In which Sly falls (again) but this time it's not because he is drunk but because (we think) he thinks he does not have to follow medical advice

Primo and I were at a music festival. He has been home for a few days and plans to return to Florida on Sunday. He spent his first few days home sleeping, relaxing, and doing some political stuff. He cut the grass, but I told him the other chores were on me - that I wanted him to rest while he was home.

We went to the festival today and saw Taylor Dayne, who is amazing. She is older than I am but is in great shape, which is both inspiring and depressing, because if you can't be a little bit chubby and flabby when you are 53, when can you?

We had fun wandering around, listening to bands, eating festival food.

Then BAM.

Of course something happened to ruin everything. (Well, for Primo. Not for me. Except if it's ruined for Primo, it is ruined for me.)

Sly called.

In the almost ten years that I have known Primo, his parents have called him fewer than a dozen times. The burden of the calling is on him, not on them.

If Sly called, something bad happened.

Primo tried and tried to return the call - he hadn't heard the phone ring because we were at a music festival.

Sly didn't answer.

Primo finally called Jack.

Sly had fallen and was in the ER with a broken rib.

He had fallen trying to get to the bathroom. Of course he had not called for help. Of course not. Because he is so healthy and can walk from the bed to the bathroom without help - even though he couldn't even go from the wheelchair to the car seat without getting dizzy, breathless, and faint when I was there.

I shrugged. "Nothing you can do for a broken rib except wait for it to heal."

Primo was not so sanguine.

"I can't even have one week without his creating some kind of drama," he said. "I can't get a break from this at all."

Later, we discovered that Sly had his phone turned off. That is not useful.