The PK 27 -- Track A

We've had somewhat of an outbreak here in America A. They are calling it an Equine Flu epidemic. Horses getting the common cold is serious business, or so they would have me believe. I'm a good citizen though, so I don't question things too much.

Truth told, I lied about not questioning it. In fact, I've questioned it frequently in the past few weeks, quite loudly and often on trains. I mean, why should I give a fuck about snotty nosed horses? I'm not in the calvary.

And yet they persist that this is America A's key problem right now. The news is replete with infection updates and sad tales about the cancellation of the Spring Racing Carnival and images of punters who are unable to 'back a winner' and must, in the cruelest of twists, use that money to pay child support.

Ironically, or perhaps not, I live within walking distance of the heart of the horse racing industrial complex. In fact, I could see its shiny grandstand from my window if I were to stand on a box. However, I choose not to do so. Not for fear of its hypnotic pull or my lack of an actual box, but because as a person not of the ruling class, I feel no connection to this silver spooned beast.

See, unlike IDJ, I'm not from Connecticut and my parents do not own a mansion and a yacht. I never had a pony. Hell, I'm still waiting on my acres and a mule.

Pass the forty.

But I digress. The skinny is: I have not followed the party line about how serious this horse epidemic is. And that, dear reader, has been my undoing.

Sometime last week, most likely when I was drinking on Sunday afternoon, I fear some blue blood hack/horse lobbyist injected me with the Equine flu. I was drinking with an Irishman at the time and he, subsequently, happened upon a Brit. They did that 'jewel of the crown/county' bit I never quite get and that's when it happened. Or at least, that's about the time from when I don't recall much else happening at all.

Knowing what you and I know vis-a-vis equus/homo biology and physiology, I understand your initial conclusion would be that the successful transmission of such a contagion from a horse to my person would be improbable. I agree. However, that would be overlooking the distinct physical aspects of all who occupy this binary space: Incitatus.

I have clearly been the victim of foul play. In the days that followed I endured possibly the most virulent flu ever encountered ... by myself.

As an aside, on the second day of my illness I visited the doctor to seek advice. The doctor was nice enough, but at this stage I looked like a marfan-addled Linux user and was clearly incoherent, answering most questions with 'what?'. I did manage to explain to the doctor that I had some back pain, at which point he perked up, took stock of me for a second, winked and wrote me a rather large prescription for codeine phosphate. Thinking nothing of it, I winked back and took the script from him. It wasn't until later when the pharmacist told me it was a controlled drug and that they locked it in a safe that it occurred to me that my doctor must have thought I was a junkie.

In any event, the rest of my illness was spent in a fever-ridden and, notwithstanding the codeine, pain-riddled delirium. Apparently codeine only works on meth heads.

There is a point to this:

One notable aspect of my illness was the fever dream stage. When I was a kid, my fever induced dreams were, invariably, of German Stuka's relentlessly divebombing my bed, Jericho horns wailing, but never bringing the sweet release of death. I was a strange kid.

This time, my dreams were different. The first night was occupied with me being convinced that the Harvard Negotiation Model could be improved by rendering it in a three-dimensional form.

The second night, a veritable novel of words and ideas spewed - figuratively and literally - from my mind and mouth. I had a novel. I even managed time to adapt a screen play, and was doing some mental sketchings that I hoped would be redone professionally by William G during pre-production. A life's work, in two fever riddled days. Had I managed to capture any of it on paper (or four track), I would have completed my life's goal of completing a life goal.

However, I did not. Now I sit here, spent. Trying valiantly to remember anything that went through my brain, but all I can think of is the Mr Ed theme.

I do know one thing though. Everything in my dream looked and sounded like this:



Track A
Crooked - Evil Nine (Ft. Aesop Rock)