Handicapped

So let's get something straight right now: I was never great at hoops, but I could hold my own, especially defensively, and make a few baskets. Now, though, I am a goddamn terrible basketball player while continuing to come back with this knee thing. Can't get off the ground for rebounds, can't play man-defense, and can't dribble past anyone. I'm like a poor-man's Eduardo Najera, and that's not good. I am a shell of my former round-ball self, the only thing that remains (besides a sweet foul shot stroke), is total condescension towards asian basketball players. Oh, and refusal to stop playing even when I know I should. It's step back jumpers all day, and only off my left leg, which ends up getting tired because my body is refusing to let me jump off my right. I am seriously curious how much work the new orthopedic resident did on my knee; it's taking way too long to get back to normal - while you all know I have Zen-like patience (I think it's well established that I make Mother Theresa look like George Steinbrenner), I am having a hard time relenting from my rehabilitation quest.
Unfortunately for my knee, I also just decided to learn how to salsa. Tis the benefit of living with a gay mexican housemate. Just spent 30 min with him and some other friends (of mixed sexes, mind you) at the Night Cat salsa night, and I think my knee would have an easier time getting home from a shark attack. Either way, when I return, I will certainly be Rico Suave on la dance floor - muy bien.
Prior to this hip-swiveling extravaganza, we stopped into an Irish Pub for some Guiness. Almost had to re-enact a DNW moment a la Brewers Art circa June 2005. A woman walked right into me, sending half of my nitrogen-laden sudds (along with some of my frothy head) cascading down the front of my shirt. Apologize? Offer to buy me another beer? None and none. In fact, did not even acknowledge my now-disheveled presence. Fortunately for her fragile ego, I had not been drinking prior, and certainly did not have the gall to stare down her and her friend and point out their classless nature. My shirt is currently soaking in salt and club soda - thank you Curbed. (yes, by this point in this post I have just noticed that within 1 hour I have used an old-maid's trick to remove a pesky stain, and taken up salsa dancing - no conclusions need be drawn).
Finally (because I need to get to sleep and attack the lab with a vengeance never before seen on the stage of bacterial cloning), as for my living situation: I had decided to accept a room on the 23rd story of a sweet-as condo complex - the word swank comes to mind. I even called the guy to ensure that he knew I wanted it, was prepared to put down the [not insignificant] bond. The next day he called to see if I was interested. Umm, yes, hence the prior call. The next day he texted me, saying he needed to know if I was going to take the place - by this point I had already found a German guy, Christian, to take my room. Umm, yes, again, I said I'd take it, and we discussed plans for move in. Now in the utmost example of cold feet, I woke up yesterday and decided I'd rather have the extra cash (this place was 200 AUD more per month than I pay now, plus would require another 100 per for a tram ticket) for things like travelling and going out. Whatever, I hadn't signed anything. So I called him, leaving a message saying that the money situation just wasn't gonna work out, I was really sorry, etc. Seems reasonable. How reasonable? Reasonable enough that it wouldn't have mattered anyway -- He got back to me with a text message saying "no worries" because the place had already gone to someone else. I swear people here have perpetual ADD. What part of "I'll take it" was unclear, 3 times? I'm happy it worked out so that I didn't feel guilty (I have a very delicate conscience), but still, what the hell. What if I had packed up and begun moving, only to find someone else there - that would have been awkward. As an aside, when I called Christian to tell him my new home fell through and I wasn't moving out just yet, he stopped me and said: "Ian, Ian - didn't [name I couldn't understand] tell you -- I am no longer interested in your place." OK. "didn't you call here the other day and I told you I don't want it anymore? So you don't have to move out right now" - Umm, ok, christian (he too no longer gets a capital C), I didn't call you, but thanks; besides, I know I don't need to move out now - I still need to live there you patronizing tart (so now I'm looking into moving in somewhere with my current British housemate, from whom I learn great new vocab words such as "tart" and "wanker", and who, when drunk, drops such valuable snippets of trivia as "my dad colonized your country").
Oh shit, before I go, total sweetness in terms of testosterone elevation: last night we returned from Notturna (think Paper Moon as in open late but think little italy quality italian food and breakfast) only to realize shana locked her keys (and, thus, andrew's and our Kiwi visitor Hendo's keys) in her room. Couldn't wiggle the door loose, and could not pick the lock. Undaunted, we went into the kitchen, where there is another access point door, no doorknob, and sealed from the inside. Mere mortals would have called a 24 lockksmith, but not this team. A starter hole was flayed using a bent hacksaw found under the sink, and then, using my bare (bear?) hands, the hole was torn wider - a feat of Herculean strength (Furhawn, Spence, Anshu: this answers your insipid questions about what the point of going to the gym is). I don't need to tell you that shana and company slept soundly in their beds. I'm like Bob Villa on Andro.