They Should Have At Least Read Me My Rights

SO two weeks ago I bunged up my knee while fighting crime rogering a pair of leggy supermodels getting out of my chair, and five days later I went to the immediate care place, where Dr. Surly kept me waiting forty-five minutes while he rogered the x-ray technician finished the application for his license reinstatement saw to the pressing medical needs of the two people who were there ahead of me, neither of whom (nagging cough, possible broken finger in a no-doubt drunken fall) appeared to justify the exhaustive search of 19th century case histories that was taking so much time, before sticking his head inside my room for one minute twelve seconds--I swear I saw nothing of him below the shoulders for another thirty minutes--to tell me there was probably nothing he could do for me, even though he hadn't even spoken to me to that point, let alone conducted what I believe is usually termed an "exam", and that he'd probably give me some Ibuprophen. This last, I believe, is a standard bit meant to scare you off. At any rate, if he thought I was gonna sit there for two hours and go home with anything short of Schedule II narcotics he was crazy. Thirty seconds later I heard him snapping at the x-ray tech about the fact that I was still in the exam room and not on her table. In three tries she got no images, so she rushed out and got the other technician, who was about half her age, and who said something I didn't quite catch about this having to happen when You Know Who was on duty, so I bonded with them, and then they put the plates directly under my leg instead of in the cabinet underneath, and the pictures turned out fine. Maybe the best I'd ever taken.

Dr. Surly returned--all of him this time--and did some more muttering, and actually touched the knee, and told me the x-rays showed "no breaks or tears". I would repeat this to the osteopath five days later, just to hear him confirm that tears wouldn't have shown up anyway. He said he suspects a meniscus tear; I think he probably suspects a scam to get prescription painkillers. He sent me for an MRI Saturday, either to see just what sort of damage there is, or to see how much I was willing to pay for a chance at additional scripts.

So Saturday morning I'm about to be swept into the Gaping Maw of Claustrophobia (no problem for me, but my Poor Wife has vowed never to have another) when the tech, who is far too cheery for 9 AM, asks what radio station I'd like to listen to. And I tell her I'm totally innocent of local radio, having last listened to it in 1972, and how about NPR? And she says, "We don't get that." And that's the end of the conversation, and without further discussion--which might have run something like "I'd rather have you scream in my ear for the next forty minutes than make me listen to most radio stations"--she snaps the headphones on me and the gurney starts to move, and there's a bunch of the usual local radio guff--disc jockey inanities followed by locally-produced commercials for some health club with zero production values--followed by "You've Got A Friend" by James Taylor.

And I knew I was in trouble. James Taylor is not a grand mal seizure of suckitude provided the dose is kept small, but there's no question he portends the sort of Lite Rock or "Adult" Contemporary--now that I think of it, why is 90% of the typical "Adult" Contemporary playlist twenty-five years old, let alone lyrically teenaged?--that serves as some sort of default listening position on the grounds that it's the stuff people who don't like music listen to. Which is, I would like to have explained to Excessively Cheerful, precisely bass ackwards, but it was too late. Here, to the best of my recollection--and I had nothing to do but remember it--was the rest of it:

"Lady" Little River Band
"Kiss You All Over" Exile
"Stuck on You" Lionel Ritchie
Something I Didn't Recognize by Someone Other Than Celine Dion but Close
"Make It With You" Bread
"Kiss Me" Sixpence None The Richer (the one song I actually like, but then I'm a sucker for hurdy-gurdies and women with that haircut)
"Jazzman" Carole King
Something Written By Jim Steadman on a Three-Day Piña Colada Bender and "Sung" by Someone Who Unfortunately Is Celine Dion
"All Out of Love" Air Supply

I would swear on my grandmother's grave this is true, but I figure if you're familiar with the concept there's really no need.