Write what you know, write what you know. I know that the Born Ruffians and their fans don't need to hear that I haven't been out of my bed in almost three days, trying to fight off some blasted illness that blindsided me, when they expect to be reading an essay about the majesty of this Canadian band that would have been a delight to go trick or treating with last week. Right now, I can barely take this typewriter to the end of the line for the ding without getting struck by an overwhelming wave of nausea. It's Election Day and here's hoping that when I try to rally the troops to get out and vote that the line is tame and I don't upchuck all over the touchscreen.
It could happen. These cold shivers are unbearable and not eating for a few days cannot be good. So, I'm in horrific shape and in a few minutes, this sluggish body is going back to bed. Here's what I hope happens: There is a song in this Born Ruffians session - actually two - where a theme crosses the threshold and could be utilized in my recovery. This trio seems to be exasperated with people who can't get their shit together. One of those people could be me right now, whiney and sad. Luke Lalonde sings, "Get your act together, please," to a hypnotic dancing bear beat. What would be great is if those words teamed up with my orange juice and Tylenol fever reducer to stamp out this agony. Born Ruffians, fix me.
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