**BIGMOUTH STRIKES AGAIN**
It's the sin of hubris, I know, or the proverbial "getting what you wished for" but was it really really necessary for me to proclaim on Sunday night (after seeing exactly one half of the best band ever- THE SMITHS!- DJing at the Tribeca Grand and meeting them and taking pictures with them) "NOW I COULD DIE A HAPPY WOMAN!" ?
Now granted, after the uber-geek moment where I approached Mike Joyce and shook his hand and said, "Look, I don't want a picture, I don't want an autograph. I just wanted to meet the man responsible for the music that changed my life." and he kissed me on the cheek and said, "thanks, it is so nice to hear. That's the nicest compliment I've heard."- I really had acheived all of my life-long goal. I mean, I really meant it when I said, all red-cheeked and hyperventalatorily, that I could die now. But I didn't mean it LITERALLY! As with all things in Retown, for every silver lining in my life, there is a big old cloud.
You see, sometime on Tuesday morning, I threw out my back. Now, I know that sounds like something an 100 year old man would say- but it's true. Back spasms galore! I blame the baby I was babysitting (the pain started after shlepping the little two-year old in his stroller up a bunch of stairs- what's that, like 50 pounds of weight improperly carried?). But, the long and the short of the story is: the week started out great. Dancing to music played by half of the Smiths. Being kissed by a Smith. Meeting and taking pictures with two Smiths.... But the rest of the week consisted of me, lying prostrate on the couch, hopped up on muscle relaxers and watching tv while moaning aloud (hey! it's not as fun as it sounds. you can't enjoy the drugs and the soaps and laziness when you are experiencing searing pain and feeling embarassed about an injury that is usually sustained by grandparents!) and shots in the back from my doctor (which are never fun. under any circumstance.)
The moral of the story, Smiths fans, is watch what you say. I promise- if given the chance- to not tempt fate with such utterances if I ever get to meet the Mozzer. (I will not spend the day after such an illustrious meeting in traction!) That is- provided I haven't already died of a heart attack from the meeting itself!
In the meantime, if you need me, you can find me drugged up on the couch, moaning.....
It's the sin of hubris, I know, or the proverbial "getting what you wished for" but was it really really necessary for me to proclaim on Sunday night (after seeing exactly one half of the best band ever- THE SMITHS!- DJing at the Tribeca Grand and meeting them and taking pictures with them) "NOW I COULD DIE A HAPPY WOMAN!" ?
Now granted, after the uber-geek moment where I approached Mike Joyce and shook his hand and said, "Look, I don't want a picture, I don't want an autograph. I just wanted to meet the man responsible for the music that changed my life." and he kissed me on the cheek and said, "thanks, it is so nice to hear. That's the nicest compliment I've heard."- I really had acheived all of my life-long goal. I mean, I really meant it when I said, all red-cheeked and hyperventalatorily, that I could die now. But I didn't mean it LITERALLY! As with all things in Retown, for every silver lining in my life, there is a big old cloud.
You see, sometime on Tuesday morning, I threw out my back. Now, I know that sounds like something an 100 year old man would say- but it's true. Back spasms galore! I blame the baby I was babysitting (the pain started after shlepping the little two-year old in his stroller up a bunch of stairs- what's that, like 50 pounds of weight improperly carried?). But, the long and the short of the story is: the week started out great. Dancing to music played by half of the Smiths. Being kissed by a Smith. Meeting and taking pictures with two Smiths.... But the rest of the week consisted of me, lying prostrate on the couch, hopped up on muscle relaxers and watching tv while moaning aloud (hey! it's not as fun as it sounds. you can't enjoy the drugs and the soaps and laziness when you are experiencing searing pain and feeling embarassed about an injury that is usually sustained by grandparents!) and shots in the back from my doctor (which are never fun. under any circumstance.)
The moral of the story, Smiths fans, is watch what you say. I promise- if given the chance- to not tempt fate with such utterances if I ever get to meet the Mozzer. (I will not spend the day after such an illustrious meeting in traction!) That is- provided I haven't already died of a heart attack from the meeting itself!
In the meantime, if you need me, you can find me drugged up on the couch, moaning.....
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