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This website contains the entire novel—linked and illustrated—along with information on influenza and bird flu, an art gallery & opportunities to buy personal protection gear and cultural merchandise (including books, movies, and music cited by American Fever's blogger).
 

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Thursday
Aug272009

Day 63-4: Gratitude

Finishing Crusoe made me feel clear, at peace. Thanks, generous one. A heck of a read! Feel free to quote me.

Then I emailed Nina to tell her I understand why she was so upset. I appreciate that she tried to spare me her fanciful virus. She meant well.

WE'LL MEET AGAIN, SENORITA NINOTCHKA

Because of her work and my pandemic, we never got to travel—something we felt could sustain our romance. When this is over, I hope we bump into one another at that café we both like in Madrid. She can make a fool of me on the dance floor, as we always expected would happen there.

I don’t want anything from Nina, but I respect our months together. Enough readers have written in about their own personal problems to give me a better sense of how people who are cooped up together can substitute fear and mistrust for their better feelings.

At least we’ve each survived bird flu, so far.

Thursday
Aug272009

Day 65-8: RADD—a Pre-Existing Pandemic Disease 

Sorry about my little hiatus. Friends lured me upstate for my first escape since February. I underwent digital purification by keeping off the Web. (Fitch took care of orders and shipping.) It was hard at first, but I rekindled friendships among great conversation, lively dogs, brilliant cook fests, and challenging music-making. (I’m a force in percussion.) I got soaked during a long hard rain in the woods. I began to forget what words look like.

HOW MANY PINS CAN FIT IN A SINGLE FLU BLOGGER?

I returned to some jarring ones. Mystery Mailer wrote to inform me that she is not a medical student and that the latter is engaged to a doctor. The plot thins. I hope he’s not one of my readers.

Who sent that book? How does she know my name and address? I hope she explains herself soon. Shall I dub her The Stalker? She’s been too nice for that, so far.

Meanwhile, Nina emails that her bank tested everyone and found H5N1 antibodies in her blood, so she did have bird flu. Not certain I believe her.

She adds that her work is going very well and that she’s seeing someone who is less tense and more fun. I presume she means to say than I am. (I hope she means than she is.) I do hope it’s not the suit with more ego than hair.

Nina thinks she’s a forbearing soul. Hers is the kind of patience that lets her stick a knife in, then let it rest. Now and then she adds a new blade. Eventually you’re a voodoo doll with a weighty assortment of hardware. Mere pins would be a blessing.

Perhaps she suffers from Romantic Attention Deficit Disorder. I miss Ganesh.

Friday
Aug282009

Day 69: Gene Clark Channels My Confusion

I’ve gone whole hog on Gene Clark (best anthology: American Dreamer), rotating through the stages of romantic withdrawal with my ears in his hands. Clark’s voice is plaintive but never lacks dignity.

First there was Set You Free This Time. Well, not quite, but it felt good to think that’s what had happened. (Watch an old TV video of this masterpiece)

CLARK: TROUBADOUR OF PAIN & LONGING

Quickly followed by Ill [probably] Feel A Whole Lot Better. I (sort of) did. (See the Byrds play it wholly live on Shindig, a ‘60s TV show.)

Then came some inevitable self-pity: The World Turns All Around Her and Because Of You.

Finally, my dimwitted attempt at amiable contact: Tried So Hard. Swell, now I know … something.

Harold Eugene Clark was a far more miserable bugger than me, as you’ll find in that excellent website. He was a real Missourian—a hard-luck player who never bellyached, even when a trench ulcer was pitting his stomach.

Watch him struggle in this late-career performance of Tried So Hard. Somehow he manages to come through. An inspiration to all damaged Americans who try hard.

Friday
Aug282009

Day 70: Fashion & Litigation Follow the Flu

Proof that society has recovered from bird flu: Ambulance-chasing lawyers are already campaigning to squeeze the survivors! On the subway today (yeah, I still wear my mask underground and in dense crowds) I saw a sick poster. No, it wasn’t my reflection.

NYC'S COMMERCIAL SUBWAY ART: DOWN & DIRTY

The placard screeched: Did you catch bird flu at work? The graphic showed workers huddled like galley slaves under a sneezing overseer. What if you instead caught it from a cute contractor you weren’t supposed to be hitting on?

As if anyone knows how or where they caught H5N1. But employers have money, so why not trade your job insecurity for some tacky litigation? Maybe they can’t fire you till your suit is concluded. Call it The Banality Of Survival.

The ones destined to clean up in court are those who can make a reasonable case that they were sickened by a flu vaccination their employer mandated. Forcing people to get shots rubs me the wrong way.

I was more inspired by the Los Angeles Times fashion article someone kindly emailed me about Q Zone Style, with tips on how to turn protective gear into nightlife accessories now that the pandemic is “over.”

Watch for my website overhaul! I’ll be selling Mystery Mouth, Digital Vigilance, and Epi-EyeShades. For a nifty markup, of course. That stuff you bought from me is gonna redefine coolness.

I came home to find Sneeky rollicking in a sunbeam, his eyes alight with Vitamin D and feline fervor. As if nothing had changed in six months. I’m free to sing bits of hearty doggerel to my cat without minding that I look like a schmuck to someone who finds it hopelessly endearing only 28.2% of the time.

Saturday
Aug292009

Day 71-2: Fast Times & Flu Talk With Wise Guys High

At last, some fun. My old friend Mark is in much better spirits (evidently not that kind). He invited me to a hot nightspot on condition I not wear a mask or any other “embarrassing” gear. (He must have missed that fashion piece I blogged about.) I consented because I’m bored now that life approximates ‘normalcy.’

That would be a state of anxious boredom. Some dare call it depression.

KURT COBAIN CAN STILL MAKE PEOPLE MIND THE MUSIC (Frank Zirbel)

Mark readily hops social groupings in the best of times, so the guys he was with were new to me. I tend not to have much in common with his friends.

The use of one of their names enabled us to sweep through a mob of elegant people to enter the place. We were shown to a big, central table where about a dozen men and women sat, drinking champagne and vodka.

The guys were twentysomethings of undefined substance. I assumed they had real estate interests. Most of them wore dark office clothes under neat hairstyles, no face fur. They could have been seminary students on a quiet bender, somber about everything they did. Even when they humped women while dancing, they looked distracted.

I was shocked to discover they were into bird flu. They knew about the masks I sell, wore them during Round One. (Was that where my emergency gift delivery went?) I didn’t ask, but they took care of me as if I’d gone to Brooklyn just for them. They bought me good beer all night. (I didn’t want the multicolored vodka things they were mixing.)

The alpha male was of medium height, black brushed-back hair, and intense brown eyes. When he spoke, the others shut up. When he left, I was surprised to see another guy pay for everything.

The young boss knew about pandemic waves, wanted to hear my view of what will make H5N1 come back. I explained this flu’s lethal ferocity, the variety of animals that catch it, the different ways it destroys them—all factors that distinguish this pandemic from say, the one that laid an egg in 1968, or swine flu.

He wanted to know what I thought of news reports heralding a vaccine. I explained that each claim of progress contradicts the others (an epochal discovery every week!) and that there’s no way to produce enough vaccine quickly to stop the disease.

Every “breakthrough” comes with caveats no one wants to consider. Fine print makes terrible sound bites. Will candidate vaccines be carefully tested to see if they’re safe? A public desperate to regain complacency doesn’t wish to hear that today’s rumored miracle never underwent proper trials; they’ll scream for quick approval and sue everyone in sight if it turns out to be toxic.

Quack Alert: Don’t Inject Peroxide

In 1918 people claimed typhoid vaccine worked against influenza. Others said mega-doses of aspirin did the trick. Or quinine. Citing statistics they gathered from their own caseloads, American doctors gave patients heroin, atropine, oxygen, strychnine, epinephrine.

Europeans indulged in vivid concoctions, too. In The Great Influenza, Barry tells of an Italian doctor who claimed success after injecting people with mercuric chloride. Some French physicians rhapsodized about arsenic. A Greek who injected patients with a blend of morphine, strychnine, caffeine, and their own fluids boasted that his subjects improved rapidly and that only 6% of them died.

I came close to clearing the table with that tirade. I captivated them anew by predicting that tens of millions of Americans will refuse to be vaccinated and will want other ways to fight flu.

It wasn’t long before we were discussing a big protective equipment sale that wouldn’t involve shipping. No commitment, but I may have sold more gear in four hours than I did in the whole first round. I’ll do my instant best to replace them.

By the time I noticed a little vial making the rounds, we were discussing Relenza and how much of it must have been wasted by now. (Nina’s dementia proved illustrative.) They wanted to buy Relenza, too, but I couldn’t help them.

Dancing on the Edge—of What?

Gradually I realized these guys were operators, black market types, scammers. Mark must savor exposing me to them. He has always hitchhiked on dark roads and would be a master criminal if he weren’t so lazy. He’s one of those tall, good-looking guys who seem shifty and proud of it. Some people extract charm from corruption.

By then I was watching the gang socialize. At least 50 girls must have dropped by. Most took at least one drink.

A pair of women marched up wordlessly to partake of champagne. They poured and poured into their cups, pausing to let the bubbles subside before resuming. The cute one bore the harried look of a stray canine poaching on a bigger dog’s turf, while her less-gorgeous friend mooched with confidence. She was big-boned, big-eyed, and fearless.

While the men circled the prettier woman, the bold one struck up a conversation with me. She didn’t know or care who was hosting the table and she turned out to be a heck of a dancer. Unlike men who blandly stare into space as they dance ‘erotically,’ I enjoyed her pale eyes, full of light and wit.

The music was modern oldies mixed with synthetic hip hop and no one really cared about any of it until some immortal chords stuttered forth and froze everyone while they tried to figure out what had changed. It was Nirvana, Smells Like Teen Spirit, and it was vital and riveting and momentarily cleared the air of empty irony.

Mark wanted to split those women with me. In the past, I’ve always gone out after breaking up—taken stock of the world as a single man, brought home at least a headache.

Blame his smarmy attitude or the sappy dance music that followed Nirvana. I wound up feeling toxic, sad, as if something horrible were happening somewhere. I left that hearty babe free to find someone who’s all there. This blogger’s no fun.