Well, here I am again. I've had a deluge of e-mails and MySpace messages regarding my wrist surgery. Some have wished me well, but a surprising number have been outright hostile. I appreciate fans savoring for some more Abysmal, especially since our last album's delays ultimately led to us abandoning the project. Never fear, folks--I could never ditch something as rich and rewarding as Fuck Machines.

However, I must confess that recovery time for my surgery took much longer than expected. In fact, I'm still recovering, slowly but surely.

Here's the skinny: when a person injures his or her triangular fibrocartilage complex, an orthopedic surgeon has two courses of action: repair the tear, or debride the scar tissue surrounding the tear, which theoretically will reduce the pain around the joint. Repair of the damaged tissue involves a much lengthier and more complicated recovery process than debridement. Unfortunately, with injuries such as this, not even an incredibly expensive MRI (paid for by the good people at Metzler-Rinbaum & Associates) can show the full extent of the damage. A surgeon will only know how to proceed once he's jammed an arthroscope into the patient's wrist joint and started poking around. Strongly suspecting he'd only be able to do a debridement, Dr. Hunzinbergel left me believing that I'd go in for surgery on Thursday, spend Friday and the weekend recovering, and be back to work on Monday.

On July 2, Margo drove me to Cedars-Sinai. She's still a little pissed about what happened with Perdida last year, but we've been working through it (couples counseling), and I think this was a step in the right direction. She feels sorry for me and wants to take care of me, which I think is the foundation for rebuilding a solid relationship.

The pre-surgery process seemed a little awkward to me. A foreign nurse with a heavy accent processed me into Day Surgery, but I felt a little uncomfortable by her inability to correctly pronounce my name, my injury, or the word "crackers." Did she have any idea what was going on? I was somewhat reassured by a balding, ponytailed man who drifted into my curtained-off bed chamber and announced in an airy, moderately disinterested voice that he's my anesthesiologist and "Don't worry, I've never lost a patient." I started to feel anxious--thou doth protest too much, methinks.

They got me hooked up to an IV and started with a low-level relaxing agent. As I started to get light-headed, I began joking with Margo about the hilarity of my inevitable death on the operating table. Eventually, Dr. Hunzinbergel came in for a brief pep talk. He mentioned that they'd kick in such a powerful anesthetic that I wouldn't even remember being wheeled to the operating room. I've had surgery before, so I laughed off such a ridiculous suggestion. The last thing I remember was talking to Margo. Then I woke up in the recovery area, with Dr. Hunzinbergel gleefully announcing that he had repaired the damage. I didn't understand what he meant. Also, I feel back asleep.

When I awoke again, the full extent of his glee became evident. He put me in a full cast--made of tight-packed cotton and ace bandages--that I had to keep elevated all weekend, before I could meet with a physical therapist. The therapist unwrapped the bandages, removed the cotton, and examined the scars, which I myself saw for the first time. I wanted to puke, possibly from the massive amounts of Vicodin I had inhaled over the weekend, but I like to think it had more to do with the terrifying red-black lines crisscrossing my hand.

The therapist made a cheap cast out of some sort of plastic that becomes malleable in moderate heat (hence the warnings not to leave it in the car) but is rock hard at room temperature. She showed me how to clean and redress the wounds and showed me some basic finger-movement exercises to do each hour so the muscle didn't atrophy. I wanted to die: such basic actions as making a "square fist" had turned into nearly-impossible Herculean efforts.

Back at home, Margo had gone off to Wilmington to shoot a few more episodes of Black Belt Irish. Her role as a Canadian arms dealer had grown suspiciously popular, so they made it recurring despite the fact that she had died in original one-off episode. Anyway, with her gone and the band pissed at me for causing so many delays and financial problems, I found myself alone to tend to my recovery. Trust me when I say nothing is more terrifying than having to hold gauze bandages in place with your teeth while using your only functional hand to tape a wrist that feels like it's about to detach from the rest of the body.

I spent a three weeks alone, laid up in that cast, in an opiate stupor. I subsisted on junk food and sandwiches of rapidly turning egg salad. Finally, Margo returned, I got the cast removed, and I entered a six-week period of physical therapy. The therapy terrified me, because I had the suspicion that the cartilage "repair" was more like tacking frayed curtains to the wall than patching them, so I felt like any little move would cause the cartilage to re-tear.

I finished my last therapy session today, actually, and I don't feel much better at all. I can do something with relative ease--typing for short periods of time, writing by hand, even playing a little guitar--but if I bend it the wrong way, it flares in immeasurable pain, far worse than what I suffered prior to the surgery. I'm told to continue the therapy exercises at home until I see Dr. Hunzinbergel for a follow-up in six weeks, on November 4. I hope things will be considerably better, but I have no way of knowing.

The short version of this long, disappointing tale is this: I am unable to continue work on Fuck Machines until I return to 100%. I don't have a clue when that will happen, and Dr. Hunzinbergel refuses to give any sort of ballpark answer for fear of a lawsuit. I do feel like I'm edging ever closer to recovery, but I refused to allow Mildew to put yet another release date that may ultimately be changed.

For now, we're simply saying, "Cumming in 2010 A.D." Lucky for us, 2010 feels like a nice, sci-fi-ish year, so Mildew feels confident the marketing department will make the release year seem sexy.

We don't want the Abysmal juggernaut to fade when we were just regaining some momentum, but with my inability to play, we have to be creative in how we promote the band. Look for some goodies to pop up soon, and before you know it, Fuck Machines will be penetrating your stereos.

As most of you folks know, I tore the cartilage in my wrist last December during the Central Valley Celebrity Football Showcase. My orthopedic specialist, Dr. Phineas Hunzinbergel, injected my wrist with cortisone and put me into a splint for a minimum of four weeks. By January, I was raring to get back to recording Fuck Machines. Unfortunately, my wrist would not cooperate. My trademarks--speedy licks and a well-honed, well-timed heir of sloppiness that is actually perfection disguised as edgy, devil-may-care playing--had left me completely, and although I could play brief snatches of songs, my wrist quickly transformed into a maelstrom of pain and numbness.

With the cliché-ridden adages of old football coaches ringing in my ears ("No pain, no gain!" "Walk it off!" "That helmet's not a chair!" etc.), I pressed on, assuming things would get better with increased use. Well, you know what they say about assumptions...

By May, I was back in Dr. Hunzinbergel's office, receiving yet another cortisone injection, in addition to an MRI to investigate the area. Hunzinbergel examined the results and confirmed his suspicion that I did have a tear, in the triangular fibrocartilage complex of my left hand. He told me to wait another month for the full effects of the cortisone to be shown before making any decisions about surgery.

A month passed, and to my surprise, my wrist began to feel better. In fact, better than better--I felt like a new man! For three days. After that, the pain got even worse than it had before the second injection.

Lucky for me, a few threatening letters to Metzler-Rinbaum & Associates, the organization that staged the Central Valley Celebrity Football Showcase, had convinced them to pay for any medical bills associated with this injury. Based on a quick pep talk with Dr. Hunzinbergel, I felt confident I could get the surgery, recuperate quickly, and still fulfill the previously announced June 23 release date.

Unfortunately, Dr. Hunzinbergel could not schedule me for surgery until July 2, meaning the release of Girth McDürchstein's 'Fuck Machines' will be delayed, probably until mid- to late September of this year. Luckily, Dean Charleston and the folks at Mildew Records have shown surprising understanding of my medical problems. They still fully support the album and wish for a speedy recovery.

Hey, folks!

It's Girth, typing once again, but not for long. I just wanted to let you know we--and by "we," I mean "Mildew Records"--have a firm date for the release of Fuck Machines. It'll be out June 23, 2009. Expect a big marketing blitz throughout the month of June in anticipation of its release. We're hoping to put out a single by April. I'll keep you posted.

--G.McD

Fans,

We got some bad news. Recording Fuck Machines was going along amazingly...until Girth decided to take part in the Central Valley Celebrity Football Showcase. He tore cartilage in the second-worst possible place, his wrist, the one he uses to play guitar.

Because of this, we have to accept that Girth McDürchstein's 'Fuck Machines' will not get out in January. Girth has to wear a wrist splint for at least four weeks, possibly longer. He may even require surgery to heal.

Join us in praying Girth gets better, so everyone can grind along with Fuck Machines.

xoxo
Margo Atwater

Hey, all. This is Girth, posting to you direct from the Paint Shaker in Hollywood.

Here's something you ought to know: the entire band blogged extensively this summer, and you guys are gonna want to hear about it--some fucked up, crazy shit happened. Unfortunately, our stupid intern, Marty Rabinowicz, stopped posting blogs after a couple of weeks. I know he was only getting college credit, but we're finding out the hard way that he didn't do anything.

We're really busy recording our new album, Girth McDürchstein's 'Fuck Machines', but whenever I have some downtime, I'll spend it posting our old blogs. Keep your eyes peeled, and sorry, folks!

--G.McD

Okay, guys. Last time we talked, I mentioned that this is our most ambitious album today. I'm not wrong on that. The only problem is, it's gotten so ambitious, the recording has spiraled out of control. We're doing a lot with layered guitars/synths and some awesome studio experimentation that's gonna really kick ass. It's just taking me and Carlos Ueberschaer (our engineer) a long time to sort through what we're recording and separate the wheat from the chaff. As a result, we got permission from Mildew to push the release back to January.

We're also most likely going to put out a tie-in EP that I'm calling Songs from the Fuck Machine, which will fill out the Fuck Machines universe in richer detail than I can accomplish with one LP's worth of material. Mildew adamantly refuses to put out a double album.

I hate to do this again, but I assure you, this time an album is coming out, and it's going to kick so much fucking ass.

G.McD

Hey, guys! It's Girth. I just wanted to check in a little to let you guys know we've been working our asses off on recording Girth McDürchstein's 'Fuck Machines', which will be available at retail stores by November. So far, it's kicking ass! Even though it's not a double album, I'd consider it our most ambitious album today. Hope you guys dig the new website design.

Peace!

G.McD

Perdida had been missing for a week when Margo finally said, "You should look for her."

"Maybe we should look for her together," I said, trying to trick her by pretending to be open and honest.

It worked: "No, Girth... If I see her, I'm bound to stab her in the throat. You should do this alone."

I nodded, gave her an awkward kiss, and drove up to North Hollywood to look for clues in Perdida's apartment. I didn't find any suggestion of her whereabouts--just a lot of vibrators and faux-vintage knickknacks. As I prepared to give up and leave, my foot kicked something small across the polished wood floor. I went over to the baseboard and picked it up--a matchbook, bearing the logo and address for the Lunaria Jazz Bar, a club Jam used to frequent before moving in with a number of other disheveled musicians/hobos. It wasn't much, but I didn't have anything else I could consider a lead.

"Why do you have to be such a raging fucking bitchwhore?" I shouted. "I know it's not 'cause you're on your period, so what's you're fucking excuse?!" (By the way, I knew this because Margo doesn't have any eggs, so her gyno thought it would be best if she went on the pill full-time since she's not dropping any eggs, anyway.)

"My 'excuse,'" Margo retorted, "is that I'm fucking sick of being married to a man who can't keep it in his pants!"

"You didn't seem to have a problem with it last night!"

"Are you retarded?! Of course I don't care if you're fucking me. It's every other woman in the world I have a problem with."

"Well, now," Carl added, "doesn't that just about sum up the female gender?"

Last night, Margo and I watched one of her episodes of Black Belt Irish. I'm a big fan of schlocky TV, but this just seems like it's pandering to nerds who enjoy The A Team ironically. I got bored quickly, so I was sort of happy to get a text message from Perdida halfway through. I was less happy when I read the message: Hay girth I need 2 o shit help sum1 just bust That was it--not even a period.

I rolled my eyes and ignored it until after the show, when I realized the sentence made no sense. I made several attempts at parsing it before realizing it should read as follows: "Hey, Girth, I need to--oh, shit! Help! Someone just bust--" It cut off in mid-sentence and warned that she was in danger. Even though I can't stand her personally, the bond of sexual congress, combined with my overall desire to help mankind, made me worry about her safety. Was this another ploy, or had she really stumbled into trouble?

How could I find out? Margo had become increasingly suspicious of my behavior, and although she had reinstituted her policy of not reading the blog, she'd decided to keep tabs on me by refusing to let me out of her sight. We did everything together, and to be honest, I didn't hate it. I'd kind of forgotten about Perdida until she texted me. How could I express these feelings to Margo and make her believe that I'm legitimately concerned and only sort of want to bang her again?