The daily digest of Twin Cities culture | Secrets of the City

Twelve days ago I got drunk on Apple Pucker (yes, really) and fell down a flight of stairs. Classy, I know. The ordeal resulted in a violently sprained ankle and an extended "vacation" at my Mom and Dad's house in Saint Paul. Thanks to modern technology, I was able to keep up my Rakish ramblings and what not, but from a comfortable leather couch with multiple pillows, blankets and one doting Pitbull who somehow managed to stomp on my ankle with amazing repetition - when she wasn't sleeping directly on top of me, that is. Charming as that was (and believe me, this dog embodies the term "puppy dog eyes"), I still longed for my own bed, the freedom to chain smoke with wild abandon, and to take more than two Advils at a time, as my mom is a big believer in pain killers, even over-the-counter ones, in strict moderation. My lack of health insurance thwarted any drugged-out Vicoden hazes, much less an actual diagnosis, so I've basically been in pain for the duration.

However, my injury somehow sparked a long-dormant maternal instinct in my Mother, who isn't exactly the mothering type. Because of this, I easily became a demanding brat, insisting on regular ankle rubs, icings, and at one point requesting not just a cupcake, but a pretty cupcake because eating a plain one was just not good enough for me. My Mom responded to all this and much more with such diligence and patience it was astounding, and a little bit shocking, considering my childhood wasn't exactly one of indulgence. While all this may sound lovely, it ended with me having to pretty much throw a tantrum to be released from the clutches of my smothering mother to crutch my ass back to my messy apartment.

Finally back in my less-comfortable, but more independent environment of scattered papers, un-hung art and overflowing ashtrays, not to mention the half-eaten sandwich I left on a table last week, I feel liberated, yet worried at the same time. I can't imagine anything more embarrassing than falling in the shower due to my ankle, hitting my head, then being found naked and knocked-out by my landlord, or worse, the Fire Department. Cross your fingers for me, dear readers.

At any rate, this whole ankle-sprain business has really cramped my style. I will never again take walking for granted. All you a-holes storming around with your strong bones and un-torn ligaments, driving your cars and going to the bathroom sans crutches really don't know how good you have it. Last weekend I missed seeing the original lineup of The Time play live at the Minneapolis Hotel. I missed numerous cool art openings and parties. I missed lots of free booze and free food (two of my favorite things). I feel like I missed more than usual, all because of a moment of drunken clumsiness. I'll probably be walking like Quasimodo for at least another week, so if you see me, don't stone me, and whatever you do, don't offer me a shot of Apple Pucker.