2003-03-10 - 8:26 p.m.
Last week was highly phlegmatic. And I mean that both in the sense of "cold, slow, sluggish" and of "full of sticky green mucus, mostly in my sinuses and lungs."
Thankfully, a weekend devoted to bedrest and more or less complete inactivity seems to have helped clear things up. My fever is gone, my nasal passages have reopened, and the back muscles I wrenched painfully while coughing (prompting me to bust out the vicodin I had left over from when I broke three ribs back in October) have subsided. Now all I have to do is stress myself out and go without sleep over all the work I didn't get done last week until I manage to make myself sick all over again. If my life were a Disney film, at this point I'd be singing some tune Elton John wrote about the Circle of Life.
***
Just a suggestion: If you ever find yourself sprawled on your living room couch, running a 101.5-degree fever, bloated like a Jimmy Dean's pure-pork sausage and hopped-up on decongestants and opium-derivative painkillers, do not--I repeat--DO NOT watch old episodes of Six Feet Under and that E! special about the last days of Elvis. Your dreams that night will not be pleasant.
***
The weekend wasn't a total waste, though--I did drag myself out of the house on Saturday night to see a friend's Devo tribute band. Once I got over the soul-crushingly depressing realization that the cool and cutting-edge music from my high-school years is now ancient enough to be performed by "tribute" bands, I actually had a good time. I'd never seen this particular band before, and I guess it was their last show, since my friend and his bandmates had originally formed it just for a goof and never really intended it to devolve (heh) into the sort of thing you'd see at cheesy Mission Beach surfer bars. Plus, they made $900, which is better than being rammed up the ass with a red-hot poker as far as I'm concerned.
The less said about the crowd, the better. God. I haven't seen that many Members Only jackets since 12th grade.
***
So if we're pissed off at the French now, does that mean we have to keep our tongues in our mouths during foreplay? Or are we good so long as we call it "Freedom kissing"?
Geez. Sacre bleu, even. God knows I've never been one to pass up on bitch-slapping the French, but really.
Still, if it means the drawing-and-quartering of Jerry Lewis, I'm down with it.
That reminds me--I need to go to Good Vibrations and get a new Freedom tickler.
***
|
 |