Sushi and Scoble

If those active in the Friendfeed arena can feel free to blame Robert Scoble for contributing to the doom and gloom that is fueling the downward spiral of the US (and world) economy, then I should feel perfectly validated blaming him for my own uncomfortable situation.

It all started with a sushi dinner on Saturday night, closing the ConvergeSouth weekend. I have fondness for sushi that borders on obsessive; I can daydream about it for months on end silently trying to outlast my husband’s willpower. (Have I ever mentioned I’m neurotic?) Once the magical night of sushi arrives, I gorge and leave sated with a touch of guilt. Saturday was no different.  Robert and a lady I don’t know well assumed the role of sushi selectors. This was fine by me, I always take the easy road and leave it up to the chef.

I nod sagely as I am told what each piece is, but my greedy American nature always wins. When no one is staring to see me fumble with my chopsticks I stuff my face and moan inwardly with delight.

Plate after plate of jewel colored fish arrived. I bemoaned leaving my camera in the hotel room as I sampled and asked for the plates to be passed down to my end. I’m somewhat convinced that most of the guests will gladly blame the gentleman across from me for the rapid disappearance of food, but I can assure you as sake toasts were raised I was reloading my plate.

But Heather, that sounds like a lovely evening, why are you blaming Robert Scoble for all the whining you’ve done over the past few days?

Have patience my dear readers, patience.

Monday evening it was my mission to atone for my sushi sins with a productive session at the gym. Near the end of class I was lying on my back, scissor kicking with my heels six inches off the floor, silently cursing my instructor and his future descendants when I felt a subtle pop. A twinge. Not the sweet relief of a joint cracking, just a feeling of something giving way.

As I walked to the parking lot, pain was shooting down the back of my leg and my calf was tingling.

Yes, it’s a minor injury, simply a pulled muscle that is affecting my sciatic nerve, but as anyone will tell you back injuries rarely feel minor and the past two days have been dulled by the haze of a prescription muscle relaxant and the soothing warmth of a heating pad. This my friends is why I have neglected to share stories of those wondeful people with whom I basked the flourescent glow of geekery.

It’s all Mr. Scoble’s fault.