3 Years, 5 Months, and 2 Days in the Life of...

First off, I want to give a shout out to Ryan, who dutifully reads this blog and comments on it. A salute of the crutches to you from the World Tour.

Well, for those who have not yet had the pleasure, I want to assure you that Guitar Hero III is indeed just as awesome as you think it could be. But let us recap in chronological order, lest dear reader become perplexed and think he or she wound up in last season's finale of Lost.

So when we last left off, I was waiting for el Older Gordo to arrive, which he did in due course. To show him a Boulder good time, we headed off to the Boulder Beer Company (maker of such brews as Hazed & Infused), where the beer is tasty and the food is not quite as tasty. Cool building, though.

The next day, after EOG got energy from having gone to bet at 8:30pm the previous night, it was off to the mountains. Where? Why? Oh, we shall not worry our small minds with such questions when the universe has grander designs on us.

I have no idea what that means. More importantly, we took the GordoMobile and headed off into the mountains. After a short trip down I-70 where we saw the aftermath of a terrible rollover accident, we headed north on US-40 in the direction of Winter Park. As we climbed the windy road, things got more and more covered in snow...well, it had snowed the previous day. But the plows had been out and the GordoMobile was up to the task.

It was brilliantly sunny but colder than Hillary during the Lewinsky trial (oh no!) The car's thermometer hit 2 degrees at one point. No matter, we had places to drive aimlessly around and deep discussions about the future of Yucca Mountain to have. We made our way up to Granby, whereupon we struck a more northerly course on Route 125. It was at this point that the road got snowier and emptier, while the scenery got more suh-weet. "If we break down out here, we're kind of screwed," EOG noted.

No breakdowns for the GordoMobile. We pulled into Walden (population: not so much), where they have an affinity for moose. Funny story, those moose. Glenn the Power (Forest) Ranger informed me while helping my injured ass off the mountain all those weeks ago that moose were reintroduced into Colorado some years ago, but there is still some debate as to whether those swampgrass munchers were ever native.

Our bellies full but senses of adventure unsatiated, we piled back into the car and headed east. The next 100 miles or so wound through canyon country that would have made more sense in Arizona, but there it was, red rocks and such. And much less snow, which made EOG eager to return to his usual crazy style of driving.

The adventure culminated with a drive past Fort Collins, then it was back down the highway to Boulder. One long trip to REI, one dinner with two Icelanders (they tell me their people are rude), one night in a hotel, and one plane flight the next morning later, and I was in Los Angeles.

Standing at the curb of LAX on my crutches, it was easy for Michelle "Stone Cold" Alig, a college friend, to pick me up in her trusty Saturn. Then it was on to Hermosa Beach to hang with Nicole and her husband Hans, who despite repeated visits still has no earthly idea what my name is. It's okay, though, he came from a foreign country.

We played a lot of Wii that day. Quite a lot. So much that I in fact did develop a bit of a case of Wii tennis elbow. But it's okay -- at least I got something resembling exercise. As I found out, you can play all Wii sports from a sitting position. In the great Wii championship, we came to a tie -- Michelle won bowling and boxing, I won tennis and baseball, and we tied in golf. Next year -- grudge match.

The next day we ate lots of pancakes (What do I have to do to get pancakes around here??? Yo quiero pancakes! Click, click, pancakes!) and played Trivial Pursuit (I rule) before heading to the Alig family household for Christmas Eve dinner with more Jews than Christians. ("If there is a manger here, I am just going to schvitz!") 'Twas excellent, with culinary delights prepared by Mommy Carol Alig and the tall, taciturn, and now engaged Brother Dan Alig.

Having gotten my fair share of that old time religion, it was off to bed and the airport the next day. I was headed to Phoenix, Arizona, the Valley of the Sun. A place where even the rocks try to find shade during the day. But it wasn't all that warm...well, at 55 degrees, this is something resembling winter in the Southwest.

So here I was with el Parentalos, and it was time for another Christmas Dinner. This one was courtesy of Zinc Bistro, a.k.a., the only joint open. We dined with our neighbors the Johnsons, whose family includes two young tykes, Seth and Cole. Mom brought games for them to play, and we quickly discovered that tic-tac-toe is a terrible game. Seriously, no one ever wins. Who invented this idiocy??? ANSWER ME!!!

Okay, I'm calm. Anywho, after dinner the Johnsons invited us over for pie (er, how about a cookie for the freak with a broken leg and nut allergies?) Luckily for Yours Truly, Seth and Cole had Guitar Hero III. A precious item, indeed. And I rocked. It's not an easy game, folks. Bon Scott was right...it IS a long way to the top if you want to rock and roll.

Secret weapon, though. I knew a lot of the songs and could pretend to have rhythm. Hooray for growing up in the 90s!

Elsewise, I have been tooling around the greater Scottsdale-Phoenix area and trying to keep el Lego elevated so as to try to speed the healing.

Oh, and I have to exercise it. Remember that? Good fun. Now, adding color, leg lifts, hip rotations, and other things to keep me occupied. Paaaarrrrrty...

A Day in the Life Of...

Finals are over. People have left. Gordo is alone with Das Boot on his leg, a couple Netflix, and, luckily, the infinite wisdom of the Internet.

So what do I do all day? I have no idea. But let's go over what today has been like:

9:30ish am: Get woken up by a phone call from Gaby, who apologizes for falling asleep and not saying goodbye before James and I finish watching Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo at her house. Murmur something incomprehensible in response.

10:30ish am: Get re-woken up by Otro Gordo (older brother Jon), who informs me that when he flies in here tonight he will come straight to my apartment. Murmur something incomprehensible in response.

11:15am: No longer sleeping, just trying to stop the weird pain in my heel. Get a call from el padre, ensuring that I have read emails from him.

11:15-11:45am: Read in bed. Attempt to elevate the sinful leg.

11:45am: Wake up and take care of business. Eat waffles while paging through Outside: Go, potentially the most ridiculous magazine ever written. Notice that it's snowing outside.

12pm: Putter around on the Internet, mostly confined to responding to Facebook messages and browsing the NY Times website.

1pm: Eat a delicious, nutritious lunch consisting of Morningstar buffalo nuggets (almost sort of doesn't taste anything like chicken!) and Polly-O String Cheese (the best part of the pizza!)

1:15pm: Continue looking at that ridiculous magazine. Think that heli-skiing in Nevada's Ruby Mountains would be cool. Try to think of ways to secure the necessary $12,000.

1:30pm: Return to puttering on Internet. Play four simultaneous games of Scrabulous (Scrabble without the trademark) on Facebook.

2pm: Trim beard.

2:15pm: Return to computer. Respond to more messages. Engage in a comparison of internal leg hardware with my friend Taryn's friend Colette. Turns out we both put x-ray pictures up on Facebook. Hers is way more badass.

2:30pm: Read the University of Pennsylvania section on Uncyclopedia. Realize it's slightly amusing but largely incomprehensible.

2:40pm: Due to links on the previous Uncyclopedia page, wind up looking at Chuck Norris Facts. Favorite new one: "Chuck Norris once played 18 holes of golf with a 12-inch strip of rebar and a sun-dried tomato. He shot a 54."

3:00pm: Think about writing blog.

3:15pm: Poke around more on Facebook.

3:30pm: Write blog.

And now -- ??? Anything can happen fans, anything. Well, except "4pm: Went for a run, played a quick game of pickup basketball."

Progress Update!

Good news -- there's no bad news!

Yesterday was the day for the first post-surgery checkup, unless you include the fact that Dr. V very kindly called me after the surgery to make sure I wasn't in agonizing pain. (Not with all those fun pills you gave me, Doc...)

Ron, who mightily carried me off the mountain after the injury to avoid the World Tour becoming a frozen dessert, was kind enough to pick me up and take me over to the offices of CU Sports Medicine. Imagine this for yourselves, Fans -- the waiting room is adorned with photos of college athletes playing every sport imaginable, from football to tennis and ice hockey.

"So, are all these people former patients?" I hopefully asked the woman at the front desk.

"Oh no, those are just pictures," came the reply.

Hmph.

Well, there was nary a wait before I was invited to hobble back to the exam room. Things were clearly not busy, because shortly after that Sarah the X-ray tech led me back for more doses of tasty radiation. This time was much more comfortable than the last, if for nothing else than that I didn't have to try to hold my legs up while being rolled in a wheelchair completely lacking in footrests.

The pics done, I was back to the exam room and presently got a visit from Dr. V, who is more formally known as Dr. Armando Vidal but maybe sometimes in his weekend softball league gets called "Armsy." I don't actually know this, but I feel free to speculate.

Armsy was pleased to look at my freakish x-rays with the giant screws and humored me as I asked the most frequent questions I got from World Tour fans.

"So, some people want to know, am I going to set off metal detectors?"

"No, definitely not."

Sidebar here, since I currently can't go through a metal detector without using my metal crutches, that's a bit of a moot question.

"Well, some other people are wondering if they can get magnets to stick to my leg."

"No, that's not going to work, either."

Sorry, people. And I was also informed that no, I will not be able to see the screws poking out of my leg, nor will they interfere with my socks.

All this while, the nurse (whose name I did not catch) cut off the bandages around my cast and cut through the padding. Then Dr. V, showing the brute strength required to be an orthopedic surgeon, cracked the plaster wide open like it were, um, something that breaks easily.

Then it was on to getting to know Das Boot, v3. Yes, I have now been in three separate boots and one cast. Party! This particular one involves 27 velcro straps or so and an air bladder that works almost exactly like Reebok Pumps did. Totally took me back to the days when my shoes could distract me for hours. (Not that they had pumps in them, just an aside.)

Dr. V then informed me of my prognosis here on out. In honor of the Clinton administration's ill-fated attempt at drug interdiction in South America, called Plan Colombia, I am going to refer to this schedule as Plan Gordo. And here's what it entails:

Plan Gordo

• Four weeks of non-weight bearing (crip on, cripple!)
• Six weeks of partial weight bearing (using one crutch or -- get this -- A CANE! Snoop, I'm with ya!)
• Out come the screws, courtesy of our good friend Stanley
• Six weeks of no sports that involve "cutting or pivoting"

That last note means no spring ultimate, or as Dr. V refers to it, "bacon for when ski season is over." I'm kind of afraid this might hurt my hippie cred, so it may be time to take up hackey sacking with the high schoolers across the street from me.

But before I get to that point, I've gotta start the unfortunate process of actually moving my happy ankle. Flex it, Armsy says. Make the alphabet with your toes.

Maybe Elmo alphabet tapes will help?

The Glaring Light of Humanity

I could kick this bad world's ass if I could just get on my feet! -- Jon Bon Jovi

It's interesting to see how people react to me in my gimpy state.

It may be that for empathy purposes, Boulder, Colorado is the ideal place to be on crutches. It's certainly not for regular old getting around -- a giant hill on the way to campus and 80 inches of snow every winter don't help matters much.

But many of the people who see me hobbling around are invariably thinking, "Man, I remember how rough that was." I know this because they tell me.

As I hobbled slowly down the steps of a building to get to my exam on Saturday night, a random student saw me and waited to hold the door. "Thanks, I really appreciate it," I said. "Sorry, it'll take me a little while to get all the way down."

"No problem, man," he replied. "I was like that last year, I know how tough it is."

And that's pretty much the theme. From the girl who held the door for me after my journalism class. From someone using a computer next to me in the Business School library. From a lot of people.

Of course, I get everyone's war stories to go with it. Mo, who is in two of my classes, told me how she broke her leg windsurfing while studying abroad in Australia. She also told me how the doctor who was treating her kept the leg in a cast far too long, and it took a friend urging her to go to another doctor to start walking and truly healing it.

Sam Fitch, the director of the Environmental Studies Program I'm in here, told me that many moons ago he managed to pop both knee ligaments while skiing. He got them surgically repaired not too long after doctors actually started doing that type of surgery.

It's interesting to see people try to get out of my way or otherwise wrestle with whether they should do something to help. Some people are just open about it -- "I wish I could do something to help, but I don't think I can," said one woman as I one-foot-and-one-crutched my way down a long flight of stairs.

I thanked her for her consideration. Others seem more awkward, not sure quite what to do. It reminds me of myself, often unsure what to do when I see a blind person or someone in a wheelchair. I know I should get out of the way of the wheelchair and make sure the blind person doesn't step in front of a moving car, but is there a point where I go too far? Is being too helpful to someone whose condition is permanent a potential affront?

People who see me might have that passing thought, but it's certainly a different situation. My condition is temporary. Theoretically, I will regain my full abilities and blend back in with the walking world. Crutches are something many can relate to -- it's not that uncommon to have hurt a leg and needed a pair of these aluminum friends. Besides, in my uncomfortable state I probably need the help.

I do, as I said before, have a great deal of respect for those who make their way through the world with a permanent disability. We might have the Americans with Disabilities Act here (and it's a damn good thing, too) that makes sure we have wheelchair ramps and elevators in new buildings, but that doesn't mean society is all that accomodating. It's meant for the vast majority, for those who can dance foolishly as I used to do.

In Cambodia, I saw land mine victims who made their way around a country with little pavement by using a wooden crutch or a prosthetic leg. We made wheelchairs for them, inexpensive but sturdy affairs with mountain bike tires meant to survive on the country's dirt roads.

When I saw them, they always had smiles on their faces.

99 Problems But a...

Hobbling around on crutches makes life inconvenient. But when, on the weekend before a final and two projects are due my computer stops working, I think, this must be funny. For some reason I have been dealt these cards, and it can be no less than some artful Andy Kaufman-esque humor.

So I will take it that way and wait until Monday, when the repair person will hopefully show up and replace the fan. Then I will rejoice in my ability to returning to that most important of tasks, playing Scrabulous on Facebook. (Please challenge me to a game, I could use the entertainment.)

Luckily, my roommate, who is reading incomprehensible notes about microeconomics, has been kind enough to let me use his computer tonight. Tomorrow I shall get deposited at the fancy new LEED-Gold home of the Business School, where I aim to use a computer lab until my group meeting in the afternoon. (We've already come up with a clever name, MAK'ED Energy Solutions, a play on our initials and a subtle use of sexual suggestion...rhymes with "naked.")

But enough about my trials and tribulations, they are trivial, if I may use another trite word. On to more important things.

As you may know, one of the brilliant innovations of Amazon.com is the idea of letting consumers rate products so others may know whether that really is a good food processor or it fell to pieces within a week.

Amazon, of course, has developed a wide-ranging product catalog, but you can still rate any item. So it is that people have had a field day rating things that probably don't need much commentary...like the Bic pen. The comments range from the ostensibly serious...

"The cap clips into your inside pocket well, but only if you're wearing very thing material." -- M. Greener

...to the poetic...

"I knew a young fellow named Rick
Who was constantly losing his Bic
So he's ordered a box
And secured it with locks
That seems to have done the trick." -- The Glue Man

...to the only-from-the-mind-of-a-Stoner...

"I've noticed that what this pen writes in my diary are the exact same thoughts in my mind. Can the pen be reading my thoughts, I mean, is that possible?" -- O B Vious

...to the remarkably elitist put-down:

"Personally, I can't believe someone would be caught dead with one of these pieces of proletarian rubbish." -- H. Maxwell Harbinger IV

Amuse yourself like I did.

Quotable Quotes

Gordo el Gimpo, back again.

Fans, I thought you might enjoy what is so far the least positive reaction to my injury and surgery:

"You are so gross." -- Tiffany Guarascio, former coworker

Thanks, TG. Way to give it to me straight.

On another note, you know how sometimes snippets of people's conversations that you hear when passing them by often sound hilarious? Well, I've got a good one for you, from one girl to another, overheard while I was standing outside the journalism building on campus:

"Tell me what things an annoying girlfriend would say."

This is just too much of an opportunity to pass up. Fans, let's help this curious young woman with her quest and submit some ideas. Yours truly will get the ball rolling:

"No, I don't think Family Guy is funny."
"Oh, just put your pants back on."
"Why do you like beer so much? I like watermelontinis."
"Journey is so not the greatest falsetto band ever."

Got more? Post suggestions in the comments area or email them directly to the World Tour Webmaster.

On a final but unrelated note, today was my first day trying to navigate in snow. So far, things have not gone disastrously, and at least I know I have a soft landing spot in some places. But I have identified a serious danger -- linoleum. Crutches covered in snow outside turn into useless slippery things on linoleum inside, and I nearly made a very dramatic entrance right in the doorway to my class this morning. But fear not, Gordo has it under control.

Boulder is beautiful in the winter with the mountains covered in snow, and I am truly a snow fan. However, it's supposed to snow an additional 2-4 inches tonight. Tomorrow will be a double adventure.

More thanks, by the way:
-- To Outside Magazine Contributing Editor Florence Williams, for giving me a ride from one building to another so I can continue my higher education.
-- To James the Roommate, who left the warm apartment to drive me to class despite the fact that my crutches knocked over his advent candle last night.
-- To Mari Elise Ewing, who is probably going to have to give me a lot more rides and will have to print out our fascinating report.

Speaking of which, back to it. I'm finding all the demand response programs used by Colorado's utilities. What am I talking about? You'd rather not know, trust me.

Badass X-Rays

Fans, it came and went, and the hero survived scathed. But in a good way.

The surgery was Thursday, as scheduled, and a good time was had by all. It's a curious experience, this whole getting-put-to-sleep-and-cut-up thing. I got to the surgery center courtesy of El Padre y La Madre, and proceeded to do a whole lot of sitting around. Which is similar to what I'd been doing before, but this time I got to do it while wearing a light purple gown.

Luckily for everyone involved, they let me keep my underwear on. I laid on a bed in a waiting area in the surgery center while nurses, including the very nice Cecily, prepped me with aplomb. That meant shaving my leg (nothing to do with the surgery, it's just a common thing in Boulder, you know, all those cyclists), washing it down with disinfectant, and hooking me up to an IV.

Then the fun started. They injected me with something to make me "relax," which actually worked. Whatever it was didn't knock me out, but did quiet my pounding heartbeat and make me less worried. With that coursing through my veins, I was taken down an elevator and into the operating room, where they had nice pictures of branches on the ceiling. Eager to prove that I was neither unconscious nor completely delerious, I told the anesthesiologist to ask me something that I would remember later.

"What's the capital of Costa Rica?"

"Oh, I know that one! San Jose!"

Anesthesiologists must love these semi-lucid moments from their patients.

Pretty much the last thing I remember is sliding myself onto the operating table. Then they put the hi-test in the IV, and that was that. For a visual of what the operation looked like, see the artist's rendering to the left.

I woke at some point (probably a little more than an hour later) in a bed on the opposite side of the room from where I had first waited. Dream and reality meshed briefly until the pain in my leg put me a little closer to Planet Boulder. Another friendly nurse came by to ask about my pain, and the wince on my face was enough to convince her to dump a couple doses of Fentanyl (a.k.a. a kind of morphine -- boo yah!) into my IV.

From then on it was just a matter of clearing my head and reducing pain. I drank ginger ale and ate the surgery center's supply of sesame breadsticks so I could take a percocet, which helped keep the pain down. No, I'm not going to give you any of my pain pills, stop asking.

El Padre y La Madre came over and soon headed off to the bagel store to fetch some appropriate post-surgery food. El Gordo, meanwhile, thought it was time to take advantage of my addled state, so I dopey-dialed the elder Gordo, who was mildly amused at my attempts to be coherent.

Remarkably, I had no real side-effects from the anesthesia and eventually came back into my own in a fairly short time frame. Then I got to see what the Doctor Hath Wrought -- pics of the screws. You can see them for yourself and will probably have the same reaction: "BADASS."
Ignore the bright white on the lower section of the x-ray, that's the flash. But do note that the doctor clearly went to Home Depot, purchased a couple 2-inch tapping screws for 50 cents each (a stainless steal!) and drilled them in as instructed by his copy of Bob Vila's Do-It-Yourself Orthopedics.

Anywho, after an overnight at the posh Boulderado hotel (sporting the oldest and bounciest elevator in town), it was back to El Casa del Gordo to continue the recuperation and writing of the papers (which I am clearly not doing now.) Meanwhile, it has dumped snow here, and there's probably about a buttload or so on the ground. Who knows, I'm not going outside anytime soon.

Thanks again to fans everywhere who sent best wishes or otherwise sought to distract, entertain, or assist me!

Tomorrow Never Dies

Okay, fans, tomorrow is the day for the cutting and the drilling and the screwing. I get to the surgery center around 9am and wait while they do weird things to me, including taking my blood pressure, making me repeat my medical history, and possibly taking my pants.

Luckily for that last circumstance, I am wearing basketball warm-up pants. Yep, the kind that you can rip off directly because they button down the side. So I expect to be de-pantsed with a flourish.

You may also be interested to know that, according to El Surgeon, I have the same injury that Terrell Owens did. El Surgeon has thus assured me that after my surgery, I will be an all-pro wide receiver with an attitude problem. I'll probably carry a Sharpie around in my sock so I can turn in papers and sign them in a fit of overweening arrogance.

Well, I will update you all (er, really Ryan, my most faithful reader) after I become coherent again (or possibly before, which would be way funnier.) I'm still a bit skeptical about this whole "anesthesia" thing, I feel like I might end up puking or hallucinating or something. But we'll see.

Adios,
Gordo

An Ipod Mix for the Doc

Having a surgeon as a father, I know some of the inside story. One of the things that may or may not be well known about surgeons is that they often operate to music and, of course, get to pick the selection. As a music dork, I feel I should help my surgeon by suggesting an iPod party mix he might want to play while putting Black & Decker to work on my ankle. So here goes:

"Cuts Like a Knife" -- Bryan Adams
"Like a Surgeon" -- Wierd Al Yankovic
"Fixing a Hole" -- The Beatles
"Beautifully Broken" -- Gov't Mule
"X-Ray Eyes" -- Guster
"Breakin' Me" -- Johnny Lang
"The Final Cut" -- Pink Floyd
"Damn it Feels Good to be a Gangster" -- Ghetto Boyz (I just like the mental image of a surgeon listening to this one.)

On another note, my unconscious mind has a sick sense of humor. Twice, I've had dreams where I'm walking down a sidewalk -- just an ordinary sidewalk on an ordinary day. Then I start to realize that I shouldn't be walking, that my leg isn't capable of it. So I stop, but I realize my leg is fine. About that time I wake up and look down to realize...no dice. Still in the cast.

Gordo's Getting Screwed!

Fans, with a headline like that, you know it's gonna be good. Well, okay, it's actually bad. But I still needed an attention grabber.

So the latest update on the World Tour-turned-stay-put-until-you-are-healed: it's time to get sliced and diced. Yep, the prognosis has gotten worse, and I'm going under the knife like so much tenderloin. (Mmm...tenderloin.)

If you want the medical mumbo jumbo, the deal is that my something-something, which is between the tibia and fibula (leg bones) is a bit displaced, i.e., spread apart. That kind of thing apparently is not so good for someone that still wants to spend the rest of their life running, hiking, skiing, and otherwise engaging in physical foolishness.

Thus the good doctors would like to make a wee cut or two and insert a screw to push the bones back together, then possibly stitch up some damaged ligaments. Fun? I think so. Hopefully that will not result in further displacement of the fracture in the fibula, but if it does, it's time for the World Tour to go bionic with some metal parts.

Of course, the important question is, will this result in badass scars that chicks will dig? Sadly, it sounds like the answer is no. Due to "advancements" in "surgical technologies," this apparently will only require small incisions. Post-op, though, it will require more crutching and physical therapy, which I hope will involve a "Rocky"-type soundtrack.

Though many of you doubtless would like to help, be aware that El Padre y La Madre del Gordo are here in Hippietown to guide me through this enjoyable process. For those who don't know, I am part of a very appropriately outfitted family: my dad is an orthopedic surgeon, my mom is a nurse, and my brother runs a medical products supply company. (Let me know if you need some cheap Depends.)

At the same time, the end of the semester is upon me and I must try to actually pass some classes. So in between World Tour Updates, I have to write papers and such. No worries, I just pull them out of my still-uninjured arse.

I must say that people have been remarkably nice and helpful during this situation, so I am going to increase the size of the People Who Deserve at Least Some Good Karma Coming Their Way list:

-- Dr. Lisa Brone at the CU Health Center, who didn't wiggle the foot too badly
-- Dr. Eric McCarty of CU Sports Medicine, who took a look at me at his house on a Saturday morning and gave the bad news
-- El Padre y La Madre, who are taking care of my quasi-helpless self for the first time since I learned to wipe my own bottom about five, I mean twenty-five, years ago
-- Jeff Sherer, who reconsidered some of his other ideas for entertaining me from afar and instead got me a NetFlix subscription
-- Mike Gerber, my editor
-- Kristen Averyt, who is going to at some point lend me her ridiculously cute dog so I can pull off the ultimate method of getting ladies' attention: crutches AND puppy

Do note, however, that the Gordo World Tour refuses to be kept in one place. This winter will include stops in Scottsdale, Arizona and (hopefully at least just to sit there) Vail, Colorado.

And what better way to celebrate a likely healed leg? BON JOVI, March 31st, Pepsi Center, Denver, Colorado.

On a final note, fans, I want to get serious for a second and say that I have a newfound respect for people who go through life with various disabilities, both temporary and permanent. Having to walk and crutches and rely on the good graces of friends and family reminds me not only how lucky I am to have them around but also shows me how difficult things can be. So a hearty World Tour salute to all the invalids out there -- I see your strength and I give you a fist pound.

At some point I'll try to post some x-rays, but the CD-ROM is on the other side of the room and that's pretty damn far, all things considered.