A week in bed should be relaxing, but the grippe wrapped its venal tendrils around and among my various alveoli and wouldn't let go. Was well enough today to sort of teach, but it did afford me the excuse I needed to vegetate and watch too many NCAA tournament games. I'm not pulling for anyone but my lungs right now, but I suppose I'd have to claim Florida as the team I want to win now that Winthrop and VCU are out. None of my alma maters (Cal, Fresno State, Utah) are in the mix, so I didn't have to worry about that conflict of disinterest. Amy worked, and, yes, we snuck out to see Lucinda and the HB's, but I generally tried not to spread the epidemiological wealth, as it were. Actually, being able to write archaisms like "as it were" is one reason I started this gig, that and to ultimately begin my list autobiography, which will be my frontal assault on the Creative Nonfiction pseudogenre. Whining done and no wines to wax on about, so it's time to move on to larger matters, as the flu isn't the only thing to choke me up these awful days.
Four years in Iraq and no end in sight.
Happy birthday, Abu Ghraib. Happy Birthday, Mission Accomplished. Happy Birthday, Halliburton (Yes, the presents are all yours). Happy Birthday, WMD. Happy Birthday, dead Iraqi civilians. Happy Birthday, body bags. Happy Birthday, unitary executive power. Happy Birthday, IEDs. Blow out the candles on your yellow cake. Make a wish. Make a wish.