Wednesday, September 28, 2005

"Lost" Theory

This is my hundreth post!

Ok, now that we're 2 episodes in to the new season of Lost, I thought I'd post my theory about where the show is going to go.

I posted this theory here on John Rogers's most excellent blog.

Some of my comments got picked up by these guys.

I was flattered.

So here it is for your thoughts and comments:

I think, ultimately, the show will hinge on Walt and Hurley.

I...believe that Hurley was the only one the island was trying to actively keep off the plane. That, somehow, he stands a good chance of foiling the island's "plans" through the aura of his collosally bad luck.

I also have a theory that somehow Walt, with his weird psychic powers, created this crisis with "The Others". Just one more test his dad needs to conquer to prove how much he loves him. I mean, if he can miracle a polar bear onto the island...?

So, I guess I figure that the theme for next season is "Fat Man and Little Boy".

*Walt theory expanded:

...Walt's always wanted the attention of a parent to himself. He didn't want to share mom with stepdad (stepdad thinks he's creepy). Mom dies. Stepdad gives him to Michael. He overhears Michael asking Walt's grandmother to take him. Plane goes down on island. Ok, we're stranded on the island - I'll make Dad jealous by hanging with Locke. Dad just gets pissy and controlling ("You can't see him"). Walt wants dad to prove his love: he miracles the crisis with the polar bear. Boat nears completion - getting off the island means possibly getting sent to grandma's; Walt burns the boat down. Michael is accidently poisoned by Sun; Walt realizes he needs to get Michael out on the ocean, away from the majority of other survivors - sure Dad didn't die, but why risk any more accidents? "We have to get off the island!" They launch the boat. Walt and Michael have a nice moment where Walt "learns to drive" and finds out that the rudder is the boat's tool that will get them to civilization. Suddenly, the rudder falls off. Sawyer (with the help of Michael and Jin) saves the rudder. That night, they encounter "The Others" - who wreck the boat, kidnap Walt, wound Sawyer and strand Michael (the x-factor here will be Jin): subtext - "Come save me Daddy. Prove your love. Don't leave me."


Monday, September 26, 2005

Germ Warfare

Susan?

Fail a test?  Looking for a surefire way to get your teacher to not correct your big essay in a timely fashion (you know -  the one you wrote stoned about the significance of the color red in The Scarlet Letter, in “IM speak”) because once you deliver home those 5 pages of “D” quality crapola to Mom, you can kiss your weekend at the mall good-bye?  

No, that one won’t go up on the fridge, now, will it?  

I have the answer to your problems.  

It is as simple as the common cold.

We are only 15 days into the school year and already I have watched as two of my kids and one of my co-workers have been laid low by the first cold of the season.  I am particularly prone to colds since I inherited the “weak sinus” gene from my father.  If you sneeze in my general direction, I will most likely get a sinus infection within 24 hours.  So, it was with no small amount of irritation (and, by today, outright anger) that I watched as, by last Friday, I’d developed a sort of post nasal annoyance.  Saturday, I had a painful ache in my throat (along with the continued post nasal drain fest) that I tried to pretend was due to some sort of airborne irritant, like pollen or nanobots.  Sunday, I’d medicated the sore throat down to a dull roar with a combination of Advil and Chardonnay (because alcohol is a disinfectant, right?).  This morning, I had a bit of a scratch in the back of the throat, and a bit of continued post nasal dribble, but I was ok.

Until about 3pm.

That was when my illness decided that it wanted “out”.  “Out” means that it wanted to flow out of my nose, the way God intended, and not stay closeted in my esophagus and windpipe.  I also was visited with that somewhat funky fog that settles on your brain that says “You’re sick.  Here, look at the world through mucus colored glasses.  Oh, and you won’t be needing your sense of smell or taste, right?”  So, I went home and slept until 7:30 pm.  I have a whole stack of things that I meant to correct this weekend sitting next to me and making me feel a bit guilty.  I don’t see myself getting to them tonight.

I find it oddly amusing that there are salad bars at backwater Ponderosa’s that have greater protection from sneezes and coughs than the average teacher.

My kingdom for a sneeze guard for my desk.

Wednesday, September 21, 2005

Sunday Brunch Vignette - "A Mr. Scoop Story"


Mr. Scoop used to live across the street from the most fabulous diner.  Everyday you could stagger in there unkempt and bleary eyed and get breakfast until noon.  The walls were covered in old baseball memorabilia.  Somehow, they’d managed to hoist an old wood paneled console TV onto the back counter, the kind with an actual dial to change the channel, for background noise.  The breakfast treats involved endless combinations of eggs, meats, pancakes, French toast and coffee.  Especially coffee.  Mr. Scoop had figured out that if he told the waitress to bring him coffee “every seven minutes until my heart explodes” she would.  Cheerfully.  Mr. Scoop is an excellent tipper.

To make the place even more inviting to the hangover recovery crowd, on Sundays the place opened up its downstairs restaurant and put forth “All You Can Eat Brunch”.  Chafing dishes brimming with scrambled eggs, bacon, and sausage.  Bowls of various salad type items.  Casseroles full of ooey, gooey, cheesy goodness.  Danish and pastries.  An omelet station.  You can get a ham, mushroom and cheese omelet, mac n’ cheese, and fruit salad all on one plate.  And a raspberry Danish.  And, did I mention they have coffee?  

I must admit that, in my advanced age, I can really no longer do anything labeled “All You Can Eat” full justice.  Two rounds and maybe an anemic third plate is generally about all my stomach can handle these days in one visit.  Sushi chefs weep with joy when they find this out.  But the brunch buffet waits impassively.  If you don’t partake, someone else will.  And they do.  Sometimes, they bring their kids.

The hostess sat Suburban Family #5,923 at a table diagonal from the booth occupied by Mr. Scoop and myself.  Mom and Pop collapsed into their chairs weary from the struggle of getting their children in and out of the Sunday church service unmolested.  Little Scooter ran up and down the aisles, freed from his burden of “having to be good or else visit the Time Out room in the trunk of the car because it was good enough for Mommy so it will damn well be good enough for you.  God is watching.”   Little Bambina, the apple of Mom and Pop’s eye because she hasn’t figured out complex speech or object permanence, is restrained in a high chair.  This is useful because she can’t get to her diaper to fling poo at the other patrons.  Life is good for the moment.

Alas, it would not remain so.  

Pop eventually wrangled Scooter into a seat with vague threats and a sort of tag team thing wherein Mom, after Pop got up to get a plate of food, would then put a viselike death grip on Scooter's arm.  This was followed by something directed to Scooter in a hissing, almost inaudible voice that may have involved how Mom was going to do terrible things to his Nintendo with a blowtorch, but I can’t be sure.  All I know is Scooter settled the hell down.  That’s when Bambina made her move.

The sippy cup.  Friend to toddlers who want to play grown-up everywhere.  Sure, you aren’t quite ready for the joy of Big Boy or Girl undies yet, but you can lose the baby bottle.  And it’s unbreakable.  You can drop it.  And drop it.  And drop it.  And drop it.  And forget it exists every single damn time, but deep in your heart you know that something very valuable has been take from you and this creates a sucking vacuum of sadness and despair.  But you have no words to express your grief.  You must then cry, nay, howl to the heavens to let every single person in the place know of your loss.  Every 45 seconds.  For the next half hour.

I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned publicly the utter hatred and malevolence Mr. Scoop feels towards children.  He is quite adamant that we will bring forth no children of our own (however, when pressed, he has said that his first born son will be named Jack Daniels).   I knew the meal was about to go sideways when he ordered a bottle of beer from the waitress.  When it arrived, I looked at him quizzically.  He signaled for me to watch and wait.  

He picked up the beer (a cheap one, to be sure) and placed his thumb over the mouth of the bottle.  Then he shook it up, all the while gathering intensity of purpose.  Then he walked over to Little Bambina and let forth a flurry of beer spray upon the hapless toddler.  “It drinks from the sippy cup, or else it gets the hose again!” he cried.  That was right before they kicked us out.

So, anyway, it was a cool diner before Mr. Scoop had to move…

Monday, September 19, 2005

Things I Overheard At School Today



  • “I do not have a third boob!”

  • “Stop being such a tool…box…” “Yeah, this room is already full of boxes.”

  • “Can you take a submarine to Idaho?”

  • “So they stop letting kids grind at school dances.  They have to face each other now.  Let’s just say there was a lot of dry humping of knees at the last dance.”

  • “Quod nomen tibi est?”  “Mihi nomen est Caligula!”

  • “Oooh!  Shiny!”

  • “So Rome was sacked by the Goths, but not the kind that hang out in clubs or wish they were vampires.”

  • “Why is he talking to a pig’s head on a stick?”

  • “But that isn’t how we do things here…”

  • “That’d be a booger.  On my desk.  Must be Monday.”


I had one of those weird moments today where a student made me rethink my entire opinion of him just by inadvertently revealing a hitherto unknown talent.  The kid is nice enough, but not particularly organized and often does not do his homework.  Seems to fit into a basic, nice guy jock kind of mold (think “Oz” from “American Pie”).  Then today, I watched him, for no reason in particular other than to kill time during picture day in the school auditorium, bust into Pachelbel’s “Canon in D” on a vacant piano.  When I asked him later how long he’d been studying piano, he told me he taught himself.  

Just one of those small reminders that as a teacher I can’t let myself put kids in neat boxes or lower my expectations of what a student can do based on what I generally see from 7:30am to 2:00pm.  There’s often something else going on beneath the surface.

Saturday, September 17, 2005

Unscrewed And Dripping With Cheese

The Next Great Wine Experiment

4:30 – Mr. Scoop has offered to make dinner tonight. Mr. Scoop feels confident in his ability to make 3 food items: cheesy scrambled eggs, Boboli pizza with pesto, and fondue. Tonight we will be partaking of the fondue.

The fondue has a beer base. Cheese (2 parts Swiss to 1 part Cheddar) is tossed with flour and added to the simmering beer by the handful and stirred until a thick and gooey cheese sauce results. This is then seasoned with a dash of Dave’s Insanity Sauce for 51,000 Scoville units of mouth searing goodness and flavor. Mr. Scoop got the recipe from his parents when he moved out of the house. They gave it to him because they wanted to make sure he’d eat and figured he’d make this because it had beer in it. Mr. Scoop is very proud of his fondue. I am quite fond of it as well.

Of course, no plan is without its flaws – Mr. Scoop started drinking 2 hours ago. I may have exposed him to a few too many programs about food and wine today. To distract him from his plan to “find and destroy that rat bastard Charlie Trotter” because “he killed my father”, I pointed him toward the kitchen and persuaded him to start grating the cheese. When he started to use the fine grating side to “remove incriminating fingerprints before the Feds get here”, I knew I’d have to cut up the bread myself.


5:00 - To enjoy with the fondue this evening, I’ve purchased a Shiraz-Viognier blend called The Black Chook. The label on the back of the bottle tells me that chook is Australian for chicken. It has surprised me so far by being a screw top wine. I know there is an “Anti-Cork” movement out there, but I still wasn’t expecting it. But now, the war against cork has come to my doorstep. What kind of wine will it bring with it (for $18)?

Well, pouring it into the glass I see that it’s a dark berry color. Swirling it reveals that this wine has legs that’d rival Tyra Banks. Damn. The wine smells pretty unassuming so far: grapey and a little like dirt (but not in a bad way – I think the professionals would use a fancy term here like “fresh earth”. Dirt is frigging dirt, my friends.). The initial taste is a bit spicy, but fruity. We’ll see how it opens up over time. As well as take on the Dave’s Insanity cheese extravaganza.


5:15 – Mr. Scoop sets forth to hurl handfuls of floured cheese into 10 ounces of simmering Sam Adams. I wait with baited breath. I take another sip (or three) of the wine. It continues to have spicy notes, but a more pronounced berry flavor is emerging. It’s also a bit on the tannic side (think of the sort of astringent quality you find a medium brew of black tea). I’m really curious how this is going to react to the fondue. Meanwhile, Mr. Scoop takes tugs from the leftover Sam Adams while he stirs the bubbling cheese goo. He has decided that a good backdrop to our fondue is a documentary on Peter Jennings. Mr. Scoop was a journalism major in college. I believe the program to be payback for 4 hours of public television cooking shows.


5:20 – “Fetch me the liquid dynamite!” cried Mr. Scoop. With all of the cheese melted into the mix, he stirred a healthy dash of Dave’s Insanity Sauce into the fondue with the precision and intensity to the task at hand normally found in people who dismantle bombs for a living. He tasted the spoon and declared the result to be “perfect”. With that we ravenously began to attack the pot armed with pointy forks and cubes of bread. I made sure to refill my wine glass prior to the distraction of gluttony. We each take bites of fondue covered bread and a sip of my wine. Mr. Scoop remarks that the wine and fondue “does not suck”. Indeed, it did not.

5:45 – The fondue is devoured. The wine went incredibly well with it. It was not overpowered by the Dave’s. In fact, it highlighted the spice in the sauce without making it overly fiery. The cheese helped to mellow the tannins in the wine giving it a very creamy, velvety mouth feel (which only encouraged me to drink more of it). All in all, the two complimented each other wonderfully.

So, left with the bottle to finish, I will retire to the living room to convince Mr. Scoop that we should watch some fine TV programming that does not involve Peter Jennings, but might instead involve blowing stuff up. I think that he’ll be amenable to the idea, particularly if it involves blowing up Charlie Trotter.

Thursday, September 15, 2005

And so, I am unleashed upon the world...


I've been asked to leave the country.

No, really.

Apparently, there's a school trip for foreign language students to Italy over April vacation and I've been asked to chaperone.

I don't speak Italian or hold a valid passport, but I'm co-teaching a Latin class for students with special needs and apparently this is enough to qualify me to go.

I will have to re-up my passport.

Did I mention the trip is free? If you get a ratio of a certain amount of kids to adults, the chaperones fly and room free. Some might call this a scam (that'd be the kids that have to fork over for the trip). I call it right and just.

I'm honored to have been asked, although I'm not entirely sure of what my duties abroad will entail. My off time, when I'm not around easily corruptible minors, involves what might gently be referred to as a "rock and roll lifestyle". I am minorly concerned about what might happen if my kids come across me in a trattoria pickled on Chianti and Limoncello and ranting about how cool wall frescos are and how there will be an extra credit project involving finding me aspirin and not letting on to the other adults that I may have vomitted on a major landmark.

Still, I shouldn't be that concerned. I know from experience that booze and students don't mix. Hell, once I leave my classroom at 2:30 I do not want to run into anything or anyone associated with my job, unless it is by my choice. When I once lived within the same town that I taught in, I also held a part time job in a local mall to help make ends meet. Some of my kids found out where I worked. They seemed to think it was a good idea to drop by and not leave - not out of malice, they genuinely just wanted to hang out - for hours at a time. Let's just say it was awkward. I mean, how do you say, "Look, if you interfere with my ability to get a commission off these sunglasses from the one paying customer in the store - I will fail you for the year" without coming off like a jerk? So,I don't work at that mall anymore. Or live in that town.

And that was all just sober.

I saw one of my students, hanging with his friends, in a movie theater in a major city near where we both lived, but not so near that we should run into each other (different towns) on a weekend night. I'd been out at a restaurant before the movie and had had a few drinks. I hid so as to not be noticed. I grew up around drunk adults. The possiblity of even minorly inebriated conversation with a student was not acceptable. Fortunately, not only did he not see me, we ended up going to different movies. I saw "Thirteen Days" and he went with his friends into "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon". He didn't notice me at all. His big complaint on Monday was that he didn't realize that he was going to see a movie that had subtitles.

So, the bottomline is that I'll behave myself in Italy. And I'm honored to be asked to join the group.

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

Girly girl vice


I'm not particularly girly.

However, I seem to have developed a weird nail polish addiction. It's my one "girly" thing. Well, that and my weakness for perfumes by Chanel (and really, I just treat that as a "cost-benefit" thing - Chanel won't ever go out of style and I can't be bothered to buy the new scent of the moment every season). My mom is all about high heeled shoes. At least 3 inches per heel. Walking across her bedroom floor (covered in dirty laundry and hiding hundreds of pairs of shoes from the naked eye) is like trying to avoid pongee sticks - after you're impaled on those stiletto heels, it's really too late.

Me, apparently I'm about nail polish. I don't always wear it all the time - in fact I go through months long fits and starts of not - but I have a collection of at least 20 different colors. They range from weird 2 tone changeable colors ("car colors" like in "The Fast and the Furious") to colors that I hope to one day adorn the car of my dreams (like the dark green with blue tones that would look stylin' on the Jaguar I will some day own) to the "safe for meeting with parents" colors. These have names like "Dusty Rose" or "Opal". Those are the cosmetic equivalent of Carpenters music. Inoffensive, but ultimately soul sucking and most likely to lead me to try and control my life through some other drastic measure like anorexia or repeated banging of my head into a wall or kitten abuse.

Every color I've purchased has a story. The last last time I remember wearing the blue I have on now was in 1997. I hung out for the evening with the ex-girlfriend of my ex-roommate at an "entertainment complex (arcade games and pool!)" and got home only to realize I had a job interview the next morning so I needed to take off the nail polish so I'd look more "serious". Removal (while drunk and needing to go to bed) took about 20 minutes. I woke up hungover and out of sorts. I got to the interview on time, but got lost repeatedly trying to get to the school. Consequently, I was out of sorts and interviewed poorly. Thus goes the story of the blue polish.

I have a gun metal gray my sister left behind before she moved. She wore it only once for Halloween one year. She decided she wanted to be a fox, literally - not in the "hot" sense - and put on a metric buttload of stage make-up to achieve the effect. Then she had an allergic reaction to the make-up and got swollen like she'd been bee stung, with the added joy of general bitchy-ness for the rest of the party. Watching her pass out from Benadryl instead of alcohol was one of life's small pleasures.

In my possesion is a shade of turquoise that seemed like a good idea when I bought it from Bath and Body Works, but stains my nails blue even after I remove the polish. I keep it around because it's a reminder of the trip to San Diego during which I purchased it. I hung out during the trip with a great girl named Natasha, with whom I've lost touch since. It was one of the better vacations I've ever been on and the only time I've ever been to California. Some day I hope to go back.

So, I rationalize my girly vice. It is make-up for my nails, but apparently a scrap book of sorts as well.

And, I suppose if I'm desperate I can huff it to get high.

Sunday, September 11, 2005

Mojitos and topless...I mean tapas

Mmmm...blackout-a-licious... Mr. Scoop and I just got back from a tapas bar.

Whenever I tell people I've had dinner at a tapas bar, inevitably they hear "topless bar.". Quizzical stares ensue. Followed by a certain amount of explaining on my part.

For those of you not familiar with tapas, it's a type of Spanish food. Small plates of items to be eaten with drinks. Many drinks. The original idea of tapas was to create something to put over your glass, back in the day, to keep flies out of your sherry while you were drinking. Now it's to create a base to imbibe more booze and create a thirst for more. Clever folks, those Spanish bar owners.

I enjoy tapas because you get to try a lot of different flavors at once without getting overly stuffed on any one thing. And that's great, because when I'm drinking, I find I often have ADHD of the tongue - and having lots of little different tastes to choose from without getting bloated (which slows down the drinking) is a bonus. Mr. Scoop and I ordered 4 "small plates" - scallops in saffron cream, steamed littleneck clams in wine, grilled chicken with an ancho chile and red wine sauce, and sizzling shrimp in garlic and chile infused oil. Lots of bread for dipping on the side. He drank beer. I drank mojitos. I think mojito may be Spanish for "...and then, after the blackout, you wake up in an alley naked and sticky".

More mojitos now. Stat. I'm on a schedule, godammit.

Thursday, September 08, 2005

Pet Noises

My sophomores have been pestering me to get a classroom pet. In return I've been asking them if they've all regressed to kindergarten.

They want a lizard. They claim that it would be good for the room. They could take turns taking it home on weekends to "take care of it". I've met my kids. "Taking care of it" would mean it would live in captivity for about 2 weeks. Then it would either be dead or, worse, freely roaming. I would come in some morning, bleary eyed and hungover to find the lizard poised on top of my computer monitor with a look that says, "Shit! Busted..." (in lizard that means it will look at me impassively and blink, but it's body will go all rigid). Then it will go for my face.


This has happened before. Luckily, the offending gecko was in his tank and screened in. I bent over to get a closer look at him while taking a break from tormenting kittens in the pet store. It leapt for my face and slammed into the glass. It's cute and kinda pathetic when kittens do that. When lizards do it, it's damn creepy.

A fellow teacher let her kids keep a betta in her classroom a couple years ago. It was named George. There were 4 Georges that year due to obsessive overfeeding and a cronic inability to change his water. Her kids never noticed.

We're not getting a lizard. I'm not buying a damn new one every 2 weeks to keep up with demand.

And I value my face.

Tuesday, September 06, 2005

Tofu..."Lite" Tofu




I tried this product.

I did not die.

You might ask "Why? Why would an otherwise sane and generally carnivorous individual do this?" To which I must weakly answer: "40 calories per serving."

Ah, so, there we have it. The dreaded "diet". It's not just for governing Japan anymore.

"How did it taste?" you may be wondering. "Meh." I'd reply. Tofu is nothing if not neutral in flavor. I let this particular batch sit for about 4 hours in a very spicy marinade of hot pepper and curry. The tofu itself was relatively unchanged. The other vegetables marinating with it were brilliant. Thus I know it was not the marinade, but the product.

However, the "lite" product is more vitamin and nutrient packed than its "normal" counterpart:

Mmmm.  All the goodness of shoe leather with none of the guilt or dental issues.Can someone please point me in the direction of a tree to hug?  It's been about 2 hours and I'm going into withdrawl.
















So, what is a desperate dieter to do?

Well, I'm going to buy me some steak and a bottle of multivitamins and pretend this ugly incident never happened.

Yep.

Sunday, September 04, 2005

Lethal Weapon

Let me let you in on a little secret: I'm not really crazy!Today, I rediscovered the simple joy of watching the 1987 smash hit Lethal Weapon.


The sequels are about as entertaining and weighty as cotton candy. The movie equivalent of Chinese food. Ok, even good, in the moment - but then you're hungry for something more substantial about an hour later. And, if you're me, generally drunk as well.

But the first "Lethal Weapon" is everything that is pure and good and right in an '80s action movie. You have your mismatched partners - so different from one another you could use them to teach remedial high school students the literary concept of "foil" (but, not mathematical foil - movie making is not nearly as technical as algebra). You have your "cop on the edge". His climactic fight scene will involve a hardcore beat down, in the rain, and a special appearance of strangulation of the bad guy through the "thighs of power" (or, as Mr. Scoop and guys who watched too much pro "wrestling" in high school like to call it, "Figure Four Leg Lock") and that's after torture of Gibson's character by electrocution (by a guy that would figure prominently in another '80s hit, Big Trouble In Little China).

Plus, the family station wagon we all hated to borrow gets blown right the fuck up. And, speaking of explosions, lots of stuff gets blown right the fuck up. A total hallmark of the '80s action movie experience. Right up there with never ending clips of bullets. Which also figure here. And I'm sympathetic to Rianne's sweater and denim mini skirt set when she's taken captive in the desert for the second time. I totally owned that outfit.

But, most importantly, this is the first time we glimpse the madness of Mel Gibson on American soil. It works here, in this movie. It is deliciously attractive. Sadly, however, it will eventually prove to not be acting. We call this folly The Passion Of The Christ.

Do you think "The Passion Of The Christ" pitch went like this:

"We both know why I was transferred. Everyone thinks I'm suicidal, in which case, I'm fucked and nobody wants to work with me; or they think I'm faking to draw a psycho pension, in which case, I'm fucked and nobody wants to work with me.

Basically, I'm fucked.

Oh, plus it's got Jesus in it!"

Meanwhile, I'm going to buy "Lethal Weapon" and pretend the madness stopped there.

Thursday, September 01, 2005

Is This Abuse Covered By My HMO?

Doctor Gives Elderly Patient Much Needed Smack To The Head. Gets Spanked.


The elderly female patient at a hospital in Shiga, central Japan, was given a local anaesthetic for an unspecified operation early last month, but began thrashing around on the operating table and yelling at the doctor to stop.

After trying to persuade her to calm down, the doctor hit the patient on the forehead and yelled at her to shut up, a hospital spokesman said. The patient needed five days to recover from the injury to her forehead.



Lately, I find that individuals "of a certain age" cause the lizard part of my brain to recoil in horror. I don't know what it is. Disdain for the weak. My fear of my own mortality. General violent, psychotic tendencies. It's hard to say. But I think anyone who's ever spent 20 minutes directly in back of an elderly woman who patiently waits for her groceries to be rung up and then . remembers she has coupons. And then, then! remembers "Oh, I forgot the hot dog rolls" and tries to convince the nice boy behind the counter to leave his station and go get them for her and, upon failing - because there's 10 other people in line getting progressively more surly - behaves as though he's beaten, raped and shot her grandchildren (who, if they have this to look forward to should shoot themselves. Darwin was not kind here.) and then takes an extra 10 minutes to shuffle out of the way because there are other serious people without senile dementia trying to purchase all of their groceries in one fell swoop - if you've been behind this haggard batfaced witch that ought to be put out to pasture - then you'll understand why the doctor backhanded that patient.