DETROIT - On the desk are the usual tools - laptop, micro-cassette recorder, cell phone, notebook with terrible handwriting and a pen. Today there is a bonus: a vial of pills prescribed by a friendly suburban Detroit doctor who was willing to see me on short notice.
I hate being sick. Some women do and all guys do. Because I’m not good at being sick I try to avoid it. I can’t remember the last time I called in sick, not because I’m stoic but because I had evolved beyond illness.
At least, that’s what I thought. But the cold I caught after Carolina’s playoff victory against New York, which is more than what New York’s receivers caught that day, will not go away. And every day this week it has become worse.
So I went to the folks that serve as an intermediary between the media and Detroit, and they found me the doctor, and after doing interviews in Seattle’s hotel, I took a taxi to the doctor, whose office is near 8-mile.
He says I have bronchitis and maybe a virus. Bronchitis is an ailment that means you go through a lot of tissue and make obnoxious noises.
The doc gave me a shot and a prescription for a bottle of Codeine-laced cough syrup, which means I can’t take it until I finish working, and pills the size of little loaves of bread.
What am I going to do, call in sick up in Detroit? Our columnist went to the Super Bowl and all he brought back was germs.
Detroit is a blue-collar town, although for a blue-collar town it sure is full of theaters and art and fashion. And I’m a blue-collar guy. I mean, I drink my latte with skim milk - keep your fancy flavor shots - and I drink my chardonnay straight from the glass. And I work when I have bronchitis.
Have to go. There’s some cough syrup calling my name.