Tonight, a really good friend of mine, a guy I have known since my college days, confessed to me that he was a father. Now this guy is a veritable goofball, a man who’s concocted corny humor with me that only we can understand, a good man who married a good woman, a guy that I still give a lot of hell to (and vice versa), the unlikeliest father this side of the Mississippi. But when I heard the news, I felt a real sense of excitement. My face flushed. I wanted to dance a fucking jig. And in fact I did right there in the coffeehouse. It was almost as if I had become an unexpected uncle. When he called his wife, I insisted upon congratulating the heck out of her. Of course, I knew this was a plot to get more visits. A shameless attention ploy. Heaven knows I’ll be visiting the two of them just to see how cute the kid is. Plus, I have this terrible habit of teaching kids to stick their tongues out at an early age. (So far, I’ve taught four or so babies to do this.) My own small way of imparting anti-establishment impulses.

I guess what makes this news so joyful is that this good friend of mine was the first major friend to become a father. Sure, I’ve had acquaintances who’ve had kids. And when the kid’s dragged out, I’m there trying to pull a Mr. Bojangles, playing peek-a-boo and giving the baby all forms of attention. On several MUNI rides, I’ve managed to calm screaming kids down simply by cooing to them, making funny noises, pulling some half-assed Keaton or Three Stooges routine, getting their attention by acting like a nincompoop. It all fascinates the blustery baby to no end and often gets the kid laughing (and, more importantly, not crying). (To this very day, babies stare at me at adjacent restaurant tables, in parks, in strollers. They are endlessly curious. I seem to be this baby magnet. Several random mothers have suggested that I’d make a great father, which seems about as unlikely an idea as the Democrats controlling both houses in Congress. But knock on fucking wood.)

But the thing that makes the news so grand is that I know my friend’s going to kick ass as a dad.

I used to dread the prospect of growing older, back when I was stupid enough to believe that one’s age actually mattered. But now I’m finding that I love it. It’s fascinating to grow older with friends. Sure, we watch helplessly when they make foolish decisions. We try to offer them clues. But when something great like a kid or a marriage or a grand personal achievement happens, when you see the pools of joy filling their faces, it’s just one of those things that makes life so damned wonderful. Because with the joy comes change. And all the things you have in common take on new meaning. Because you realize in their decisions that there’s a little part of you changing in the same way.

Not only has Maud mistaken me for a Faulkner expert in her dream world, but she also turned me into a schizophrenic blogger. There are many things I could say here. But I’ll just register my complete astonishment that I beat many superior bloggers to the punch. However, I do want to assure anyone who dreams about me that (1) I’m honored to be part of your dramatis personae and (2) feel free to cast me as anything. I do heroes, heavies, and character work, and I don’t mind working for scale. Particularly if you’re a devious person.

What most people often overlook about hospitals are its staff members: fit, extremely attractive, sometimes even genuinely sympathetic. Certainly the job demands require that one remain in shape. There’s hustling, medical babble, gurneys rolled in and out of bright flourescent hallways. Sometimes you’re attended to. Sometimes you’re forgotten. Often there are apologies. And there are the surprise interventions, such as my accidental interruption of a “conference meeting” with a “Heya” and repeated coughs. “Ssssshhhh!” said this assistant, who seemed to be unaware that I was planning on identifying pulmonary portions of pain and then instructed me to sit down and not to disturb anybody. Fortunately, I had a book.

There are the nurses who call you “sweetie.” There are the aides who pretend they like your jokes. And there are those who genuinely need your subversive humor. Because there’s some guy screaming his head off, possibly close to death, in Room 9.

But the major constant is that everyone is fit, Baywatch fit. Pretty much every doctor I saw looked as if they were fashion show models on the weekend. You come in suffering and you know these folks are going to beat your ass at rugby or, because their leverage is substantial, even humiliate you at a ping-pong table.

It’s one of the stupid reasons I don’t go to hospitals unless I’m seriously ill. But then I also remember the neglect that killed Jim Henson and how I spent an hour crying in my room that terrible day.

The balance makes perfect sense. As a patient, dare to cough and you’re immediately given a mask that resembles a prop from the 1918 Boston influenza epidemic. Is the mask given there to prevent the spread of bacteria? Was the policy instilled at the behest of the boys on the legal team? No, and no. As the patient, it’s your duty to be as sick as possible. To maintain the dichotomy of infirm, convulsing souls and rugged, virile go-getters. You are there to be treated, possibly wheeled away for an extended stay, possibly cut open. And it’s all shameful. Because let’s face it: at this point, the patient’s so disappointed with not being at the top of his game that he doesn’t mind losing at rugby.

Why the sudden prolificity? Well, after about a week and a half of protracted coughing, of pains that left me awake at night, and often clutching my blanket, I figured that there was a slight possibility that I was unwell.

But when I learned of how incredibly sick I was, and the asceticism I’d have to practice to become superhuman again, I realized that I’d have to start this recuperation process with a longass entry.

“Bronchitis and pneumonia in early stages,” said the M.D. with a physique of a soap opera star.

“Do I get fries with that?”

“No.”

“Damn. Guess I won’t be trying to close in on that seven-minute mile tomorrow.”

The prescription was this: antibiotics, an inhaler, and lots of rest.

I was fleeced at the pharmacy. I thought the drugs would be the fun part. But when the bill, after my health care provider’s penurious co-pay, came to a sum I’d probably pay for a hearty handful of hardcovers or a midrange Hollywood Blvd. prostitute, I knew that this was serious business.

The rest would be the hardest part. Because it’s actually a codeword for “no thinking.” A problematic option. Because it also means no reading, no writing, no working. Just bed and really infantile movies going on in the background. My intellectual powers will, at best, be devoted towards finding the metaphors within the third season masterpiece “Spock’s Brain.”

But the vigilance committee inside me is prepared. They’re ready to bust shit up once the antibiotics are washed down with water.

What this means of course is two days of silence as my posse’s kicking microbe ass.

So I regret to inform folks that Radio City’s closed for repairs. But please visit the fine folks on the left, many of whom I have had sexual intercourse with.

Please also visit the fabulous Jessa Crispin. Despite my beef, I was not out to mow her down with a Tommy. It ain’t that Manichean, man.

For my enemies, please continue with the hate mail. Your crude fundamentalist theories and strange enmity greatly amuses me.

For my lovers, I will try to invent a few more sexual positions over the next couple of days. Including the one I told you about involving the cabbage, the plush toy and the wires. The flamenco lessons, however, will have to wait until I’m further recovered.

For those who could care less either way, give somebody a hug.

1. I had a terrifying dream in which I lost all of my teeth. It should be stated for the record that this was not a nightmare. Nightmares have the consolation of being terrifying in a way that allows one to distinguish between consciousness and unconsciousness. Dreams, by contrast, involve a consummate mindfuck. They masquerade under the illusion that all is well, when in fact they give credence to paranoia and anxiety. Case in point: In this dream, my mouth was a congealed morass of blood, and I was unable to consume anything other than Jamba Juice smoothies. Why my mind fixated on this franchise choice, I cannot say. I’ve deferred my smoothie needs to a not-bad independent Haight Street joint. It is also worth noting that, in the dream, no one around me commented upon my lack of teeth. And this perhaps terrified me the most. Because I had not realized up till now how important my teeth were. I awoke to find my teeth perfectly intact, though I wondered if this dream was an insinuation that I needed to visit a dentist. Women.com, apparently a media outlet of some note, reports that, “Dreams of losing teeth are often dreams of embarrassment or potentially embarrassing situations. The parallel waking experience could be summed up in the phrase ‘losing face’ publicly.” This means nothing to me. I am a man. When I think of a man losing his teeth, I remember Walter Brennan in Red River, who gambled away his teeth and thought that it was nothing more than a slightly embarrassing inconvenience. Ultimately, shame guided Brennan. And shame guided me within the dreamscape. But my anxieties may have had something to do with Point 2.

2. I submitted my application for Wrestling an Alligator to the Fringe Fest today. Alligators, of course, have teeth. I will know on February 11 whether or not my play gets in. The chances, as I understand, are quite random. I tried to come up with a better title, but for whatever reason, Wrestling an Alligator took. I tested this title amongst peers. They seemed to like it.

3. At a restaurant, I ordered an alcoholic beverage known as “007.” The beverage was composed of Bacardi rum, orange juice and 7-Up. I hadn’t tried this concoction before. So I thought I’d give it a shot. It cost six bucks, and yet the drink didn’t include an umbrella. The waitress (or server, if you’re into that PC sort of thing) approached me and asked if “it was strong enough.” The drink, it should be noted, was served in a tall, thin glass, doomed to a predictably orange hue. I implored the waitress to inform me what an orange beverage, let alone an amalgam of orange juice and 7-Up, had to do with James Bond. I told her that Bond liked martinis “shaken not stirred” and that perhaps the 007 association might have been a misnomer. She told me she didn’t know. I asked for the manager, hoping for an explanation. The manager arrived, a short man with a receding hairline and a scowl. He informed me that I had no business asking such questions. I told the manager I wasn’t looking for any trouble, but that I was just curious. What was the 007 drink all about? It should also be noted that the drink had no effect upon me. The rum was diluted, the taste was muted. As a drink, I think we can all agree that it failed. So given the waitress’s query, it seemed to me that the drink was a dud. Really, I told the manager, I was disappointed by the exotic attempt. Why not something vaguely related to Ian Fleming’s creation? “Eat your Pad Thai and get out,” he said. “Is this really a way to draw repeat customers?” I asked. I ordered the drink, only because half the menu was devoted to beverages of this nature. “I don’t care,” he said. And I wondered if the chef had spit in my food. I ate the pad thai anyway, and it’s safe to say that I won’t be revisiting this particular establishment.

4. I met up with a friend and caught Nick Broomfield’s new documentary, Aileen: The Life and Death of a Serial Killer. I was considerably impressed. Broomfield offered his standard Robin Leach approach, with a few good gags and his usual slow but sharp everyday observations. But this seemed to me the most revealing film of his ouevre. On one hand, he was willing to dwell on Aileen Wuornos in unapologetic closeup, deferring the scathing power of this film to the serial killer whose intentions were not entirely clear. But he was willing to reveal his hypocrisy. For all of his criticisms of capital punishment and the media coverage, this was a man who misled Wuornos, by proclaiming that he wasn’t taping her conversations when he really was, an attempt to confess that she had committed her murders in self-defense. And yet I could somehow get behind Broomfield and despise Jeb Bush and his wholly unqualified psychiatric tests. The film functioned almost as a response to Capturing the Friedmans, and I was captivated. Friend wasn’t as crazy about the film as I was, but this somehow touched a nerve with me. Are documentaries now about revealing process? If so, how long will this trend last?

5. I sent too many emails today. For those who received them, I apologize. I wanted to atone for last week’s abandonment. The emails ranged from pithy observations to throwaway responses. But all were fun to write. Which begs the question of whether email, as a format, is something that encourages both the best and the worst out of us.