I took the afternoon off from work today. Apparently, the vile illness that has recently infected the Wife has migrated to me.

In Memphis, they're calling it the millennium bug. Funny, huh? It's a collection of cold and flu symptoms that are not, technically, a cold or the flu. Everything from runny noses to fevers and puking. I've got the severe cold variant; Sonya had the one where you puke and feel achy. Supposedly, though, it only last four or five days, so I've already got the worst of it behind me.

I ran for the first time in months on Monday night; just a quick mile dash, but it felt good to be at it again. Then, while Sonya stayed home and watched Notting Hill ("I'm having a girl night," she explained) I went to the Flying Saucer to watch the last Monday Night Football game of the year and to have a few pints with Ward.

Looking back on that night, now, I remember that I was sniffling all evening long and had a sore throat. The beginnings of the dread disease! Ward and I had a good time; I was working on lots of dark, thick beers (for my sore throat, of course) and we were both greatly amused, both by the second-rate teams on TV (who actually played a decent game) and the horde of college kids that packed their way in to the place after Memphis beat Arkansas at the Pyramid. Ward and I gave up our table to some perky girls about eleven or so and left.

Now that I think about it, though, I thought I had a hangover Tuesday morning. It was just the beginning of this sickness.

And a headhunter called me yesterday. I'm entertaining the offer - if they can come through with some money I'll consider it.

Jami Gertz in Less Than Zero. Sexy, sexy.

How 'bout that. Ol' Mike Ditka (and nearly everyone else with an office at the Saints headquarters) is out of a job. I bet maybe - maybe - half the players will still be there on opening day next season. The bloodbath has only just begun.

And I feel like shit. I'm going to lay down.

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