A Weekend Despite La Grippe

[This grippe has been creeping up on me for the last few days. Except for a quick lunch with Sean, I didn't leave the house Saturday before it was time to go see Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf at the Golden Gate with MyGregory, NotRockLobster, and Allen. Yes, I saw Kathleen Turner again on a San Francisco stage (the first time was in Tallulah a few years ago with Mom - this time, Turner soldiered on with a nasty head cold that made her Martha sound like an big, stuffed-up Irishwoman); also Bill Irwin, whose George was thin, nervous, and utterly cutting. That play...no matter how many times I see it, I get sad at its authenticity even as I'm riveted by its language. Anyone who's been in a relationship informed by alcohol couldn't help but recognize it.]

[In a tribute of sorts, the four of us went without discussion to the Castro for a few. Three o'clock in the morning saw me hunched over the toilet for the first time in a long time, and while I certainly drank my share, I'm choosing to attribute the second visit of my Little Joe's dinner to this cold/flu thingy. Little Joe's, in its temporary post-North Beach digs in the 'Loin, was our pre-theatre choice because we couldn't get a table at Original Joe's. I remembered that the last time I saw a show at the Golden Gate, I did indeed get to eat at Original Joe's; it was twenty years ago, the show was Cats, and the company was my AP English teacher, her man, and two womenfolk who had graduated from Sonoma High a year ahead of me. Twenty years is a long time, and my reunion is in August.]

[Sunday...still didn't feel like leaving the house until near dinner time. Sean lured me to his Western Addition manse for a lovely, lovely angel hair bolognese. It was 85 degrees here yesterday, and even after pasta and Entourage, there was still too much daylight to stay indoors. We walked thru Alamo Square, the lower Haight, and Duboce Park, ending up at the Pilsner, where the many gay softball teams also seemed to end up. Also showing up was the Angry Young Man (looking about fifteen years old in little-boy bangs) and His Pal Bree. The AYM could tell that despite the gorgeous weather, handsome jocks, and flowing beer, I wasn't exactly 100%, and I soon went home and passed out and away.]

[It was Monday today, and despite indeed feeling like crizzap, I went to work, cleared out my inbox, and came home at noon. I've spent the afternoon doing this or that in fifteen minute spurts, followed by lengthy rest breaks. I'm not congested, there doesn't seem to be much in the way of digestive distress...I just feel like hell.]

[Yeah, I hope I get better soon, too.]

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