I crouched upon the top of a step-ladder, screwing a hook into the wood to hang the new wind chimes at the in-laws' house.
Hard as a fist, hard as the blow from a baseball bat, something struck me on the side of the head.
My attacker was the fast-spinning wooden blade of the porch fan, which had lashed out at my cranium's crass and clueless invasion of its orbit.
So I sat there for a while that afternoon, in the muggy porch heat, holding an ice-pack to my head, musing upon my talent for clumsiness -- a lifetime of broken toes, broken ankles, sprains, gashes, burns and concussions.
I am back at my work desk now, with a decent-sized gash upon my temple, contemplating. Years back, a little Girl, God forgive Her for She knew not what She did, whispered to a friend as I passed by, that I looked a lot like Frankenstein. Today, I am a little closer to that ideal. Maybe I will have a manly scar from it all and I can blame it on a bar-room brawl. Ya shoudda seen da other guy.
And not being a big-time celebrity, this may be the only time in my life I can report, that I was assaulted by a fan.