I injured my shoulder while playing basketball with my sons and their friends. Despite the real threat of injury we obstinately persevered, all the while supplied by a library of don’t do it’s from my wife. Lucid others from my demographic implored me to be careful.

 Our Sunday afternoon hubris-filled, smack-talking-fueled three-on-three’s half court wars ended quickly for me. The ball crushed two fingers, causing them to blow up like polish sausages, and causing me to involuntarily toss up a cartoonist balloon puppet peace sign impossible to conceal. The shoulder, more painfully severe, didn’t become an issue until my wife moved the shoulder in the middle of the night and I screamed like a rabid hyena setting off a few car alarms and possibly opening a few garage doors.

 Mi Vida didn’t want to sleep with ear plugs and was afraid she would have to sucker punch me if I did that howling wolf thing again. We agreed that I may have a pinched nerve and scheduled a visit to her chiropractor with whom she was well pleased. He had helped her get instant relief from many painful situations, none of which were of a domestic nature.

 Chiropractic is big business. The huge office is filled with chiropractic information on how the spine works, why adjustments are necessary, and how getting twisted can cure most ailments. I felt the propaganda to be redundant; they were preaching to the choir if folks were already on site postured to be put into a full nelson. I was comforted by the conspicuous absence of WWF turn buckles.

 Dispassionate, I filled out some forms, watched a video, and explained how stupid I was for getting injured in the first place. Then, quoting from the video, I apologized for not getting hurt sooner because I’d never been to a chiropractor before, ergo I had spent my entire life maladjusted.

 Once the glad-handing was out of the way, the first question to the young, hip, handsome doctor was, “What kind of car do you drive?”

 If and since chiropractic is not a traditional HMO-based medical service, I didn’t want someone working on me who could only afford to drive a KIA or Hyundai. Doctor “S Class 600 Mercedes” reassured me, then closed the deal by saying he rode a VFR Honda race bike. Time to go to work.

 I was dismissed to another room where I had to put on a tie-in-the-back gown (which I couldn’t tie. That’s why I was there. Hello!) for a full body x-ray.

 The x-ray doc, another hip urbanite, made me walk across the hall in my boxers and gown into a glumly dark room. I was directed to put on some huge Adam Ant looking Erkel glasses while stand at attention in front of a white plastic wall. All this with a lead fanny pack thing over my . . . my . . . valuables.

 He then handed me a wooden pole and turned me sideways while I was holding the pole. It looked like I was churning butter. It occurred to me that if I was being punked, standing there with the geek glasses and holding the stick in that gown, I would pay up to ten thousand dollars to get those pictures back. An abrasive buzz from a Frankenstein machine. Got suited and booted, then left.

 The first thing the next morning I was back on site and we looked at the X rays. Am I the only one who thinks itS funny that skeletons are always smiling? I could see the recent dental fillings from Dr. Play Date a few weeks ago.

 Neck bones of a twenty-one year old, spine of a thirty-something, no arthritis, one lower back disc misaligned. A body like this should be able to dance. The shoulder injury, which felt like a hot needle stuck into the joint while river dancing on crank, was a soft tissue injury. I found out later it was a torn rotator cuff. Undeterred, it was time to get crackin’.

 Lying on my back he massaged my neck and told me he was going to release some pressure. With that he whipped my head to the side. The crack in THX Dolby sounded like an elephant sat on a crate of walnuts.

 In a visceral response I yelled something in Spanish, and then remembered that Doctor Benzo, fluent in Spanish, spent a few years helping folks in El Salvador. The phrase was a favorite of his while playing tennis. In a series of snap shot moments he had me in a headlock, full nelson, half nelson, and at one point he looked like Ricky Nelson.

 Dazed and confused, feeling big headed and like a hung over circus acrobat, I was dismissed to get an MRI. Chiropractic can only do so much when a muscle is torn.

 Or if middle age desk jockey husbands don’t listen to their wives.