So, I’m stuck in traffic. Welcome to LA. Up ahead, I notice police/ambulance/fire truck lights.

“Oh, good,” I think. This will be over soon.

My brain whirls. Isn’t there a good German term for “I’m sorry for your misery, but it is an inconvenience to me.” Not quite “Schadenfreude,” because I don’t relish in your suffering. But, your suffering will make me late to the dentist.

Surely, there’s a term for this.

Shoulder Rehab / SLAP repair and Bankart Fixes

I’m typing this with one hand, so please bear with me. The Doc said I needed surgery. I have no idea what he did.

But, here’s what I have learned since I had shoulder surgery: Oww.

It hurt before, too. Little has changed. So. there’s that.

Here’s my list of post-op do’s and don’t’s (I never know how the apostrophes work on that…)

They don’t tell you this at the doctor’s office…

— Sandals, flip-flops, slip-ons. You will not be tying shoe laces for weeks. Socks: Bullshit.

— Pull-up shorts. It’s hard enough pulling up your pants, you don’t need buttons and zippers.

— Bras: I don’t know how these work because I’m a guy. But you won’t be hooking anything in the back. My recommendation: Don’t wear one; I’m Ok with that. Or a sports bra, whatever that is.

— Button-up shirts: Eventually, you’ll need to make a public appearance. Buttons are your friend. Bad arm first, then good arm. It’s gonna hurt, but you’ll look fabulous.

— Toilet paper. Make sure you can access the roll from your good hand. Technique: You’re on you own. Figure it out.

— Deodorant. You may not be able to get your roll-on on for a few days. Quick tip: With your good hand, slip some Purell or other hand sanitizer up in there. It won’t help with sweat, but it will help the stank.

— Driving: Assuming you are off the Vicodin, everything takes longer than you think. Parallel parking with one hand sucks. Sucks. But, get used to it. This is your life.

— Shopping: Don’t be afraid of asking for the “old lady” scooter cart. Directing a shopping cart with one hand is a bitch.

— Eating: Have a parent cut your meat for you. Yes, I’m 5. Hopeless.

— Rehab: Yeah, yeah. Everyone has told you to do the rehab thing. Do it anyway. My therapist is lovely: “Ok, we’re going to extend your elbow.” It is gentle and not unpleasant. A woman rubbing on me? Totally necessary. But, she means business.

How did I do with only one hand?

Mystery Diners

I’m flipping through the channels, and I and stumble across one of those restaurant Gotcha! shows where the manager is stealing money, the cook is spitting in the food, the waitresses are “assisting” customers in the back alley, and the bartenders are doing shots of J├Ągermeister.

Apparently, out of all the employees, not a single one noticed the 20 “hidden” cameras that are set at just-above eye level, the microphones placed throughout the kitchen, or the lawyer-approved release form that OKs the airing of criminal (excuse me, “alleged” criminal) activities. (Signature required.)

This is Reality TV?

…Hang on… The phone is ringing.

Oh… The Entertainment Industry just called. I shouldn’t say anything more.

Get Off My Back

One of my favorite cable TV channels is Palladia (an MTV/VH1 off-shoot) that primarily shows live rock concerts with the occasional documentary (I recently saw Dave Grohl’s “Sound City.” Highly, highly recommended, by the way.)

Tonight’s concert was the Glastonbury 2013 Festival (which is a rock-fest in England. Like Coachella. Except in English.) I LOVED Elvis Costello & the Imposters as well as Mumford & Sons.

Here’s where they lose me…

Every other guy in the audience has lifted his girlfriend (slash boyfriend, I don’t care) onto his shoulders.

I’m not a doctor (though I played one on TV. Literally.) Please don’t do that.

You are going to crush your back. (Your 25-year-old self may not care, but your 45-year-old self would like to kick your ass.)

The last time I put someone on my shoulders, I was at Disneyland. With my 40 pound daughter on her fifth birthday. Watching Mickey’s Parade and singing “It’s a Small World,” or something. It was as Magical as promised.

Two days later, I’m in the Emergency Room at Cedars-Sinai being pumped up with enough Dilaudid and Fentanil to sink a Battleship full of elephants.

As far as the whole Glastonbury Fest’s audience: Everyone brings a flag from their home town/soccer club/country/political sphere. The best one:

“God Hates Flags!”

Love that.

But, back to me…

Doctor: Any recent injuries?

Me: Nothing specific. We went to Disneyland. With flags.

Doc: Oh… Disneyland. Flags. Her voice trails away….

The New Math

Julianna (she’s 9) is having a really tough time with the 4th-grade homework. There’s reading and ‘riting and ‘rythmatics.

Also, lots of tears and hugging and explanations.

So, math is taught much differently than when I was from the ’70s. There are now math “sentences,” “paragraphs,” and even “stories.” Next up a novel: “50 Shades of Grey.” Yeah, inappropriate. That’s why I’m funny.

Julianna (again, 9) is crying, not understanding any of this even though she has always excelled at math. Forget her Reading assignment, she’s can’t get beyond the 3 x 4 haiku she has to dissect. (Or something like that… Hippie Art School!)

It’s all I can do to get her into pajamas and into bed.

Me, snuggling (she’s still whimpering): It will all be Ok. You are soooo smart. I had trouble with school. Mommy had trouble with school. Everyone does.

Julianna: But, I don’t know if I’ll ever GET it.

Me: You will, Sweety. You’re the best Julianna I’ve ever known.

J: I know. Thank you, Daddy. Zzzzzzzz.

Night nite.

The other day, a Facebook friend posted this:

“I’m going to bed. It’s midnite. Goodnight!”

Aside from the complete lack of respect for spelling, why should I give a crap?

It is midnight. Most people are, or are going to, sleep at that time. Why post this?

If you are going to waste my time about your sleep cycle, please offer some incentive:

“I’m going to bed. It’s midnight. I just buried a hobo in the garden. Goodnight.”