Stand back; you don’t want any part of this. I think it all got kick started on Groundhog Day. I went to some kind of birthday shindig/gig thing bent on intoxication and good ol’ fashion trouble. It had been a tough couple of weeks. My fatigue was palpable. I suspect the psychological scars may have been grossly apparent. A night of depravity was prescribed by an alcoholic friend of mine, so I took my doctor’s advice.
Anyway, some young buck walked up to me that night, shook my hand saying, “Hey you’re the guy who plays that weird guitar.” While I said “yeah,” expecting some other comment (perhaps, dare I say, a compliment), he started hacking up a cough so deep and far down he fell out of his Beatle boots. He didn’t say another word, turned blue and at once vanished into the party, never to be seen again. Unfortunately he tagged me good with whatever pathogen he was sharing. Two and a half days later some ghastly virus, intent on killing me, hit me like a rock, kicking me in the chest and smashing in my skull. Well, shit happens. The good news is this is my first cold/flu thing since last summer. The bad news is, I’m as sick as a dog -- an old dog that should be put out of his misery.
Needless to say, I haven’t gotten much done. There were certain esoteric news items I planned on writing about, like “the oldest human hair was found in a Hyena poop fossil,” or the discovery of “five new species of pygmy seahorses,” or how “hordes of caterpillars are devouring crops in Liberia and are threatening a cataclysmic food shortage.” I planned on composing obits for Lux Interior and James Whitmore and Max Neuhaus. But those ideas have gone by the wayside, along with my intentions to write about the 45th anniversary of the Beatles first appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show and the anniversary of the publication of Ulysses by James Joyce. Anyway, anyone up for the etymology of “phlegm”?