The following story is unfortunately true. I didn’t need to add any Italian exaggeration. This is how it all went down, in 1,000 words or so…
A couple weeks ago, Slim Drummer Craig asked me if I wanted to go to the Coachella Music Festival. He had full access, top of the line tickets. And backstage passes! It's only a couple miles from the Slim Shack.
Of course! Maybe I’d meet Harry Styles and he’d invite the Slim Man Band to go out on tour! The Man Styles Tour!
Or maybe The Harry Man Tour.
Craig arrived at the Slim Shack and pulled a couple collapsible bikes from his truck. You’ve probably seen these things: they have small wheels on the front and back, you pull up the seat and the handlebars, tighten ‘em up, and go on your merry way.
I didn’t go but 100 yards when my collapsible bike…collapsed. Suddenly. Without warning. It just fell apart.
And I broke my left fibula. Seriously.
I wasn’t clowning around. I wasn’t trying to leap over 14 Greyhound buses like Evel Knievel. I was going maybe five mph, went over a speed bump and the bike just crumpled like a piece of aluminum foil.
Anybody know any good lawyers? Dewey, Cheatham, and Howe? Willby, Billing, and Lotz?
At the emergency room, they put me on a gurney and I waited in agony for a doctor. It wasn’t crowded. I thought I’d be seen right away. But then all mayhem broke loose.
Nurses were screaming “NARCAN! NARCAN!’ It’s a drug used to treat overdoses and there were three in a row. And then a convict in an orange jumpsuit, handcuffs and leg irons came in, flanked by two prison guards in Kevlar vests with serious artillery on their belts. True story.
The doctor finally came over to examine me. The first thing he did was cut my pants off. That was painful! Why?
They were my favorite pair of jeans! They fit just right, were all broken in. I wore them all the time.
And he cut them in pieces. I had to get some stuff out of the pockets before they tossed the jeans out. I had a wad of cash in one pocket.
I usually carry a roll of dough when I go to a place like Coachella. Just in case there’s an earthquake and all the power goes out. That way I can still buy a $20 slice of pizza and a $30 adult beverage even if the credit card machines are down.
I had a Slim Man Band LIVE at Vicky’s USB card in the other pocket. I figured if I ran into Harry Styles backstage I'd slip it to him and he could stick it in his sequined jumpsuit to listen to after his show.
The doctor took an x-ray. And then--brace yourselves, Slim People--he put one hand on one side of my left calf, his other hand on the other side, and squeezed them together to try and reset the bone.
Slim People. I’ve been in pain before. I once got my genitalia caught in my zipper and it was pretty painful. But this was agonizing!
I shoulda asked one of the prison guards for a bullet to bite on!
After the doctor finished he took another x-ray. He told me I needed surgery.
I thought they’d wheel me in right then and there.
No such luck. It was Friday evening and I guess all the surgeons had left on their weekend golf excursions. The next available appointment was eight days away. Doc said I was free to go.
Except I didn’t have any pants.
The nurse found a pair of green scrubs that would have been baggy on Shaquille O’Neal. I hobbled out of there looking like MC Hammer.
A week later, I went in for surgery.
The OR nurse looked at me and said, “Slim Man!” She’d seen the band a couple times.
I was embarrassed. Not about being recognized, it’s just that there I was, in one of those hospital gowns with my bare ass hanging out. And my bum leg looked pretty gruesome.
She asked me what happened and I told her. Again, I felt embarrassed. Embarrassed about having a freak accident on that lousy little bike.
The surgeon came over and explained he’d have to screw my fibula back together. I think he might have had to run to Home Depot to get more screws because the procedure took a little longer than expected.
When I came to, he told me he used 10 screws and a metal plate.
I was screwed!
So that’s the story.
I had to cancel a lot of gigs, but I still did Vicky’s. Didn’t miss one Tuesday. Why?
Lots of folks plan birthdays, anniversaries, and conjugal visits around those shows. And I didn’t want to disappoint.
Plus, it was good to get my mind off my fractured fibula.
When I was hobbling on my crutches to the stage at Vicky’s, some Slim Folks came up and said things like…
“You should have left the training wheels on that bike!”
“Hey Slim, I’d tell ya to break a leg, but it looks like you already did!”
I didn’t crack them on the shinbone with my crutch. I can take a joke!
But break a leg…where did that expression come from?
It got me thinking, which is treacherous for me because of my ailment, Attention Surplus Syndrome. You know the acronym. I think about things for too long. It’s the opposite of ADD.
As my ASS flared up, I got to thinking, why would you ever tell a performer to break a leg?
Well, I had plenty of down time to do some research!
One website said it originated in ancient Greece. The Grecians would stomp their feet instead of clap when they loved a show. And if they stomped real hard, they’d break a leg.
I’m not sure if it’s possible to break a leg showing your appreciation like that. Unless you fall out of the balcony.
Another website said the expression started in the 1800s. If the audience loved a show, they’d bang their chairs on the floor. And if the chair legs broke, that meant they really loved the show.
But chairs in the 1800s probably took weeks to put together. Like furniture from IKEA. Probably not a great idea to bust one up after a thrilling concert.
So it's not really clear how that expression came about. But this much is true...audiences say “Break a leg!” before a show to wish a performer good luck.
Which may explain why performers, when talking about the audience before a show, tell each other to “Knock ‘em dead!”
Keep smiling, Slim People. And keep in touch.
And don’t break a leg!
It's all about love.
Who loves ya?
Uncle Slimmy
PS: Here's a YouTube video and recipe for roasted beets with goat cheese. She's a-so nice!
