Just call me...

...Croaky McCroakerson.
(my friend and colleague Joe suggested "Croakie Roberts...")

I have completely lost my voice. I can manage a squeak now and again, but I sound like a boy going through puberty. It's really frustrating for me, since I am quite the Chatty Cathy. I am a Gemini, after all. My mom used to tell me I had diarrhea of the mouth. I was always in trouble in school for talking in class. And when you work in the communications business, it's helpful to be able to, you know, communicate.

I think my colleagues are relieved, though, as they're getting a break from my usual sarcasm and snarky commentary.

The weird thing is that I still feel okay. I've had many, many bouts of strep and bronchitis over the years -- even pneumonia, once -- all of which knocked me on my ass. I don't feel like that at all right now. It's very odd.

This crud didn't stop me from seeing Billy Crystal's "700 Sundays," which has just opened in San Francisco. What a great show. It's an amazing piece of work, with Billy on stage for the better part of 2 1/2 hours. I laughed, I cried. Not a cliche, in this case.

Off to get some more tea...