"Report To Sickbay"

(Insert prolonged annoying groaning sound here.)
Booooooo. I have a cold. While I realize this isn't Polio, or some other more horrible affliction, it still sucks. Hard. I HATE being sick. I'm not sure if I'm a bigger baby than Dan or if I actually get worse bugs, but I don't seem to just get a runny nose-- it becomes this whole Dickensian death's door shmoopiness. Booooooo.

I still managed to put on an impressively energetic shower performance of "Live in skin" (check it out in the player) by my beloved Foo Fighters, complete with pointing and lots of costly (moan) head whipping. "I'm amazed that i'm still standing and I demand that we all blend in..." Hey-- I owe it to my pretend public. Oppressive shmoopiness be damned.

Since my own characters have gone on hiatus, I've found myself craving the words of others. That's another upside of working at my visual art-- plenty of time to listen. So today it was New Yorker fiction podcast day. Awesome. I think I need to check out Chekhov. I've avoided him in the past, thinking he was too remote and collegiate or highbrow for me, but little snippets I've stumbled upon have really intrigued me. I need to be fearless and see what he can teach me. There was a short story by Nobokov that was pretty kick ass too.