Those are the dimensions to which my life has been reduced for nearly three weeks now. Actually, I’ve only had the wheelchair for a little more than a week, but who’s counting?

Owing to the provisions of an impromptu settlement agreement reached with the local militsia branch and the aggrieved parties, my attorney indicates that I shouldn’t go into the futile, stupid details of how I got into this predicament. I’m tired of telling and retelling the story, anyway. But to suffice it to say that I’ve got casts on both legs with a broken right foot (hairline fracture of the second metatarsal) and left ankle (spiral fracture of the lateral malleolus of fibula) and—prior to this evening—hadn’t ventured out of the house in over two weeks. A few days ago Taibbi tried to cheer me up by saying that I’m not really missing all that much. After tonight’s cab ride to the eXile’s suitably grim basement offices, I’m inclined to believe him. There’s nothing like a couple weeks of enforced isolation (or a 3-day speed binge, if you’re in more of a hurry) to remind you just how disturbingly hideous other people are.

But what am I missing, exactly? At the very top of the list would have to be the first few weeks of snapper season. Certainly I regret being sidelined during this important period in the annual life of the city, but not nearly as much as I ought to. Nor have I felt any urge to call upon the home-delivery services offered in the classifieds section of this and other fine publications. As my fellow Philadelphian Charles Crumb said, “Now that my sexual desires are gone, I’m not so sure I want them back.” I even made it to this enviable psychic territory without the benefit of megadoses of tranquilizers.

Not that I wouldn’t rather that my time as a shut-in had happened to fall during the dead of winter. On the one hand, there’s the drunken merrymakers who have been lingering in my courtyard for days on end, especially during the May holidays. I don’t generally feel compelled to hobble out to the balcony to get a look at them, but boy can I hear the fuckers. Last week in particular, for three days running, there was this barely post-pubescent Yuri Shevchuk down there belting out folk tunes in the single worst voice I’ve ever heard—a gratingly tinny, pained cry that would be right at home in a maternity ward. Occasionally, his (apparently retarded) girlfriend or sister or whatever would accompany him. In earlier, more mobile times, I would have tossed down one of the empty Clearwater bottles left on the balcony by a previous tenant to send them scurrying... anyway, those bottles are all long gone by now. (An interesting side note: While the underage courtyard gatherers would always flee the area the instant the bottle hit the ground, the older vodka-drinkers who sometimes congregate down there never paid the slightest bit of attention, even as the bottle would continue to send its peculiar muted bass tones rumbling around the parking lot. Admirably, the old timers just didn’t give a shit. And by morning, the bottle would always be gone.)

But it’s the daylight that’s really a problem this time of year. The accursed shit starts pouring through the balcony doors at about 5 a.m., arriving a few minutes earlier each day. When you’ve been sitting up all night in your wheelchair chain-smoking as you stare off into the distance, the last thing you want to see is the night sky turn from reassuring black to glowing indigo to blinding silver and gold within the space of about 10 minutes.

Did I mention that I’ve kicked alcohol and Imovanes since the injury occurred? Now that I can’t wander aimlessly around the apartment stubbing my toe all night long, drinking myself into a well-regulated stupor no longer has quite the same attraction. And as for the sleeping pills... well, let’s just say it was time for a little intermission. Hell, except for the endless cigarettes, I’m probably leading the most healthy lifestyle possible for someone who never walks more than three feet at a time. Even the last of the various withdrawal symptoms (cold sweats et al) faded away more than a week ago.

But this new chemical regime has wreaked its havoc on what was already an entirely unacceptable sleep schedule. The good news is that, following a harrowing week of very little rest at all, I’m now sleeping more regularly than I have in years. The only problem is that it’s about 10-12 hours off from what would generally be considered normal. 11 a.m. to 7 p.m. is now the interval to which my body aspires, and nothing I do appears capable of altering the cycle by more than an hour in either direction. If I load up on caffeine in order to power through a day (or more) without sleeping, I still don’t get tired again until the following morning rolls around. Naps taken at random times are likewise of little help. Of course, I wouldn’t really mind any of this if the abrupt coming of morning weren’t so unbearable.

Sleeping problems aside, there is one thing that I really am missing in this rat-bastard situation: live TV broadcasts of the NBA Playoffs. Instead, my only option is to listen to the games via internet radio, with the connection being lost or my computer inevitably crashing at the really important moments. Clearly, this is not the way things ought to be.

Perhaps you need to have grown up in Philadelphia to fully understand the beauty of the 76ers’ season this year. From miniature MVP Allen Iverson with his ill-fated rap record (even if he has, disappointingly, matured and grown a rather oversized heart this past year) to the overachieving bunch of physically unattractive role players who round out the starting lineup (few of whom who would be logging anything other than quality bench time for most other teams) to closeted-gay coach Larry Brown with his sleep-inducing press conference style and aneurysm-popping courtside explosions during games, this is a team every bit as ugly as the city of Philadelphia itself. They go up by 20 at the half only to let it all slip away in the closing minutes. Then they come back the next game and get beat soundly by 30. And yet here they are still hanging around, perhaps with a chance to win it all against the more well-rounded and photogenic teams from Los Angeles or San Antonio. They have no business winning the championship (and, almost certainly, they won’t), but the mere hint that they might is enough to excite even the most jaded Philly sports fan.

I still remember the 1983 Sixers, the only one to win a championship during my lifetime. I was excited at the time, of course, but there was always something shameful about that win. Not only was Julius Erving too much of a true, natural star to be playing for Philadelphia, it took bringing in the ringer Moses Malone at center for them finally to get over the hump against the Celtics and Lakers. Some might argue that this year’s team did the same thing by trading for Dikembe Mutombo mid-season, but I would have to disagree.

Dikembe is an elbow-throwing shot-blocker who camps out in the lane; his defensive game crumbles the minute he steps outside the paint. He has terrible hands and is almost a total wash offensively. He may be from Zaire, but he’s definitely got some Philly blood pumping through his veins.

In other words, if Erving-Malone was basically an earlier version of the Kobe-Shaq duo, then Iverson-Mutombo is more like Abbott and Costello. And this may just be the championship team Philadelphia has been waiting for all these years.

And, of course, it is entirely appropriate that I’m stuck listening to the playoffs on internet radio with a cast on each leg. Point guard Eric Snow is still not 100% back from the broken ankle he suffered earlier in the season. And it was a metatarsal (the fifth, to be precise) that small forward George Lynch (an archetypal ugly defender) fractured last Sunday in Game 4 of the conference semifinal series with the Toronto Raptors, effectively ending his season.

So let me close then with a shout-out to the 2000-2001 Sixers, a most sociopathic team from that most sociopathic of cities. Now pound those fucking Canadians!