Imagethief's feeble and poorly filtered mind is easily preyed upon by media hypesters. That's why I have been obsessed with bird flu, recently, as the volume of coverage in the major media has risen to near-hysterical proportions. A media aphorism suggests one should almost never worry about what is in the news. It's what's not in the news that you should be concerned with.

Unfortunately, like most human beings, my mind is not wired that way. That's why, after a near six-month winding up by media-stoked visions of a global, apocalyptic plague, I have been reduced to a constant state of gibbering, deranged terror. I am incapable of walking past a Kentucky Fried Chicken outlet. I get chills when I see a JEEP Eagle. While in Singapore, I've been running around the lawn of my in-laws' apartment building with a broom, shooing away the mynah birds while cackling, "Begone you murdering bastards!" Fortunately, since I am from San Francisco, no one thinks this behavior is particularly weird.

Facing the prospect of a long and potentially mortal Beijing winter, I have been doing everything possible to stack the medical deck in my favor. I am not a fan of the medical facilities in Beijing, which tend to be either uncomfortably local or uncomfortably expensive. So, while I was in Singapore, I thought I might avail myself of the excellent local medical facilities, where, the availability of English-speaking staff at a moderate price is a big plus.

Among the services that I availed myself of were a fully health screening that involved a blood draw and the home collection of various excreta (use your imagination), five vaccinations and a fertility examination. This was the most concentrated set of medical services that I've had since a nasty cancer scare a few years ago, which fortunately turned up nothing more sinister than a mild blood-sugar problem solved by the shedding of some excess poundage.

The vaccinations included a tetanus booster (nine years since the last one), typhoid (also expired), pneumococcus (normally just for old people, but not a bad idea in potentially pandemic-flu-ridden winter Beijing), meningococcus (they ran out in Beijing during a recent outbreak, the nurse said, but perhaps it was just a good upsell), and the bread-and-butter 2005/2006 common-or-garden flu shot (so you'll know to panic when flu symptoms set in because it will actually be bird flu).

The shots themselves were near painless thanks, I presume, to the fine Becton Dickinson "Precision Glide" needles (disclosure: not a client). Nevertheless, I'd have to say that the sensation of the needles sinking into my shoulder muscles didn't evoke gliding, so much as stabbing. I guess "Precision Stab" wouldn't have gone down well with the marketing department. Or it's reserved for cardiac needles. I suppose I should be thankful for the fine gauge of the needles. The day before, a former Singapore Army medic had explained to me how he used to use eighteen-gauge needles to administer fluids to people who were bleeding severely. Having seen an eighteen-gauge needle in the pharmacy, I can tell you that it would be not unlike having a sharpened, stainless steel Dixie Straw rammed into your veins.

That evening a creeping soreness settled into both shoulders. By the following morning I was mildly feverish and my shoulders were on fire as my overtaxed immune system struggled to come up with the goods for all these new pathogens. My right shoulder, in particular, ceased to function as the entire middle deltoid became tender to the touch, and little inflamed lines of sensitivity radiated out in all directions. I had terrible visions of flesh eating bacteria and wondered if I could learn to live happily with just a left arm. The worst thing was that for two days I couldn't sleep on my right side. This was a bear, because although I have manly, robust and well-immunized shoulders, I have the sinuses of a giraffe with hay fever. I often switch sides during the night to breathe clearly. So my experiment in improved health began with two miserable, feverish, sleepless nights. I might as well have got the flu.

But the weirdest part of the week's medical adventures came when we went to the fertility clinic. My wife and I are attempting to get pregnant. Or, rather, she is attempting to get pregnant and I am doing my best to facilitate this. After nearly a year of no results, we decided that, as one of our medical errands, it might be good to get a quick fertility examination. You probably don't need to guess too hard what that entailed for me.

In my entire medical history, there have been two cases when I have been attended to by hot looking medical professionals (dental assistants don't count), and both of them were at bad times. One was the gorgeous medical student who did my hernia repair a few years ago. "Hi," she said. "I'm Natalie and I'm going to be doing your hernia today. We'll begin by shaving your pubic hair..." I really didn't need any anesthetic after that because I was numb from embarrassment. The nurse at the fertility clinic was similarly poorly placed. It's not that I reject the idea of a pretty nurse, or that I --a happily married man with my wife sitting in the waiting room-- was going to hit on her. It's simply male pride. There is no way on earth to be suave as the nurse hands you the specimen jar, directs you to the bathroom and asks, sweetly, "Do you need some magazines?" I declined the magazines because I just couldn't keep my composure while this pretty, dimpled, exotic looking girl handed me a big pile of "Jizz Monthly" or whatever. (The fertility clinic may be the only place in Singapore where you can legally get your hands on smut.) All things considered I'd have been happier with some battleaxe. It would have a been somehow more gratifying to be able to perform on demand for such a person. "Hah! Gimme that jar, face ache. I don't need your stinking magazines!"

But the most difficult thing about the entire process was the basic mechanics. I rapidly realized that trying to get Little Imagethief and a small plastic flask lined up in a spill proof arrangement conducive to successful completion of, um, "the process" was far more difficult than I had imagined. I would hardly describe the result as comfortable or arousing by any standard definition of those words. Catheterization would have been a better bet. Frankly, it's a good thing that no magazines were involved because that would have required one more hand than was available for this exercise.

By the way, in case you are wondering, the fertility examination was before the vaccinations. Otherwise there is a very good chance that would have simply come out of the private room with an empty flask and a throbbing shoulder and said, "I'll come back tomorrow. Please don't tell the doctor about this."