know what was going on (seriously, I couldn't hardly think), the drummer from War of Ages for helping clean up the sink (that was cool man, but really -- it's somebody else's blood and it's nasty and you don't have to do that!), the guy who ran out to get me a bag of ice (it helped a LOT on the drive back -- really, that was huge bro), Kyle for wiping my blood up off the floor, Jacob for being cool about a ruined evening, Greg for caring enough to check in the next day, everybody who cared to ask me if I was ok (well let's see . . . I'm not dying, I have health insurance, I'm convinced that the God of all creation loves me personally, I have a ridiculously amazing wife, a church that I absolutely love, and probably the over-all best life of anybody in the building, so on a certain level I'm doing really quite well, thank you . . . but on another level, I just got blasted in the face, I've lost a sink full of blood, an ex-army medic's telling me that my nose is broken for sure, I'm going to miss the show, and all the "attention" is making me feel like a 2nd grader who fell down and skinned his knee on the playground, so on another level no, I'm not as good . . . now how am I supposed to answer the question?), and everybody who did NOT ask since I really had no good answer and honestly just wanted to be left alone.

Now the story would be a lot better if it was actually broken. Turns out it probably isn't (x-rays haven't been read by a real radiologist yet since it was the weekend). So that means that I'm just a wuss who bled like Niagara Fallls and had to leave the show (and, to follow Dr.'s orders the next day, had to sit and continue to ice it and miss a friend's wedding!) without any really legitimate injury. How lame is THAT!

As the silver lining and completely unforeseeable twist, though, check this out. Later that night I'm sitting on the couch with Laura watching tv and icing my wound. We're watching the news because I'm curious to see whether UofL was going to be able to come back and take care of Utah, and they do one of these "human interest" features on a woman who's been hiccuping for something like 20 years. Nothing will make it stop, but there is one thing and one thing only that, in legitimate fact, grants her temporary reprieve. I can't make this stuff up, y'all. Laura saw it too, and you KNOW she doesn't lie. The hiccups stop if the woman engages in . . . yodeling. Buzz, your powers clearly extend far beyond what I would have thought possible. I don't know how, but I know you have done this. There simply exists no other explanation. I used you for my own purposes, and now not only has your music taken up permanent residence in my mind, but you're drawing me further and further in to the ugly under-belly of the yodeling subculture, and now there's no escape, no surrender. Everywhere I go, when I least expect it, yodeling finds me. Like a heat-seeking missile or an IRS auditor, it just knows. It just knows.


Now quickly, since I know this was long, a word on the color change. The Phillies got swept out of the playoffs, and I didn't necessarily change out of disappointment with their play (poor though it was). They gave me a GREAT season and, sadly enough, the best post-season in 14 years. But on that same day, OU beat the team from the state to the south and vaulted back into the national championship picture. Sadly they have only two colors to play with, but Crimson and Cream it will be. Nice work fellas, VERY nice work.

By the way -- with only two colors, you'll have to move the cursor over the text to find the links. I hope you do though!

And here's my face, post-bashing/mid-swelling/under-eye-bruising: