Cold, Cold, Cold

I never get sick, so the nasty cold I've had lately is something of a novelty. I woke up a couple of mornings ago with a head that felt like a waterlogged pumpkin. My eyes resembled two tiny, bleary red brake lights on some superranuated Humpmobile, and when I caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror (matted hair, mysterious secretions exuding from my nose, filthy teeth) I winced and screamed, only to realize my voice sounded like Tennessee Ernie Ford's. I spent a woozy but entertaining half hour among the echoing tiles, experimenting with "Many Brave Hearts Are Asleep in the Deep". It was a dream come true -- I've always wanted to sing bass.

All day I lay in bed, wiping my nose on one of Eric's old T-shirts and trying to persuade myself I was going to be OK by evening. All night I tossed and turned, and in the morning I was nauseous and exhausted. Some people watch TV when they're sick in bed; not me. TV makes me sick. Instead, I tried to read a library book which I'd been holding in reserve, unwilling to expose my delicate sensibilities to its horrific subject matter. Now, though, it fit my mood perfectly: "Secrets of the Spanish Inquisition." There's something about Spain -- when I was in Europe I cut short my time in Spain after a quick pass through Catalonia. The landscape reminded me too much of Southern California, and virtually everything served in cafes and restaurants tasted like rancid anchovies and fifth-pressing olive oil. And there was nothing to drink but vile sherry. Time to move on to France where I couldn't afford anything in cafes and restaurants, but at least it smelled better. And there hadn't been a French Inquisition, at least that I knew of.

But back to my cold. By 10 A.M. on the second day, I no longer sounded like Tennessee Ernie, but more like Connie Francis on a helium rush. I hadn't eaten anything in 36 hours because everything tasted like library paste. Reluctantly I decided I probably ought to find some nostrum to clear my throat. A woozy jaunt to the local Walgreen's revealed a dazzling array of "Mucus Relief" products. They were from numerous manufacturers, but all seemed to contain the same active ingredient, guaifenesin (whatever the heck that is -- probably best not to know). Prices tended to vary widely, from around $7 all the way up to $25. I grabbed the cheapest box I could find and took it up to the checkout counter. The clerk, who looked suspiciously like an excommunicated member of the Pagans motorcycle gang, took an awfully long time to ring up the sale. He kept peering at me out of the corner of his eye, and sort of smirking. I had no idea what a lowlife like him could possibly find so humorous -- until I caught a glimpse of myself in the plate glass window on my way out: hair on its way to dreadlocks, snot-stained jacket sleeve, red eyes, feverish shuffle. Maybe he thought I was Amy Winehouse in a red fright wig. Anyway, high time to get off the streets.

Safe back home, I washed down my horse pill with a slug of no-brand vodka, then settled down to read the local weekly throwaway. When I got to the gossip column and was confronted with a semi-full-page closeup of Madonna and A-Rod hunting for an East End love nest, I launched into a coughing fit that landed me on the floor. The mucus remedy advertised itself as making "coughs more productive", which struck me as the ultimate capitalist notion -- in an economy like this, who can afford deadbeat coughs lollygagging around the office all day on company time? After a few more bouts of violent hacking accompanied by even more violent abdominal muscle cramps, I finally realized I should quit looking at the newspaper.

So here I am, with my cough working overtime. Not sure exactly what it's producing, but now my voice is almost entirely gone. If I go a few more days without eating, I suppose the Amy Winehouse analogy will be complete. Oh well, look on the bright side -- at least I'll never be mistaken for Madonna.