I don't know very much about toes. I'm not an orthopedist, and I don't really have any interest in becoming one, so the subject of toes is one that is mostly a guessing game.
Thanks my High School Anatomy class, I know that the bones are called phalanges and are attached to the metatarsals. I'm assuming as far as bones go, they don't produce as much blood as something like a femur or shin bone, if only because of their comparative size. That being said, if you ever have to use parts of a human skeleton as a weapon, pick one of those over a phalange. I wouldn't expect a horrific scenario like that to occur any time soon, but in seems to come up every now and then in the movies.
A lot of people seem to think the pinky toe is useless. I would agree, but if you compare the importance of the pinky toe to something like your middle toes, I think the scale tips toward the little guy. He (or she) is doing basically the same thing as the big toe as far as balance goes, and really you could just lump those other three in the middle together. It deserves a better reputation, in my opinion.
I've also been told that if your second toe is larger than your big toe (they're next to each other), you're going to go insane at some point. I heard that when I was around 13, so I've been watching growth since then. It's just about even, so I'm a potential powder keg of madness. Potentially. But really, who isn't?
9.29.2009
9.14.2009
9.12.2009
Scars to the Right
My right arm seems to be a scar magnet. That could be a band name.
The one that I remember as being my first is on my right thumb. I actually have 2, but this one is pretty significant. I got it when I was trying to open a can of lemonade with a can opener. That doesn't sound dangerous, but I was probably 11 at the time and the can wasn't meant for a can opener (it had an easy-open lid) so the opener slipped and nearly took off my thumb. Good times. I think my mom was 3 houses down playing Bunco at the time, and I remember they told me to lift my hand up. Obviously, for the blood, but I thought it was so God could take care of it. I also swore that it just needed a band-aid at the time. They must have had a temporary guy working there though, because the stitching was less than perfect. It doesn't look horrific, but it could have been better.
The one just to the left of that is from a tuna can. You would think I'd have learned my lesson, but in university I was on the phone and talking to my friend about how dangerous opening this can of tuna was with a boyscout can opener. "The old kind, that require you to literally rip the metal off of the top." As I said that, the can lid caught me and I got a pretty deep gash. It wasn't horrific, and I didn't even think about a hospital, but the scar's there if you look.
The third, though second chronologically, is a relatively huge line on my right arm. In high school, I had it in my head that I was going to join the football team. I was the quintessential geek in middle school: fat, acne, poor posture and footing, an unnatural and inhuman love for all things sci-fi and similarly embarrassing things. I eventually came to the conclusion that things didn't work out the way the Disney Channel told me they did. The nerd didn't win the class election (I ran for Vice President), people don't regret how they treat you, and similarly heartbreaking situations. One day I turned on MTV and noticed that it was a little different from all that.
So I had joined football. I had no idea what I was doing, I had never seen a game before, and went for the linebacker position of all things. I did surprisingly well for such a novice, mostly because I could run fast enough and had little apprehension for throwing myself at things. I still don't, for the most part.
In the end though, there was a guy that was just too big for me. I ran as hard as I could, I knew he was getting the ball, and just jumped at him. We collided, he didn't budge, my foot hit the ground and I slammed him forward. I got him down, but not before his helmet took out my right arm. I ended up with a compound fracture, and a lot of surprised looking nurses. Surprised because I shouldn't have had feeling in my right arm based on the break (the radius has a pretty significant nerve running through it). So I wore a giant cast for a while and failed an English test (I tried writing with my left hand) the next day.
The last, maybe temporary, scar I have on a knuckle. I got in Tokyo over New Year's. I don't know how.
I was a bit depressed about all these physical disformities for a while. I'd see them and feel bad, as you do, but eventually I started seeing myself as someone who's just prone to injury. Haphazard and reckless, good with the bad and all that.
In Japan alone, I've fractured my right arm (for the third time) by falling down some wet stairs, broken a left rib by slamming into a railing, and been hit by a car (just scratches on that one, albeit deep). It happens. I'm resigned to my history and my fate as the descendent of a brutish, gung ho people of northern Europe who worshipped the ursine and threw themselves at things.
Although, I do walk slower when it rains.
The one that I remember as being my first is on my right thumb. I actually have 2, but this one is pretty significant. I got it when I was trying to open a can of lemonade with a can opener. That doesn't sound dangerous, but I was probably 11 at the time and the can wasn't meant for a can opener (it had an easy-open lid) so the opener slipped and nearly took off my thumb. Good times. I think my mom was 3 houses down playing Bunco at the time, and I remember they told me to lift my hand up. Obviously, for the blood, but I thought it was so God could take care of it. I also swore that it just needed a band-aid at the time. They must have had a temporary guy working there though, because the stitching was less than perfect. It doesn't look horrific, but it could have been better.
The one just to the left of that is from a tuna can. You would think I'd have learned my lesson, but in university I was on the phone and talking to my friend about how dangerous opening this can of tuna was with a boyscout can opener. "The old kind, that require you to literally rip the metal off of the top." As I said that, the can lid caught me and I got a pretty deep gash. It wasn't horrific, and I didn't even think about a hospital, but the scar's there if you look.
The third, though second chronologically, is a relatively huge line on my right arm. In high school, I had it in my head that I was going to join the football team. I was the quintessential geek in middle school: fat, acne, poor posture and footing, an unnatural and inhuman love for all things sci-fi and similarly embarrassing things. I eventually came to the conclusion that things didn't work out the way the Disney Channel told me they did. The nerd didn't win the class election (I ran for Vice President), people don't regret how they treat you, and similarly heartbreaking situations. One day I turned on MTV and noticed that it was a little different from all that.
So I had joined football. I had no idea what I was doing, I had never seen a game before, and went for the linebacker position of all things. I did surprisingly well for such a novice, mostly because I could run fast enough and had little apprehension for throwing myself at things. I still don't, for the most part.
In the end though, there was a guy that was just too big for me. I ran as hard as I could, I knew he was getting the ball, and just jumped at him. We collided, he didn't budge, my foot hit the ground and I slammed him forward. I got him down, but not before his helmet took out my right arm. I ended up with a compound fracture, and a lot of surprised looking nurses. Surprised because I shouldn't have had feeling in my right arm based on the break (the radius has a pretty significant nerve running through it). So I wore a giant cast for a while and failed an English test (I tried writing with my left hand) the next day.
The last, maybe temporary, scar I have on a knuckle. I got in Tokyo over New Year's. I don't know how.
I was a bit depressed about all these physical disformities for a while. I'd see them and feel bad, as you do, but eventually I started seeing myself as someone who's just prone to injury. Haphazard and reckless, good with the bad and all that.
In Japan alone, I've fractured my right arm (for the third time) by falling down some wet stairs, broken a left rib by slamming into a railing, and been hit by a car (just scratches on that one, albeit deep). It happens. I'm resigned to my history and my fate as the descendent of a brutish, gung ho people of northern Europe who worshipped the ursine and threw themselves at things.
Although, I do walk slower when it rains.
9.10.2009
The Fatalist, I
I’m not sure if it’s in common parlance, but I’d like to call myself a 'fatalist'. I’ll Google that to see if it exists.
It turns out that it does. The word means “anyone who submits to the belief that they are powerless to change their destiny.” I’ll agree to that, if only because the life you lead is the life you lead. The pronunciation of those two key words should be different, and I’ll let you figure it out.
Meanwhile, I can’t say things are predetermined, as I don’t really believe in time as a linear thing. I think matter ‘is’ on a plane of existence, but ‘time’ as we know it is just a biological reference point regarding how fast or slow things decay perceptionally. I think that’s what Einstein meant by time being relative. If it’s not, I’m really not affected. This tangent was unintentional, but I really didn’t know that the word ‘fatalist’ existed, and hopefully that’s the last time I’ll be using quotations or the word ‘exist’ for the remainder of this post.
What I meant by fatalist was my own personal belief that the world is going to end in my lifetime. I remember in a humanities class that I took at community college, that mankind has thought of itself in written works and popular culture to be in the Fifth Age of Man since the Dark Ages, when by all accounts mankind should have died off. The Fifth Age was (or is) the apocalypse, and really, the Dark Ages should have been it. We’re scared of something called swine flu while they were dying en masse from the black death and thought keeping meat in barrels of salt was a good way to keep it fresh. I’ll give ‘em the point(s).
Aside from that, I expect something along the lines of what movies have foretold. The following scenarios would be acceptable:
It turns out that it does. The word means “anyone who submits to the belief that they are powerless to change their destiny.” I’ll agree to that, if only because the life you lead is the life you lead. The pronunciation of those two key words should be different, and I’ll let you figure it out.
Meanwhile, I can’t say things are predetermined, as I don’t really believe in time as a linear thing. I think matter ‘is’ on a plane of existence, but ‘time’ as we know it is just a biological reference point regarding how fast or slow things decay perceptionally. I think that’s what Einstein meant by time being relative. If it’s not, I’m really not affected. This tangent was unintentional, but I really didn’t know that the word ‘fatalist’ existed, and hopefully that’s the last time I’ll be using quotations or the word ‘exist’ for the remainder of this post.
What I meant by fatalist was my own personal belief that the world is going to end in my lifetime. I remember in a humanities class that I took at community college, that mankind has thought of itself in written works and popular culture to be in the Fifth Age of Man since the Dark Ages, when by all accounts mankind should have died off. The Fifth Age was (or is) the apocalypse, and really, the Dark Ages should have been it. We’re scared of something called swine flu while they were dying en masse from the black death and thought keeping meat in barrels of salt was a good way to keep it fresh. I’ll give ‘em the point(s).
Aside from that, I expect something along the lines of what movies have foretold. The following scenarios would be acceptable:
- Zombie Apocalypse While not the most easy to deal with, a zombie apocalypse would give me what I’m looking for in a post-disaster hellscape. Basically, I want to be able to lead a ragtag group of survivors through the horrific shells of postmodern society while being able to mercilessly defend myself with makeshift weapons and vehicles. It’s one of the reasons that I know how to wield a machete. I’m also referring to the zombies of Romero, lumbering and awkward. To me, that was the most frightening aspect of zombies—you don’t understand them, they have no reason to be real, yet they make sense.
- Water World I went ahead and separated those words in case of copyright infringement. You never know, nowadays. Anyway, this was probably my earliest fatalistic scenario, and the reason I learned to sail a 6’ sabot. The Discovery and Sci-Fi Channels used to have shows explaining the varied and impending ways the world would end: alien attacks, massive disaster, the world flooding over and similar things of that nature. I’m not sure why flooding stuck with me more than other things, but I (almost) immediately signed up for Junior Sailors. I thought it out, as sailing would be the best way to get to any kind of dry land because it didn’t require fuel. I’m not sure how I would have survived the required torrential tsunami making a slow and gradual escape to dry land impossible, but again, it made sense at the time and I was maybe 12.
- World War III This last one, honestly, I still consider. I can’t help but look longingly at Army surplus websites and wonder what loadout I’d choose if I had to become a lone-wolf sniper trekking across the foothills of suburban southern California. I can’t explain this male fascination with war-torn landscapes or the innate desire to lead or take part in clandestine rebellion, but give Red Dawn a gander and you’ll have an idea of what I’m talking about. That’s not to say I support whatever the word ‘insurgency’ means these days, but seriously, watch Red Dawn—it’s a Swayze classic and a little more applicable than a similar rebellion in a galaxy far, far away.
tags:
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