On my way to the club. That’s a big deal because it means I’m no longer dying.

The flu beat my black ass up somethin vicious, but I’m just about back. It took a good hour in the sauna at Bally’s yesterday to make the sinus pressure go away, but now I can sit up straight without being on the verge of tears. That’s a victory whose magnitude I’m unqualified to verbalize.
But in my newfound state of lucidity, I went to Borders and checked out this month’s Essence. Should you do the same, be sure to go to page 100. Once there, you’ll find a profile of my sister, Tayari Jones, and a sneak peek of her new novel, The Untelling. Check it in Essence, then pick it up from your local retailer when it drops in April. I saw her do a reading at a school in Raleigh a couple of weeks ago, and it looks like a reader (and no, that’s not familial bias talking).
And now, to the club I go. Here’s hoping there’s a patdown at the door. And if there’s not, here’s hoping those Kevlar vitamins I’ve been taking work.
Column this week’s on Michael Jackson, so be on the lookout for a post on Friday. I’ll be flying that day, so I’m not sure when it’ll go up. If I can’t update it myself, I’ll have Luther or someone else put it up into cyberspace.
Tomorrow will be spent doing what every American should be doing tomorrow–watching the Tournament. I did my bracket yesterday, and I actually have Carolina going all the way. Don’t blow it, Roy.
Should i worry about the steroid hearing? My general assumption is that Congress is bullshittin, so I don’t need explicit proof of that implicit reality to pique my interest. Instead of worrying about kids juicing, I spend time worrying about kids that can’t afford juice. And by juice, I mean the fluid that comes from fruit. You know, the nutritious kind.
Per usual, thanks for reading. Back atcha with the real stuff ASAP.