Hipster

I broke one of my toes on a tree during a trust-your-peers-while-wearing-a-blindfold game during a nature retreat in 6th grade. Two years later, I broke my thumb playing broom hockey. I guess I've pulled some muscles and been knocked out a couple of times, but none of it would inspire an Olympic-style human interest story.

But everyone gets a real sports injury eventually, and now my running habit has taken its toll on my hip. It happened gradually over a couple of weeks—first an occasional nagging ache late in the day after a morning run, then a repeating twinge in the same spot while running. Then it started popping up while I was walking, and last Saturday I woke up feeling it after sleeping on my left side. Not exactly a strenuous activity.

So this week I went to see a sports medicine specialist recommended by my regular doctor. She had thank-you notes from Kristi Yamaguchi and Brian Boitano in her office, so I figured she was legit. She told me I have mild inflammation at the spot where all the muscles connect at my pelvic bone, and she prescribed a month's worth of icing, Aleve, and two to three sessions of physical therapy a week.

Unfortunately, it turns out my health insurance—though perfectly willing to cover every drug known to man—doesn't really want to help pay for a course of nonaddictive, nonpharmacological treatment. It requires a giant deductible that doesn't include our $30-per-visit copay, then covers only 80% of subsequent sessions. Believe me, I know how lucky I am to have insurance at all. But I don't have a couple of grand to throw at a minor injury that I can essentially treat at home myself.

I decided to go to one PT session to get help setting up a stretching plan, and I'm glad I did. The therapist pinpointed the exact problem and walked me through a series of healing and strengthening exercises that I have to do twice a day until I see my doctor again in late May. Running and yoga are out, but the Stairmaster is in. It's going to be time-consuming and uncomfortable, but I trust it'll work if I'm disciplined about it.

Meanwhile, the injury isn't holding me back from daily life at all. I miss running already, but 30 days without it isn't the end of the world. And seriously, try having a conversation with a PT named TJ about your TFL and IT sometime, and tell me it's not hilarious—especially when you're paying $230 for it.

Accidentally awesome

The bottom of my spine curves in a little more than most spines do. I remember briefly doing exercises for it as a kid (standing up against a wall, etc.), but that didn't last long.

I've never had any medical problems because of the curve—I just need to do a little extra work to get my whole spine on the ground during savasana—but I always have to get jeans altered because of it. Even when they fit everywhere else, there's a big gap in the back at my waist.

So I bought a new pair of Urban Boot Cut jeans the other day at Banana Republic and had the waist taken in as usual. The nice lady at my dry cleaner who does alterations probably didn't realize it, but she made them into the coolest jeans ever:


That's right: Banapublic Urbot Cut, the BCB's new custom line of denim. Good luck copying this look, fashionistas.

Clear mind, busy mind

First night of silence:

Robert Sean Leonard was the headmaster at a boarding school. His name was Finnisch. He had lost his wife. We never learned how, but she was young so it was presumably tragic. They hadn't been married long and there were no children.

It was five years after her death. He never talked about it, but people kept being left alone in his living room, where they would find the wedding album. They would take the program out of its plastic sleeve—a tripart brochure with a fuzzy picture on cheap paper, like you'd see in the waiting room at a low-budget dentist's office—and the camera would zoom in: Maureen and Finnisch, April 17, 1983. They looked happy.

"Jesus," the person who found it would say. After a few minutes, the album would close.

This happened over and over again, with soft-focus lighting. It was an HBO movie of the week from my childhood. Not a real one, but I knew that's what I was watching.

Third night of silence:

My car was in the shop, so I was traveling across Oakland by bus. It was 11 p.m. when I reached the huge central station. By the time I got to the ticket window, I'd just missed a bus home. There wasn't another for 45 minutes, so I went to the Michaels next door to kill time. There was a list in my pocket with three things on it: puffy T-shirt paint, green thread, can't remember the third. The walk across the parking lot took ages.

Michael's had a clothing section, so I stopped to buy a shirt. I put it on right away, with the tag still attached, and went to the paint section. They didn't have what I needed, so I was heading to the exit when a security guard stopped me. "You stole that shirt," she said. "That's ridiculous, I just paid for it. Here's the receipt," I told her, pulling it out of my pocket: $14.19. She cut the tag off for me.

Outside, I passed a row of café tables filled with teenagers. The guys were catcalling in a good-natured way, with big grins, like they knew I wouldn't fall for it. "Hey baby, don't take the bus. I can give you a ride." Then Stephi turned the corner. "Hey," she said, "I'm in town for that conference. I'll drive you home. My car is in the usual place." I was glad but not surprised to see her.

We walked a few blocks to the corner of 22nd and Broadway, into a tiny convenience store and deli called 22nd & Broadway. A middle-aged Korean couple was wiping down the counter and closing up. They didn't acknowledge us. Parked in the middle of the store was a silver BMW convertible, lights on and engine running. "My dad made that deal with them in the '70s," she reminded me. "It's been really convenient."

I didn't see how we'd get the car out, but I figured there had to be an easy way since Stephi's parents lived down the road in Florence, MA, about 10 minutes from downtown Oakland. It all seemed easy and sensible. I felt bad for a moment because I wasn't sure if Stephi remembered that I don't live in Oakland anymore so she'd have to drive all the way to the city, but then I knew she wouldn't mind.

Chamomile wishes and valerian dreams

I was standing in a giant gray warehouse, in charge of it somehow. A friend came up to me holding a tangle of slightly inflated plastic that almost filled the room. Not really holding it, more like wrapped in it, the longest inflatable beach raft you can imagine.

I can't fit all this in storage, he said, It's too much to handle.

"No problem," I said. "We'll flatten it out and fold it up, then you can fit the same amount in a smaller space."

Another friend came in next. He was trying to carry an uncountable number of long, snakelike pieces of styrofoam. They reminded me of ricotta cheese, they were soft and kept trying to escape.

I can't hold all of these, he said.

I said, "I don't think I can help you."

Germany, the biggest country in the universe

I'm editing a guidebook to Germany. It's 800 pages long. While you ponder how that can possibly be possible, enjoy these fun facts:

1. There's a place called the Schmuckmuseum in Pforzheim. It's devoted to jewelry, which makes me wonder if calling someone a schmuck might have been a compliment back in the day. Or . . . wait . . . maybe you're watching me discover the etymology of the expression "family jewels." See how my brain did that?

2. Mainz, the birthplace of printing-press inventor Johannes Gutenberg, hosts an annual festival called Johannisnacht. Newly graduated printers are initiated in mysterious ways (not detailed in the book), and students just learning the craft are dunked in vats of water. Nothing like a little biblical hazing.

3. In Frankfurt, the Museum für Moderne Kunst has a number of pieces by Blinky Palermo. I think that might be the best name anyone's ever had. I hope it's real.