Sick Is as Sick Does

Turns out it wasn't my imagination--I really was sick after all.

I felt progressively worse as the day went on Thursday, with chills, headache and body aches in unusual places (elbows? abdomen? the hell?), and by the time I got home from work I was pretty sure I wasn't going to work on Friday. Still, formalities must be observed, so I went to bed insanely early (around eight or so), forgoing a fresh episode of Ace of Cakes on the off chance that I might feel slightly better by daybreak.

No such luck. When I woke up Friday morning, well before the alarm, I felt worse than I had Thursday night (or, if not actually worse, then certainly not a bit better). I logged onto Polly Jean, my now-ancient lime-"flavored" iMac, and sent a broadcast email to pertinent coworkers, letting them know I wouldn't be in. Then I fed the cats, popped a couple Tylenol P.M.s and stumbled back to bed.

This turned out to be one of my best decisions in quite some time, for not only did I not feel any better the remainder of Friday, but I developed "complications"--the sort of "complications" that makes being within ten feet of a bathroom at all times a very, very good idea.

Since I was now tethered to La Casa del Terror, I did what I usually do when I'm illin'--I watched a zombie movie. Last time, it was Shaun of the Dead, a lovely tribute to George Romero's undead epics. This time, I went straight to the source: Romero's Dawn of the Dead, still a stinging social satire 30 years after it was given an X rating by the MPAA based solely on the amount of violence onscreen (which, admittedly, is an awful lot--the dead and living alike get blown up, chopped up, run over, shot, decapitated by helicopter blades, etc.). After watching a good-humored "making of" documentary, I resumed my self-induced coma.

Saturday? I did nothing. No. Really. Nothing. Didn't stare at Food Network or surf the 'Net or watch porn or play CDs. Just stayed in bed (my "complications" having subsided), only rising occasionally to eat or whiz (never at the same time--that would be unsanitary).

By Sunday, I was more or less back to myself--a bit of a sore throat and some leftover body aches, but pretty much whatever passes for normal. I still slept late, though, and went out to my favorite breakfast place and shocked them by ordering lunch: a bleu cheeseburger, thankfully not made from a preformed patty but an actual lump of beef thrown on a grill and cooked just right, with grilled onions draped over the peaks of cheese like ceremonial bunting.

After finishing my most satisfactory lunch, I stopped by Walgreens for some cat litter--thank goodness, no medicine needed to be picked up--and headed for home, pausing only to look at what someone had tossed into the alley: a bass guitar. The case was battered, with two of the three locks broken, and the guitar itself wasn't in the best shape either--it had only one string, was missing two of the other four string posts, and had a couple of dangling wires where its electronics should have been. It had a lovely laquered wood finish, though, and it was a Fender--I don't know (Bo) Diddly about guitars, but I know that's one of the best brands.

No, I don't play bass--hell, I still have an acoustic guitar I have never learned how to play--and I've got more than enough stuff in La Casa that I don't really need. Still, the bass was a handsome bit of hardware and was hardly beyond repair...

So, yes, I lugged it home. Yes, it's sitting in my dining room. No, I still don't know how to play it. But at least I felt well enough to go out for lunch, and if I hadn't, I wouldn't have the Fender bass. And damn, it looks good.