This past weekend, I captured and served my first flu fever in God knows how long. I think the last time might have been when we were living in our old apartment (now million dollar condos in West Hollywood - I hope Joe and LIbby Binder are doing all right in Maryland) roundabout 7 years ago. Dara had just moved out to LA (we moved out 6 weeks apart...6 LONG weeks apart) and had her first day at Disney Feature Animation looming over her. I can't say exactly when I felt Satan burrow beneath my skin and yank the guts outta me, but suffice it to say, Old Scratch did a number on old Rustyboy.

I couldn't get out of bed. I couldn't stand in the shower. Eating? Are you nuts?

So I was left with one option: Lie in bed and sweat like a Native American trying to speak with the gods. How did that work out? Did I find the gods? No. I however did find that you need to change the sheets on your bed about twenty times a day when you're that sick.

Dara and our old-roommate and still-friend Todd tended to the old man. Dara even sputtered me along in my old '71 VW Bug, which she despised driving, to the doctor, who sayeth: "You've got a flu. One hundred bucks please."

That isn't true. He didn't say "please". He snickered and spat on me, goosing my gowned ass.

I'm back on the mend today, I'd say at 80 percent. I'm hoping for 95% tomorrow so that I don't miss a running day, even if I only do 3 miles.

I wish my dad had been here to pick up Sergeant Rock comics and bring home McDonald's like back in the day, when I'd sit up in my twin bed watching fuzzy cartoons on a 10" black and white Sanyo tv...