George A. Romero's Land of the Dead opened Friday.
Until late last night, I could have been a very convincing zombie character in it.
Sometime late Monday to Tuesday morning, I picked up a case of strep. I began to feel feverish pretty quickly, and of course had the aching throat.
Then by late afternoon, the fever spiked and I was off to "Braaaaaaaaainnnnnnnsss. Braaaaaaaaiiiiiiinnnnnnsssssss!" Country. I took sick leave and knocked the fever back temporarily with combinations of Motrin and Tylenol (no, not at the same time...) Then the chills hit.
Wednesday, I trudged off to work. For a while. I think my co-workers were planning precisely how to shoot my shambling self in the head, so I left.
Once again, the left-right of ibuprofen and acetaminophen kept the vision-producing fever levels mostly in check. You know: the kind where suddenly the crying Indian chief from the old anti-litter public service announcement materializes in your living room and states "I am the Lizard King. Say, got any ham?" Thereafter, he marches to the fridge, makes a sandwich and disappears in a puff of glitter to the tune of Lara's Theme.
But, I digress. There was a grim side effect to the effective breakings of the fever--I ended up sweating a lake, every time. Nothing like sleeping--rather trying to sleep--with towels underneath you.
By Thursday evening, after a false feeling that I'd turned the corner, I flat-out refused to take another dose of Motrin, and went to the doctor's. That's when the nagging sore throat was diagnosed as the culprit. Anti-biotics the size of torpedoes were prescribed, and another dose of Motrin forced on me.
One of the benefits of my condition is that it left me largely numb to the Pistons' loss in Game 7. Ah, they are going to lose, I thought in my haze. The Indian chief was far more upset--"Shoot, Chauncey! Why won't Billups shoot the ball?!"
Duuuuude, I responded sagely. Yes, Victor--I know. I'll get back to you shortly.
Short verdict: the Pistons lost to a better--however slightly--team. They shouldn't have, but that's what champions do--win in the crunch. And the Spurs did. Hats off.
As of Sunday morning--now--I have reached the condition clinically described as "death warmed over." Actually, I feel pretty good for the most part, but I'm still trying to get my legs back under me, physically and blogging-wise. However, I do have the makings of a post on a recent topic in the works, so keep checking this space.