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I had a few nice stories in the works for this week when the bug snuck up on cat’s paws about halftime in the Super Bowl and knocked me for a loop. My doctor had me on Paxlovid by early Monday afternoon. Friends say it worked wonders for them. I’m hoping it kicks in soon.

You don’t want to get this thing. It’s like the very worst flu or cold or maybe even strep throat you can remember, running the gamut from fever and chills and headaches to very sore muscles and worse. But you don’t need me to tell you that, after a million dead and its variants still levelling thousands more every day. And that’s if you’ve gotten all the shots. The Grim Reaper awaits outside your door if you haven’t.

Over the past few months, as friends and acquaintences have been struck down by this Thing from Beneath the Sea, I’d begun to think I had some special DNA sauce that made me impervious to the disease.

Uh, no. Guess we have to start wearing masks in crowded places again.

The Paxlovid should have me on the mend soon and grinding out copy for you all—which I consider my last great privilege in this marvelous life. Thanks for standing by. Talk soon.