Physical Therapy

About a week ago I started my post with a stupid definition of physical therapy. While doing some Google'ing, I discovered that it's apparently a band.

Less than a week ago, my friend Andy asked me for my address. Like my friend Jim, Andy belongs in that group of friends that's constantly putting me at risk of receiving something extremely stupid in the mail. But since I'm usually putting my friends in a similar position, I figured I'd bite and make sure he had my address.

Now we arrive to today's mail.

Wow. This is going to be awesome.

A couple of things. First, they're in the classic, "the cameraman caught us staring across a weird pond," pose. Evidently, the dude wearing the fanny pack in the front, not the side, did not hear about the business casual dress code.

There's absolutely no way this can get any better. But before I listen to it, let's check out the playlist.

The editors at Sweatshop Records really let a lot of things slip. I'd better write them. I'm sure they still exist. Someone needs to please explain to me how a straitjacket will help me relax.

Here's a taste of the music. There are no vocals -- it's all instrumental.

So thanks, Andy, for this wonderful gift. Listening to it is equal to the enjoyment I get out of my real physical therapy.

I'm continuing to get stronger. But unfortunately, my pressure ulcer on my great toe has returned.

I've got to start wearing a gauze pad around it again until that dude heals up.

My toe nail might be in the process of falling off. It doesn't look too hot at the moment.

Not sure what that is at the bottom of the nail.

On a good note, you can't tell that this is foreskin.