There's an update at The BC Barbershop.

And it's a big one. Enjoy it.

So I finished that poem I mentioned in the last blog entry. The next Oneonta Poetry Slam (Dec. 7) will mark the performance debut of Media Filtration, which you'll be able to preview here at the BC Barbershop after I finish updating the site. Yes, you read that correctly. I've actually made progress that will result in publication. Should be later today. Couple poetry joints, updated DVR schedule, new band or two, updated regulars (wait, what?), maybe some revamped music suggestions and as many DVDs as I can remember purchasing since the last time I made current that absolutely ridiculous connecting list.

Hope everything's going well for the rest of you on this post-Turkey Day afternoon (evening for the East Coast kids). Be easy.

I came in third at November's Oneonta Poetry Slam. It was annoying on one level, but good on another -- the quality was so high I couldn't front on the winners, although I still wish I had won. Props to Jimmy the Loch and Sierra for topping my low-nine average. I'ma bring it next month. The idea for the poem is there, I just haven't executed it yet; I'm about two verses shy. The revolution is coming ... and on the internet. Word.

In case you haven't noticed, I flipped the color scheme for the site. It's a lot cleaner, I think, and the first step in a catch-the-hell-update.

Also, there are big plans in the works (as always, but this time collaboratively). I may contact some of you. Be prepared like Simba.

Ah, the wonders of autobills and Domain Name Registration. I realized late last night the site was down, but called the wonderful folks at HostGator, and everything's kosher now. The whole correction took five minutes from the time I dialed. Good guys, those.

Sorry for the mixup, and feel free to check for the full DC post at Barbershop Backtalk.

In what's sure to become the biggest debate to rise out of Cooperstown since Buck O'Neil was passed over by the Baseball Hall of Fame, I, Benjamin John Couch of Brooklyn, N.Y., might have been sick for the last few days.

Yeah, you read that correctly.

The man who has scoffed in the face of all disease for nearly eight years might have been "under the weather." Check the facts and decide for yourself:

The Setup
So I take a four-day trip to Washington, D.C. this past weekend (Oct. 26-29), ostensibly to see many a Tar Heel living in the area, and go to a massive party another friend organized. I spend the next three days either on the Metro, eating, drinking or sleeping and occasionally in costume. (Usually in that order, but no guarantees. Blurry is where it starts.)

With the big Halloween festivities set for Saturday (The Nightmare on "M" Street Bar Crawl -- and NOT Sabrina's party, as I found out earlier that day when she was disappointed at my no-show the night before. My bad, ha.) we costumed up and set out and about on a fairly chilly night. After a bit of wandering around outside (an hour? two?) we finally camped out and turned the bar crawl to a sit-in. Many hours and rounds later, we returned to Stevie's pad to crash, eight people deep. I definitely stepped on people when I woke up and really, really had to pee in the middle of the night.

The First Symptom
I woke up and began gathering my belongings (a/k/a clothes), realizing I had to return to Rachel R.'s place to pick up my luggage in order to travel back to the CLR. I turned to Phill (whose stuff was also at Rachel's) to ask him when he wanted to head over.

Except nothing came out.

My voice was gone like Bassy's chain. As I began to wake up, it started going in and out, but being that it's pretty impossible to communicate through every fourth syllable of the words you're intending to speak, this didn't help much either.

A Hershey's Milkshake (I just wanted a Strawberry NesQuik. I'm revoking D.C.'s "city" status until I successfully make that purchase.) soothed the throat enough that I could maintain a horse-ass conversation with Whitney at brunch. (NOTE, for anyone who eats at Union Station's America DC restaurant: They make up the towns of origin for all the dishes. PB&J did NOT originate in the podunk Georgia town they claimed. My very friendly waiter informed me as such.

I was highly disappointed.)

I did manage to leave an inaudible message to my mother upon arriving in Albany. (Yes, that's the closest effing airport.)

The Day After
So I wake up on Monday with enough of a voice to talk, but sound like an 80-year-old emphezema patient with a three-pack-a-day habit. Someone referred to this as my "sexy voice," and I mulled whether pulling in chainsmoking senior nan would be worth it.

This line of thought directly led to me adding a pack of Halls Honey Lemon Cough Drops to my purchase at Hannaford that evening.

The Secondary Symptoms
Tuesday, I wake up feeling a bit of tightness in the chest and the throat could be interpreted as sore. I start downing the Halls like House with a leg cramp, and somehow, the cough has worsened. I nearly choke to death on a cough drop during a department meeting, and try to explain the physical mechanics, saying something along the lines of, "The drop slid down my throat, and in my body trying to expel it, the drop went further down."

That will make a million times more sense if it ever happens to you.

I go to the gym, change up and promptly set a new personal pace record on the Precor EFX Elliptical Cross Trainer (min. 180 strides per minute for 25 minutes, high of 210; 3 min. forward, then 2 backward, repeating.) I run through my normal workout, only failing to set new maxes on a few because I added an exercise (lateral raise) and did one out of order (lat pulldown before low row).

Returning home, I'm starting to feel congested in the sinuses. Not in an "I-feel-run-down-way" just like there's a whole bunch of crap that's not supposed to be there behind my eyes and nose. Also, the slight tightness in the chest remains, and I still sound like I'm talking out of a hole in my neck. However, while checking myself out in the mirror (I'm not going to the gym for any other reason than to do this and be like, "Yup. I look good naked." Because it's been established that I look good with clothes on. It's like the Final Frontier.) I notice there's a phoenix-shaped red splotch across my upper chest and neck, extending shoulder-to-shoulder, from Adam's apple to breast bone.

Unfortunately, no super powers appeared with it.

I finally pass out at 12:30 a.m. reading Paul Auster's Moon Palace. I decide choosing to read his cannon was a good decision, even if there are many a recurring theme in his books (single, older guy who's gone through a bad divorce and has estranged kids, a few sex scenes "essential" to the plot and New York/Brooklyn connections for three. Word to Diane.) However, I wake up at 4:30 a.m. because I am unable to breath due to nasal blockage. I run through an inordinate amount of tissues and several Halls to seemingly no avail. However, I realize if I lie on my left side, the sinus crap leaks down, but on the right, it remains in place. I quickly plug a tissue into the right nostril, lie on the right side and am out cold in five minutes.

Day Four
I wake up this morning feeling, well, great. Voice could use a lil sanding to be considered "smooth," but I'm feeling free and clear in the sinuses. And then once Adam gets to work, I promptly go on another 12-minute phlegmatic coughing jag that is directly Halls related. He refuses to believe I'm healthy. I resolve to position future cough drops further forward on my tongue. In order to alleviate the coughing, I swallow at least a half-liter of water. This, coupled with my normal H20 consumption rate causes a raging desire to relieve myself. Iwill do so, leaving you to decide the Couch Cold Conundrum.

(If I could easily construct a poll in the next 30 seconds, it would be here. But my bladder is not going to let said poll exist. Later, kids.)