Jingle Bell Rock

I am not a party girl.

But when DK told me our friendly neighbor J. had invited us to his yearly Xmas open house, I knew we just had to go. If only to see J's digs, about which we have been consumed with curiosity. J. is a collector (as in antiques and yard sales, not John Fowles) who keeps a fantastically neat yard, smokes large cigars and looks a little like Detective Munch from the defunct crime show Homicide. Who I always thought was cute. In a twisted existential sort of way. Rowwrrrr.

Anyway, that's how I came to find myself sitting at a basement rec room wet bar drinking too much diet pepsi. Hardly a dive on 52th street, but it would have to do.

Some guy behind the bar -- not J. -- noticed my Albert DeSalvo Collar and asked about it. I told him a little about the accident -- cell phone dude, fractured C2, outta work for months, yes we did eventually get a lawyer -- and he was, tipsily, off and running with unsolicited advice.

You gotta keep that collar on as long as you can !

(Fuck, no, this baby comes OFF at the first possible MOMENT !!)

Especially in the courtroom. I'm not kidding. Be sure you wear that thing in the courtroom.

(Courtroom ? What courtroom ? NO Courtroom !! I do not DO courtrooms.)

You gotta get yourself to a chiropracter immediately !

(No fucking way. I have a broken neck !! Where the VERTEBRAL ARTERIES go through !! Arteries that, under NON-FRACTURE circumstances, can be injured by CHIROPRACTIC MANIPULATION !!!)

You gotta make sure you rack up those medical bills !!

(Oh, yeah, now that's always fun -- schlepping through ghastly weather to medical appointments and uncomfortable and anxiety-provoking tests !)

Think of your pain and suffering, the depression, the lost wages, think of maybe even losing your job, think of the prospect of future painful disability !!!

(Keep it up, fella, and I'll be bawling into my diet pepsi. Right here between the electric snoring Santa and the juke box. )

You're looking at SIX FIGURES here !!!!

(And at this point, he reaches into his pocket, extracts a business card, and shoves it my way. He's, get this, a financial adviser. He wants my business. A piece of the broken neck action.)

What was I saying about low, dishonest decade ?

I kept flashing on Dr Nick from the Simpsons. And Lionel Hutz, Esq.

Boy, did that conversation ever weird me out.

Even Albert was amazed.