One Flu Over The Cuckoo's Nest

I awoke yesterday morning to find that the pesky malaise I had been hosting for the last few days had blossomed into a bona fide illness. My head throbbed, my throat felt like flaming sandpaper, my tongue had a disagreeable pasty coating, and I was manufacturing phlegm in astonishingly prodigious quantities. Evidently my body had downloaded a virus, probably as an attachment, which was now infecting my internal hard drive. Clearly, it was time to reboot.

Oddly enough, though, I don’t really mind being sick like this. I wouldn’t go so far as to endorse illness as a way of life, but if you have to be somewhere on the continuum of physical discomfort, this is the place to be: sick enough to justify a day of rest, but not so grievously afflicted as to involve the intervention of referred specialists or the introduction of a colostomy bag.

Maybe it’s because that, amid the relentless exigencies of everyday life in a hyperactive world, a day off from work usually means a day of frenetic activity. Things just have to get done. Something always has to be done. Getting sick, then, is about the only opportunity one has to indulge in idle repose.

And indulge I did. After calling in my regrets to the office, I shuffled off to the couch and began feathering my nest: Pillows, comforter, wooly socks. Tissues, lozenges, Tylenol. Soothing teas, water, orange juice. Newspapers, magazines, books. CNN, Price is Right, Adam-12. I anesthetized myself with antihistamines and TV and lay there all day and into the evening, glassy-eyed and blissfully disconnected from real life, wearing the slack expression of a man who has been deprived of oxygen for a tragically prolonged period.

Remarkable, isn’t it, how easy it is to disengage from the world, how quickly you can unhook yourself from all those terribly vital things that make our lives so urgent ? Or at least things that seem terribly vital until you spend a day absorbed with nothing more mentally taxing than breathing. All the pressures and nagging chores that kept me so strenuously occupied now seemed oddly remote, as if they belonged to another person, in another time. One day of no traffic, no deadlines, no human contact, and I was loving it—the flaming sandpaper in my throat notwithstanding.

When it was time to turn in, and I made my way down the hall to the bedroom, comforter in tow, I realized it was the first time I had been vertical in hours. And I also realized, with a trace of wistfulness, that my headache and chills had gone. I was still raspy and sore, and feeling as dull as a mallet, but I knew I would be back at work in the morning. Probably a good thing, too. A couple more days of that kind of hibernation and I could easily end up recusing myself from active participation in life for good, and spend the rest of my time on the couch, benumbed by game shows, flipping through glossy magazines, and eating bon bons by the handful. And that kind of a life would take all the fun out of being sick.

PS: I would like to point out for the record that I did come within $1000 without going over on my showcase bid.

The Final Curtain

I always like to sit close to the stage at live theater performances. It’s unsophisticated, I know—as any genteel patron of the arts will tell you, it’s advisable to be several rows back from the action, so as not to be distracted by the pancake makeup and costume imperfections. But I like the immediacy, the sense of being almost in the scene, the thrill of being hit in the eye with the spit of actors in the throes of thespian exuberance. It doesn’t even really matter what the show is. Just put me up front and I’ll sit there, saucer-eyed and open-mouthed, like a toddler watching Barney.

Last week, our seats for the local Arts Club production of Same Time, Next Year were perfect, as far as I was concerned—second row, center stage—and we settled in with the customary sense of anticipation. I love a theater just before curtain time: the rustle and murmur of the crowd, the warm, artful lighting, the--

“HOLY COW, THESE ARE GREAT SEATS, EH? RIGHT UP FRONT, FIRST ROW! LOOK AT THAT!”

He was in his thirties or forties—an aggressively stupid man with a black leather jacket and leather lungs, one of those exceedingly loud and jocular types who is all unrestrained brio and expansive gestures. He was with a younger blonde woman, who looked uncomfortable (a blind date?) and another, older, couple (his parents?). He thudded into his seat directly in front of me and propped his cowboy-booted feet up on the lip of the stage.

“OH HEY, LOOK THERE’S A BED ON THE STAGE! I GUESS IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE LIKE A HOTEL ROOM OR SOMETHING!” He gave the blonde woman a sharp elbow in the ribs. “WOW, THESE ARE GREAT SEATS. RIGHT UP FRONT, EH?”

Kim and I exchanged looks. Everyone within earshot, which is to say everyone in the first twelve rows, exchanged looks. The blonde woman sunk a little lower into her seat. Just my luck, I thought. Guy’s acting like he’s never been to a play before.

“I’VE NEVER BEEN TO A PLAY BEFORE. WOW, THIS IS GREAT, EH? IT’S JUST LIKE BEING AT A TV SHOW, BUT LIVE, YOU KNOW? WOW, THESE ARE GREAT SEATS, EH? RIGHT UP FRONT.” Another elbow in the ribs.

The house lights dimmed. The audience settled. Then the stage lights came up to reveal the actors in the bed. One leaned over to the other and sa--

“HA HA HA HA HA! BWA HA HA HA!” Our front row cowboy threw his head back until it was almost on my lap and slapped his thighs with delight. He elbowed his companions on either side and pointed out to them that the actors were actually in the bed. He proved to be a reliable interpreter in this regard. Later in the scene, for instance, when the action called for a room service delivery, which was announced by a knock and a call of “Room Service!” he snorted extravagantly and belched out a laugh, then leaned in toward the blonde woman. “The guy’s bringing room service,” he announced helpfully, then gave her an elbow in the ribs and pointed to the stage, to illustrate precisely where the bringing of room service was taking place. No doubt she was a theater-going rookie, too, and he felt compelled to provide her the benefit of his keen perceptions. Such a considerate man.

And so it went for the rest of the night. He found every line thigh-slappingly hilarious, as only the truly witless can do. At one point, the blonde woman, as acutely aware of his obnoxiousness as he was oblivious, meekly suggested, with a hand on his wrist, that he temper his enthusiasm, but he brushed her off brusquely and hooted even louder. And, predictably, when the final curtain came and the actors strode out for their bows, Mr. Excitement popped up from his seat like a jack-in-the-box, and gave himself a standing ovation for enjoying this cultural experience. He whistled and huzzahed and raised his hands above his head to clap. I half-expected him to ignite a lighter and yell for an encore. When he turned to see the rest of the audience offering enthusiastic applause from their seats, he gave an admonishing shake of his head, then turned back to the actors and redoubled his decibel output.

I have come to believe—because I am monstrously self-involved, as should be apparent to any regular reader of this page—that people like this are drawing breath on this planet for the exclusive purpose of annoying me. They’re everywhere I go: The woman in front of me at the gas station cashier who has to have every crumpled lottery ticket she can dig out of her purse—all fifty-four of them— verified as a loser before allowing me to pay for my gas and get on with my life. People who wait for the light to turn green—and then signal left. People who name their children Gennifur—and get mad at you for spelling it wrong. Charlie Sheen. People who solicit e-mail orders for penis-enlargement pills that, if you ask me, taste like aspirin. Smugly earnest college students who want to raise my awareness about anything. People who believe that Initial Capitalization is a form of Emphasis. Flannel-mouthed furniture salesmen. People who think their tattoos make them interesting. Flinty careerists. Shameless lickspittles. Guttersnipes and ragamuffins. Jackanapeses and fusspots. All the people that make me wish that spontaneous human combustion would occur more often and more spontaneously.

But for those of us who feel that our lives are eternally beset by bozos, I offer this consoling thought: the world is coming to an end. I don’t mean to be alarmist or anything, but I read recently that many reputable and wholly credible scientists believe that we are overdue for a devastating cataclysm—probably a crashing meteorite or comet— that will instantly and irrevocably wipe out all traces of human existence. Everything on this earth, from the Dead Sea Scrolls to the works of Shakespeare, to the music of Celine Dion—gone in a cosmic flash, the whole planet exploding in a violent profusion of dirt and stone and fire and collectible Beanie Babies.

This used to bother me. But now I take solace from the idea that when that time comes and we as a species, and our fellow animals, and our little blue marble in space are all mercilessly expunged from existence, my friend from the theater will be there, too. In fact, knowing him, I’m sure he’ll have a front row seat. He’ll stare up at the sky, and point at the advancing killer fireball and elbow his companion in the ribs.

“WOW. THIS IS GREAT, he’ll say. “I’VE NEVER SEEN A METEORITE BEFO--”

How I Spent My Winter Vacation

I am feeling seasonally discombobulated lately, and I blame it on Florida. After ten days of sunshine and shirtsleeves, and late evening meals on outdoor patios, I found it hard to accept that I had to scrape ice off my windshield yesterday morning. And it’s that weird time of year here, too, when the days are just starting to get longer—not quite wintry anymore, but not yet spring. I don’t know, it just seems oddly surreal. Then again, it might just be a natural psychic letdown that comes with having an intense period of work followed by an intense period of vacationing. All I know is that since I’ve been back, I’ve been feeling about as ambitious as a narcoleptic squeegee kid.

Kim and baby Abby joined me in Orlando last week and, as required by Florida law, we visited Disney World. We went out with a group of my co-workers one night to see Disney MGM, although Abby and I abstained from the more lively rides—Abby because she doesn’t meet the height requirements and me because I don’t like fun. While waiting outside the Star Wars ride for my companions I did, however, get to see a young boy sneak up behind his father and attempt to sodomize him with a souvenir light saber, which pretty much made my night.

We spent the whole day Wednesday at Epcot Center, where we got to sample faux ethnic food and buy ersatz handicrafts in a fabricated environment staffed by people pretending to be foreigners—a truly authentic Disney experience. I actually had a great time there, although that’s partly because the English ales, French wines, German lagers, and Mexican tequilas were real enough.

We even managed to escape Mickey’s grip for a couple of nights and venture beyond the Disney borders. On our last full day in town, for instance, we drove out to the Kennedy Space Center, where we stood in line for half an hour for the privilege of buying tickets that allowed us to stand in line for the security checkpoint, which, once cleared, meant we could stand in line for photos on our way to stand in line for the buses that took us to the various sites of the compound where we stood in line to see the exhibits and re-enactments of daring explorations where men boldly explored parts of the universe where there were NO LINES. But for someone like me, who has a soft spot for NASA history, and who truly admires the “spacial entrepreneurs” as President Bush has so eloquently described them, it was worth it. We even got to watch an actual rocket launch from Cape Canaveral, which followed a stunning pink and orange sunset, and then we drove off to Cocoa Beach for dinner, as I imagine Major Nelson and Major Healy did after a long day of tormenting Dr. Bellows.

But it was the evening we did nothing that was the most memorable. That is to say, we did nothing that was sanctioned by the Florida Tourist Board. We had just moved into our more modest digs, after the company-sponsored events were over. Kim and I took turns going for a swim in the outdoor pool, while the other watched Abby. I floated for a long time on my back, alone in the pool, watching planes arc across the dark blue sky and over a moon that seemed startlingly bright—a shiny dime on velvet. Later that night, we sat out on the deck alone, the three of us in the dark, just the pool lights on. We brought out wine, and ordered pizza, and watched a movie on the laptop—a private theater under the stars, on a balmy Florida night. It might not have had the Disney imprimatur, but to me that qualifies as family fun in its purest form.