Big Mike: My Foulweather Friend In The Sky

I confess I became, at certain junctures during this so-far six-day ordeal, a believer.

You read right. If you happened to catch my last post, you know that I’ve been laid low by illness. At first I thought it was merely the worst head cold in the history of the known universe but based on careful study of further symptoms, I’ve concluded it is the flu. I won’t go into detail about my symptoms because, well, two or three of you may be so turned off you’ll quit reading. A loss of two or three readers could be catastrophic to this communications colossus.

Yuck.

I’ll say this: Yesterday, my scalp hurt. True. At about three in the afternoon I heaved my self out of my recliner, waded through the surrounding piles of wadded up Kleenex and went into to bathroom to take stock of myself. I gazed in the mirror and saw a stooped-over, grizzly, miserable old bastard. Then, running my palm over my shiny dome, it felt as though my hair follicles were as achy as my joints, muscles and other icky parts of my body. “God,” I moaned, “Am I sick.”

Did you catch that certain three-letter word? God. Yup. I’ve used that word some 23,000 times since this ordeal began last Thursday. You’ve heard the old saw, There are no atheists in foxholes.

Well, in the virus-laden foxhole known as Chez Big Mike, there hasn’t been an atheist (or, more accurately, a non-theist) to be found.

Big Daddy.

Things got so bad that I went a full 36 hours without eating. Me. Not eating. Sorta reminds me of the old Lenny Bruce bit about how he couldn’t stop himself from hitting on chicks no matter how inappropriate the circumstances. He could have had his foot cut off in an accident and he’d still ask the nurse in the ambulance what she’s doing after work. The nurse’d say, Whaddya nuts, your foot is cut off, meshuggah, and you’re still looking for action? And he’d say, I know, I can’t help myself. I’m that way with grub.

Anyway, god. I made more promises to god since Thursday than I’ve made to creditors in the last 25 years. They’ll probably be worth as much, too.

Under normal circumstances, I have nothing to do with god. I’m not going to argue the reasons why here. People have been tussling over the existence of some powerful big daddy in the sky since the dawn of civilization. If that’s what gets you through this crazy, mixed up world, I salute you. I prefer other diversions and peccadillos. Yet, when it seemed as though a watermelon were growing inside my head and the mere suggestion by The Loved One that I should try a little cottage cheese made me dash to embrace the porcelain princess, good old big daddy was my best pal.

“Please, god, make this headache go away.”

“Please, god, let me sleep for more than fifteen minutes.”

“Please, god, let me have just one little open nostril.”

Every time I uttered these appeals, I felt like a weakling. Come on, I’d chide myself, why would some omnipotent being pay attention to my misery when there are Haiti and the Holocaust, et cetera.

Still, I pleaded.

I feel a lot better today. Had some toast and a banana this morning. My stomach still feels as though firecrackers are exploding in it but at least the toast and the banana are moving in the right direction. True believers might say, See, your pleas were answered.

I had one last communique to send to the big daddy: What the hell took you so long, meshuggah?

Almost There!

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