In a couple days, a close college comrade has to take himself to the hospital. I know the experience well, since, as I consistently remind us on this here bloggle, I'm hobbled.
Back in school, he spent a stint in the Harvard hospital; I'd go round after class and sit with him and tell him the ins-and-outs of my and our closest friends' days.
I'd tell him what we'd all talked about during our campouts in the dining hall; I'd give him my thoughts on friends' romantic lives; I'd tell him what time I got up, my first internal musings of the morning. I have an amazing talent of being able to talk about nothing, for hours.
Because he was so lethargic, he had no choice but to lay there and let me ramble. It's always been a running joke between us that I manage to turn all our conversations back to myself (I call it "relating"!), so I took advantage of the fact he couldn't complain, or make mean jokes at my expense. Though that was years ago, he reminds me of that week when I could blabber with impunity, often.
This time around, I fear he's going to have more of his wits about him, so I may not be able to talk his ear off. As I was thinking of my upcoming week of hospital-food lunches, I thought of one of my favorite hospital-related characters.
It's the evil Nurse Ratched from "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest." Mama Grice gets compared to her when she complains about her job.
Jokes aside, I hope Friend's nurse is nicer than Ms. Ratched; otherwise, I may go Jack-Nicholson on her, as seen in this scene ... and we all know that didn't end well for him. Sometimes, I'd like a lobotomy, though.
And since I'm complaining as usual about the hobbling, I'd been looking for a reason to post the end scene of "The Usual Suspects." So, why not now?!
I often imagine myself as Verbal Kent in the end of TUS, as we're watching his feet, and suddenly he starts walking right while we're being explained his ruse. For a look into what my mind imagines may some day happen to me, start at 02:17.