On Sunday, I felt lousy with what I thought was a cold. So Monday I slept. And slept! And slept! Slowly it began to dawn on me that maybe there was something else at work here. This morning, I forced myself to go to the doctor: my third trip in two weeks.

Once I reached the clinic, the first thing I noticed was that almost every seat was taken, a sure sign that germs are ravishing the community. I could hear sneezes, coughs and sniffles to the left and right. The door would open and someone would be called back, then another, etc. So within less than an hour, it was my turn. I mentioned that I thought I might have the flu, and the doc ordered a blood sample. And the analysis showed an elevated white blood cell count which confirmed my suspicion. He gave me the new flu medicine and an antibiotic. From what I know, for the flu medicine to be effective, you have to start taking it within a day or so of having been exposed. At this point, I'm not sure how helpful it will prove.

In this case, I learned all kinds of things about the woman's daughter who was stealing from her to buy liquor. And how two years ago, Irene had had a job in the only "white" bar in Canton. The woman knew that if Irene would accept the power of Jesus, she would be cured of her sinful ways. (To catch the proper pronunciation of the word "Jesus" as used in the discussion, be sure to use six or seven syllables: "J eee eee sss uuu sss" is fairly close.)

This was followed by a lengthy contest concerning dead relatives. The companion's daughter was killed in a plane crash in Warsaw in 1980. (Oddly enough, I'd read of that crash. A place carrying American medical personnel to the 1980 Olympics, skidded and crashed on landing.) The companion also lost someone at sea in 1952, "...and they never did find his body." To my thinking the companion was the clear winner in this exchange.

Today, one of the baggers became fascinated by a picture of Elvis on the copy of "TV Guide" I was buying. Then he asked me if it was true that Elvis had been born here. I told him he had. Then he said he had heard that Elvis had died of a drug problem. And I tried to explain as judiciously as possible that he had. I'd noticed the bagger before, and in a way found him physically interesting. But at the same time, I "knew" something was a little off.

Something I always try to keep in mind is that sentient beings process information and stimuli in different ways. Not that one is necessarily better than another, just different. And it may be my own stupidity that prevents me from understanding the differences.