There is a medical emergency across the hall from my office. Literally. Six steps away, twelve med students are valiantly trying to rescuscitate what I imagine to be a very expensive mannequin. They are being critiqued as the bleeping heartrate begins to falter and flatline. I wonder if he has a family? And if so, were they created in part by that creepy plastic penis which I feel terribly guilty for spotting everytime I walk to the mailroom? (What? Mail's not here yet?) That also makes me wonder why they decided to include the penis and not just copy Ken? I guess maybe it helps them train to avoid distraction. Assuredly due to current job frustrations, I fantasize about walking into that room to immediately begin working toward my medical degree. My grandma once told me I'd be a fabulous surgeon, and I don't doubt her. Predictably, however, I'm choosing to just sit here, continue compiling packets for CPS teachers, and let the various E.R. reruns play in my head. (I stopped watching when he left).
Last weekend I watched Priscilla: Queen of the Desert for the first time ever. Rather than an in-depth me-style review, I'm going to suffice it to say "awesome." It was really enjoyable and all of a sudden I got an urge to roadtrip as well. That urge ended up translating to a hellish drive to La Grange to catch Spiderman 3 at a cheap-seat theater. I could also launch into a scathing review of suburban stereotypes (and the film), but I'd just be preaching to the choir, eh? You and I both know that no suburbanite would read this blog. They are too busy going to key parties and poisoning trees.