Dad tripped during today’s morning walk. He landed on his shoulder. He broke his collar bone.

Thus ends the family Oscartide trip to Los Angeles.

I bet he’s angry. I’m angry about it and I’m not even him. I know he must be angry.

Last month, my dad turned 75. I don’t think he’s ever broken a bone before.

I remember asking that of people when I was kid: “Did you ever break anything?” I think my dad said that he never had. Breaking a bone to me seemed to have some supernatural significance. Those who had bone breaks had undergone a mysterious transformative rite that those of us with unbroked bones could only ponder – and perhaps, a little, pine for. The kids I knew who’d had a broken arm or leg or finger weren’t to me the wretched recipients of domestic abuse or cautionary icons of playground heroics gone bad, they were the Chosen Ones. They were special. They were better.

To me – all my life, I think – being different and strange has meant being better and superior. Maybe that’s the appeal of X-Men. Weirdos & Mutants = The Extraordinary Beings. So I have sought to be strange and different, assuming therefore I was on the road to superiority and excellence.

But maybe it’s not so.

My dad has a cross country flight to do tomorrow, which doesn’t sound fun to me under any circumstances, but I wince, I cringe, to think of a 5 hour flight with a snapped wishbone. My bro and mum will be with him. Still, I wince, I cringe.

It is the wishbone, right? The collarbone and wishbone are the same?

Yesterday, at LACMA, my brother and I quickly walked through the LACMA 40th anniversary exhibit. I saw an unimpressive modern painting with a pattern in the middle of it that seemed to indicate a wishbone. A premonition? Or NOT ONE?

I still have yet to break a bone. I’m more of a gashes and slashes and stitches man.

I wonder if my dad should make a wish.