So, yeah. Went to a doctor once or twice. Still got the scaaaar.

Okay. Let’s see. I was about to go on a business trip halfway round the world. Got an upper respiratory thing. My significant other at the time insisted I see a “Doctor.” I did. A lordly little fat boy who asked if I smoked and told me to stop before I got on a 747 to Hong Kong. Told him I would. He dismissed me with a wave of his hand.

Second time. Benjamin Reeve House in Greenwich, NJ. Tallest house around in colonial Jersey. Because he was a clockmaker. Grandfather clocks.

Where I was born. Where I’ll die most likely too. Greenwich NJ.

Hot day. I was trying to open windows. One got stuck. Got forceful. Put my hand through the glass.

Bad, nasty, open, gushing cut. Wrapped it in cloth. Girl coming home. Have to be there, you know. She said we have to call mommy. I said it’s no big deal. Then mommy got home and we raced to the emergency room because everybody but me thought it was a very big deal indeed. Hours later, I had my second encounter with doctors in 40 years. He did a nice job.

Satisfied? Still have the scar. It still hurts. What else do you want to know?