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Birthday: George Thorogood

13. Cause of Injury (Describe what happened and why) [cont. from page 1 of form.]

and so, who can really speak to the genesis of causation? How far back in time must we reach to find the trigger of a particular calamity? To the womb? To a twinkle in my Daddy’s eye? To Eden? To the Big Bang? I leave that question to the philosophers. The immediate facts of my workplace accident are these.

It was Friday afternoon. I was alone in the office. Everything was quiet; too quiet. The tryptophan from my turkey sandwich at lunch had kicked in and I had been wrestling with the nap-under-my-desk demon for almost an hour when I noticed a small package on the floor behind my CPU. It was a Christmas gift from a co-worker who is no longer with us. I had misplaced it during the holidays and had given it up for lost.

I unwrapped the present. It was a music CD. “George Thorogood and the Destroyers, Greatest Hits: 30 Years of Rock.” I vaguely remember when George and the Destroyers performed here at Shakey Drake's Tavern in 1982 or 1983. I say vaguely, because I was there, but vaguely.

Hum. I said to myself, “Self, let’s give a listen and see how ol’ George and the boys sound after all these years.” I closed my door and turned up the volume. After all, it was Friday afternoon and not a creature was stirring.

Energized by the music, I resumed filing some papers in a filing system I learned from Gene Perret. I have two files: miscellaneous and non-miscellaneous. I rolled, and I rocked in my chair between my desk and my filing cabinet. My chair has a funky wheel, so I have to roll sort of sideways, if I’m going to roll at all.

Mr. Thorogood started asking “. . . Who do you love? Who do you love?” I noticed that my left foot had started tapping, just the toe of my boot on the hard-plastic runner beneath my office chair. Hum. Interesting. My toe doesn’t tap much these days.

“Who do you love?”

Both toes began tapping, and as if controlled by a force over which I had no control. My hands began tapping, then pounding, on my desk like it was a conga drum.

“Who do you love?” Mr. Thorogood asked.

Tito Puente, for one.

It was time to strap on my air guitar. I slipped an imaginary chrome slide onto my left pinky. You wanna play like George, you gotta have a slide. All I needed was a cobra snake for a necktie.

“Who do you love?”

Everybody! That’s who I love. I love everybody!

Only gravity and infirmity thwarted my impulse to leap atop my desk. Oy.

“Who do you love?”

Ibuprofen.

The song ended. Thank you very much, Flagstaff! I took a deep bow and banged my forehead on my desk. The impact forced me back into my chair which rolled out from under me. I fell to the floor and bruised my tailbone.

Cause of Injury: Defective Chair.

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