ah, the MLA

My report on the MLA will be different than many but not most others, since whatever East Coast flu I picked up seems to be well and miserably shared. I left the hotel room for nothing other than the panel I chaired and the one on which I ramblingly presented a nineteenth-centuried defense of blogging. (I should not be allowed to partake in Q&A when I am sick; the switch to my brain-mouth connection was malfunctioning because of the fever.)

I ate oatmeal with Halls Mentholyptus crumbled on top. I drank tea. I listened to the hourly switch of interviewees in the room across the hall. I came in and out of consciousness throughout a movie about giant spiders menacing David Arquette. I watched the pumpkin battle on Iron Chef. I left big tips for the people who graciously gave us new sheets and towels every day and who brought the oatmeal and clucked gently over my red nose. I fantasized about the interviews across the hallway, imagining the perfect and the horriblest possible events (which eventually involved David Arquette). And when I did have to go out I tried not to shake hands with all the other people dressed in black but if someone insisted I sneezed on their shoulders.

I am become water. Dennis keeps me supplied in Puffs Plus and the memory (and promise) of healthy summers at the lake.