I have collected a number of Aces of Spades and Jokers. I enjoy how different the same things can be. These are two o'my faves.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Friday, February 25, 2011
This might do nobody any good.
A WORD OR TWO ABOUT BEING HATED
To be properly hated and reviled, first you must deserve it. This is a difficult task in these post modern times. Even Hitler has friends on Facebook, for heaven’s sake. Hell also has Facebook friends, but Hell was always a good place for the company, if not the weather. And speaking of Mark Twain, let us return to the point.
Let us first separate some chaff from the wheat of our loathing. Like love, we rarely mean it when we say we hate. ‘Hate’ functions similar to swearing, which we use to replace coherent words when our thoughts are moving too fast. We don’t actually hate everything we say we hate. It’s one of those bad habits we Citizens of Superpower Land have obtained.
Do you know those, “people you love to hate” on TV, books, internet and movies? You actually don’t hate them. You can’t. silly! They’re fictional! Even reality TV stars are fictional. Any appearance on television for an entire season automatically renders you 51% fictional, with the percentage growing every show after
Also, we are not referring to anyone dead. Hitler, Edi Amin, Bedford Forrest or even J. Edgar Hoover are not hated in the active, flaming, Madaline Kahn sense. They are dead. Nobody really hates a corpse.
And, as religion still inspires us to sin and feel bad for it, we must create a category for things between dead and fictional which is the realm of all things sacred. So, Satan, Shiva and all the gods of evil that you think you might hate, nope. You don’t. You just hate the devil in yourself, and that’s for another essay.
This leaves us with famous Hatables such as Ghadafi and Jane Fonda, and local hatables such as that guy in your office you can’t stand and that bitch who screwed around on your best friend. It’s often true that the famous ones are hated just for being famous, which is funny and makes Satan laugh. Now there are other perfectly good reasons for hating these people, but I would still call this a ‘sporting’ kind of hate; the hatred for the other team, for the guy trying to get your ball. It’s not personal, as the strong like to say, but if it’s not personal, it’s not hate.
Those who have survived the above human strainer of intent, they and only they, are the truly Hatable. So, this means they are people you know. A person you know who has done wrong to you, to someone else, or to many people.
But that’s not all. To be hated, this must also pretend to be other than they actually are. After all, an honest asshole is just an asshole, what you see is what you get. But the one who pretends, who lies, who acts upon the opposite of his stated beliefs, this person is the one you hate, the one you. . . . .
What exactly? What does the all Hate we have justified with the above rationalizations necessitate? It must mean something, this intense feeling must have an action to accompany it, but which action? Once we know we hate somebody, and we have made sure they deserve it, do we seek their destruction? Do we strive to cause them pain? Do we prank call them and deliver twenty pizzas to their house? Or do we blacklist them economically, so they cannot work? How about a punch in the eye? A kick in the groin?
Obviously, forgiveness is out of the question.
So, let’s do this instead.
First, let us not confront the person with even the possibility of reform. We hate them and they deserve it and that is way too much fun to just give it up. So when speaking to each other we shall insult, revile, up-turn our noses and tsk tsk about the Hatable, and reassure each other that we are much better people. Then, we’ll put our heads together and relate all the excellent reasons to hate our Hatable, and we shall seek more reasons and even make them up if we have to! It’s hatred, Brother, we don’t need truth. Then comes the juiciest part of all. We can snub them, and refuse to talk to them, and cut them off completely from our lives. We will destroy them with ignoring them! Of course! The most devastating we can do to these horrible people is remove ourselves from them! Yes! Ha! Revenge is ours and it tastes so good!
Well, stick a finger down your throat and relive the flavor, because that is the worst thing you can do. The idea is to punish them, not to give them hope! And that is exactly what the absence of your friendship does. Remember, these people became bad in your presence. They became hated in your company and under your very eyes. The qualities that made them stinking sacks of monkey crap were fashioned by, at least in part, by your presence. If you cut them off, then they will be forced to come under new influences, or be left to their own devices. If this occurs, there is a possibility they might, hold on to yourself, become happy.
Holy crap! Someone you hate being happy?! Perish the Thought, and while you are at it strangle Reason as well. We don’t want to leave Reason all by itself without a Thought, it would be too cruel.
So, stays friends with the Hatables. Keep on being very same influence that helped them to be hated in the first place. If you can, encourage them to continue in the same behavior. It’s your responsibility to maintain the status quo, don’t ever change the way things really are. God put hate in your heart for a reason, and weakness in the Hatables for another. Trust in his plan for your happiness. Let’s just hope he doesn’t hate you.
To be properly hated and reviled, first you must deserve it. This is a difficult task in these post modern times. Even Hitler has friends on Facebook, for heaven’s sake. Hell also has Facebook friends, but Hell was always a good place for the company, if not the weather. And speaking of Mark Twain, let us return to the point.
Let us first separate some chaff from the wheat of our loathing. Like love, we rarely mean it when we say we hate. ‘Hate’ functions similar to swearing, which we use to replace coherent words when our thoughts are moving too fast. We don’t actually hate everything we say we hate. It’s one of those bad habits we Citizens of Superpower Land have obtained.
Do you know those, “people you love to hate” on TV, books, internet and movies? You actually don’t hate them. You can’t. silly! They’re fictional! Even reality TV stars are fictional. Any appearance on television for an entire season automatically renders you 51% fictional, with the percentage growing every show after
Also, we are not referring to anyone dead. Hitler, Edi Amin, Bedford Forrest or even J. Edgar Hoover are not hated in the active, flaming, Madaline Kahn sense. They are dead. Nobody really hates a corpse.
And, as religion still inspires us to sin and feel bad for it, we must create a category for things between dead and fictional which is the realm of all things sacred. So, Satan, Shiva and all the gods of evil that you think you might hate, nope. You don’t. You just hate the devil in yourself, and that’s for another essay.
This leaves us with famous Hatables such as Ghadafi and Jane Fonda, and local hatables such as that guy in your office you can’t stand and that bitch who screwed around on your best friend. It’s often true that the famous ones are hated just for being famous, which is funny and makes Satan laugh. Now there are other perfectly good reasons for hating these people, but I would still call this a ‘sporting’ kind of hate; the hatred for the other team, for the guy trying to get your ball. It’s not personal, as the strong like to say, but if it’s not personal, it’s not hate.
Those who have survived the above human strainer of intent, they and only they, are the truly Hatable. So, this means they are people you know. A person you know who has done wrong to you, to someone else, or to many people.
But that’s not all. To be hated, this must also pretend to be other than they actually are. After all, an honest asshole is just an asshole, what you see is what you get. But the one who pretends, who lies, who acts upon the opposite of his stated beliefs, this person is the one you hate, the one you. . . . .
What exactly? What does the all Hate we have justified with the above rationalizations necessitate? It must mean something, this intense feeling must have an action to accompany it, but which action? Once we know we hate somebody, and we have made sure they deserve it, do we seek their destruction? Do we strive to cause them pain? Do we prank call them and deliver twenty pizzas to their house? Or do we blacklist them economically, so they cannot work? How about a punch in the eye? A kick in the groin?
Obviously, forgiveness is out of the question.
So, let’s do this instead.
First, let us not confront the person with even the possibility of reform. We hate them and they deserve it and that is way too much fun to just give it up. So when speaking to each other we shall insult, revile, up-turn our noses and tsk tsk about the Hatable, and reassure each other that we are much better people. Then, we’ll put our heads together and relate all the excellent reasons to hate our Hatable, and we shall seek more reasons and even make them up if we have to! It’s hatred, Brother, we don’t need truth. Then comes the juiciest part of all. We can snub them, and refuse to talk to them, and cut them off completely from our lives. We will destroy them with ignoring them! Of course! The most devastating we can do to these horrible people is remove ourselves from them! Yes! Ha! Revenge is ours and it tastes so good!
Well, stick a finger down your throat and relive the flavor, because that is the worst thing you can do. The idea is to punish them, not to give them hope! And that is exactly what the absence of your friendship does. Remember, these people became bad in your presence. They became hated in your company and under your very eyes. The qualities that made them stinking sacks of monkey crap were fashioned by, at least in part, by your presence. If you cut them off, then they will be forced to come under new influences, or be left to their own devices. If this occurs, there is a possibility they might, hold on to yourself, become happy.
Holy crap! Someone you hate being happy?! Perish the Thought, and while you are at it strangle Reason as well. We don’t want to leave Reason all by itself without a Thought, it would be too cruel.
So, stays friends with the Hatables. Keep on being very same influence that helped them to be hated in the first place. If you can, encourage them to continue in the same behavior. It’s your responsibility to maintain the status quo, don’t ever change the way things really are. God put hate in your heart for a reason, and weakness in the Hatables for another. Trust in his plan for your happiness. Let’s just hope he doesn’t hate you.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
SCHADENFREUDE CONCLAVE!
A GOOD REVIEW OF A BAD MOVIE: BY THE SCHADENFREUDEN CONCLAVE
Alley Tramp
Director: H. G. Lewis
1966
Released in the US 1968
Herschell Gordon Lewis, the director of Alley Tramp, has committed many aesthetic crimes in the landscape of the social milieu we call the media, and we in the Schadenfreude Conclave have applauded this brave warriors’ success in disfugiuring the collective unconscious. But Alley Tramp does not scar anything except one’s perceptions of acceptable furnishings in the living room of a late sixties’ home. And though H.G. Lewis always pours a heapin’ ladleful of WRONG! in his films, the WRONG!ness is usually muted by the age of the film, by insanity as a plot device, or by NOT using Patty Duke look alike’s to stoke Pedophile’s fantasies. In Alley Tramp, we get an hour and a half of undiluted WRONGNESS.
Alley Tramp
Director: H. G. Lewis
1966
Released in the US 1968
Herschell Gordon Lewis, the director of Alley Tramp, has committed many aesthetic crimes in the landscape of the social milieu we call the media, and we in the Schadenfreude Conclave have applauded this brave warriors’ success in disfugiuring the collective unconscious. But Alley Tramp does not scar anything except one’s perceptions of acceptable furnishings in the living room of a late sixties’ home. And though H.G. Lewis always pours a heapin’ ladleful of WRONG! in his films, the WRONG!ness is usually muted by the age of the film, by insanity as a plot device, or by NOT using Patty Duke look alike’s to stoke Pedophile’s fantasies. In Alley Tramp, we get an hour and a half of undiluted WRONGNESS.
Our Heroine is 16 and ready to experience the world of love and passion around her, in other words she wants to get laid. Now in a modern movie, she would be told that her feelings are normal but not to express them until she is ready, and then in very special moment/episode she gets the boy. In a sixties mainstream movie, the feelings would not ever be mentioned because woman don’t really get horny. In a HG Lewis movie, the girl’s carousing mother denies the girls’ reality completely and then makes out with Dad during dinner and then in the bedroom where our young lady watches them go at it which inspires her to seduce her cousin.
The Schadenfruede Conclave understands it is supposed to call underage sex wrong in all circumstances. It understands, but it refuses. To take the morality of these movies seriously is as ridiculous as expecting a major sports star not to cheat on his wife. People between the ages of 14-17 have sex. Sometimes it’s wrong, sometimes it’s not. Just like when people between the ages of 18-130 have sex. What’s wrong in this movie is not the sex, but the deliberate call to youthfulness by the lead. It’s creepy. Way creepy. And the cousin thing is bizarre. We’re sorry to spoil the plot for you, but you needed to know, just in case you invited the Pastor over for Schadenfruede Tea. Don’t worry, there’s a lot more plot to inhale before this stinkburger is over! And a lot more
WRONG!
One note on the mundane side. This movie has an extraordinary amount of great Kitsch furniture. The Standing lamps, the dining room chairs, the side lamps shades with the plastic covers; collectors will have a field day with this flick, if they can get past the constant stream of offensive behavior between the brick-a-brack.
Another mundane note for the linguist. This movie uses the word ‘jazz’ as a term for the act of sex. Our records show that this had not been used since the Tijuana Bibles porn comics of the 1920-1940’s. We believe this might be the latest sincere use of the word in this definition. Let us know if we are wrong.
Check out the WRONG score, on our Schadenfruede scale below. This movie should offend you. It is trying to offend you. And as its goal is to offend and not to entertain, it is an Exploitation (or Sexploitation) Film. It also does it very badly, which is what makes it a Schadenfruede Movie. But remember, we at the Schadenfruede do not judge, we only condemn.
On a final note, the credits are all pseudonyms. This is not unusual for these films, but here everybody, and I mean everybody, used fake names, and they are outrageously French fake names. Even ole Herschel Gordon Lewis, the man who read Lolita and thought it would make a good musical, buried his head on this one.
Some fun stuff particular to this flick are:
Some fun stuff particular to this flick are:
The Teen tantrum
Mom’s acting. Ouch!
The line, “ Unh-Unh, better than Mother!”
Classsic bad movie elements contained in this Flick
Bad acting
Script is uh. . .underdeveloped.
Deliberate pointless stripping scenes
Bad camera work; stiff, slow to pan.
THE DRINKING GAME FOR “The Alley Tramp”
DRINK WHEN:
Granny panties!
You see any lamp.
Constantly during any montage. Just, keep drinking.
CHUG A WHOLE BEER WHEN:
You see the teddy bear
When cousins kiss!!!
Any girl gets slapped.
IF ONE HAS TO WRITE A COLLEGE ESSAY FOR FILM CLASS
Steinem versus Freidan was not the first clash of Proto-Modern Feminism; it was the Mother Daughter characters in “The Alley Tramp”. Herschel G. Lewis creates a stark black and white story of a young girl lead astray, or led to social relevance, by the excessive sexual imagery she is witness to. The incestuous elements of her passionate attempts to digest and synthesize the psycho-sexual energies released by the conflict of the hegemonic attitude of the Western Philosophies versus the rise of gender liberation becomes the spear point of realpolitik Buddhist political manifestation.
SCHADEN FREUDEN SCORE
Elements: 7(out of 10 )
Titillation: 4, but a creepy 4 ( out of 5)
Wrongness: 5!!!(out of 5)
Style & Funness: 4(out of five)
Extra points: 3 (out of five)
TOTAL: 23 ( out of 30 )
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
A Bit of The New Beatles' Book!
Hey Everyone! Here's a sample from one of the stories taken out of "Eight arms to Hold You: The Beatles as they might have been." It's my upcoming new book, available soon on LULU home publishing! I hope you dig it!
Young Dr McCartney
Paul McCartney’s mother was a nurse, and she had encouraged young Paul to pursue a career in medicine, which he did. When his mother died of cancer, it turned him off the med’s and onto the guitar and into the band of John Lennon. But if his mother had survived, I believe his career path might have been very different.
“Paul is dead.”
“What?”
“Your dear Doctor Paul is dead on his feet. You’d better go rescue him.”
“Cor. Stone the crows.”, said the second nurse in a panicked tone.
The two nurses split apart, and walked in different directions down the hall. One went to her proper destination down in maternity. The other scooted along to the break room, where an open door revealed a soft snore and a sleeping doctor, still in lab coat and stethoscope.
The doctor’s face, already boyish, was positively cherubic as he slept on the lovely leather sofa, finer than anything the nurse could afford on her salary. The nurse stopped for a couple of seconds and just stared at him.
“Blimey. You couldn’t be any prettier if you tried, could you?”, she said in a soft voice full of self rebuke. She sighed and then kicked the sleeping doctor’s stomach. The somnambulant seraphim stayed sleeping, moving only to turn away from the nurse.
“Oh yeah? Well, this calls for harsher measures.” She said through gritted teeth.
She went to the sink by the refrigerator and filled a Styrofoam cup with water, walked back to the couch and dumped the wet contents on the dry doctor. The angelic face twisted instantly as the body under the face sprang out of the couch, sputtering and wiping the liquid away.
“Bloody hell! What the bleedin’. . .”, said the doctor in a thick Liverpudlian accent.
“Careful doctor. Talk like that and everyone here might find out that you’re a Scouse from Liverpool and send you back.”
“That would make you happy, wouldn’t it?”, snapped Dr. Paul McCartney in clear and precise Oxford accent.
There was an instant’s pause of a painful memory before she said, “You know what would make me happy.”
“That I do.” There was a few seconds between them. “But. . . .”, said Dr, McCartney, his face open and eyebrows arched. “. . . there it is.”, he said with a casual finality that had pissed off every girl who had ever heard it. They had been lovers recently, until Nurse Johnson had demanded a more serious commitment. He ended the relationship immediately, without even break-up sex. It was a common pattern in the lovelife of Dr. Paul McCartney, General Practitioner.
“Now, why the bath? Or was it for pre-existing reasons already mentioned?”
“You’re ten minutes late for your meeting with the hospital administrator.”
“Well then!” Paul flashed a tight grin and sprinted from the room. While hustling down the hall, he straightened his tie and coat and adjusted his damp hair. While running past the nurses’ station at the intensive care unit, a blonde head caught his eye and he almost skidded to a stop.
“Hello Nurse Pattock.”
“Why ‘ello Dr. McCartney.” Said the nurse, her voice heavy with expectation.
“Things quiet today in the intensive?”
“As quiet as can be expected, Dr. McCartney.”
“So you’re getting along all right here, then?”
“Oh yes, all the nurses have been very helpful.”
“Yes, we do have a must accommodating nurse’s staff here at St. George’s.”
An older nurse passing by interjected,” Accommodating? Is that what they call it these days?” The older Nurse then laughed like MacBeth’s Witches. Nurse Pattock’s face flushed deeply.
“Oh don’t mind her. She’s still trying to get over Prince Charles’ wedding. A quite jarring
experience for the poor girl.”
Nurse Pattock laughed appreciatively.
“Now, there’s that lovely smile. A grin like that could brighten up even the darkest hole in Calcutta, now couldn’t it?”
“McCartney!!!!” Came a bellow down the hall.
“Oh cricke!” said the named Doctor, as he ran toward the sound of the shout. Before he had gone
ten feet, he sprinted back to the desk just as quickly, and came to a completely still stop directly in front of Nurse Pattock.
“See you again soon, I hope?”
“You know where I work.”
“That I do.” The with a cartoon gathering of himself, he sped off to the Bellow. He didn’t have far to go, for Mr. Smythington, the hospital administrator was a mere twenty feet away.
“Having fun Doctor?”
“I was Just maintaining communications with the nursing staff in order to improve interdisciplinary relations.”
“Oh, so you do read the memos I send out? I’m not impressed. Let’s go. You’re late enough and unlike some people, I actually have no time to waste.”
Like a caught schoolboy and the catching teacher, the two proceeded along until arriving at the admin’s office. After the door was closed and both were seated, the admin let out with a long sigh.
“Doctor, doctor, doctor. . . what am I going to do with you?”
“Feed me, wine me, promote me.”
Mr. Smythington blinked, unamused.
“Sorry. I thought you were asking for suggestions.”
“I think you’re far too suggestive for this hospital already, Dr. McCartney.”
“Really? I haven’t heard any complaints.”
“And my job is to make sure there aren’t any complaints or scandals or other hullabaloos.”
“Hullabaloos? In our hospital, sir? Shocking!” said the Doctor in false alarm.
“That attitude is not helping your case.”
“What case? I have a case?”
“Dr. McCartney, we are one of the leading hospitals in London, and thereby in the world. And we have a reputation to uphold. Your performance leaves something to be desired.”
“That’s a lie.” This time there was no humor in Dr. McCartney’s words. But neither was there any anger.
“I am not in the habit of. . .”
“Can it Smythington. My record as a physician is the finest in this entire bloody place. My success rates are top notch, my patients are as healthy as the British Taxpayer can make them. I’m sorry I stick in your craw (whatever a craw is), but as long as I am tops in the field, you will simply have to make the necessary adjustments in your life to adapt to my sticky craw.”
“Dr. McCartney, this is not a television hospital with hijinks and jokes.”
“No, it’s decidedly not and I find it disgraceful.”
“And despite your record, your amorous behavior will not be tolerated for much longer.”
“That’s enough.” Dr. McCartney stood up. “I am an adult, as are all the people I associate with. We are free to make all decisions concerning romance as we are consenting adults without your approval or knowledge, ta very much.”
“You can’t continue to walk around with your willie in your hand. The times are changing. That type of behavior is not going to be tolerated in the future.”
“Well, Mr. Smythington, I give you full license, if you ever see me with my member in grasp, to give me the sack with all due haste.” Dr. McCartney made to leave the room.
“Well, then please do continue in your habits. I’ll appreciate the rope you’ll be giving me. Good day.”
“Good day sir. Thank you sir.”, said the Doctor impersonating a schoolboy.
As Dr. McCartney’s hand touched the doorknob, Administrator Smythington stopped him with an extremely perky sounding, “Oh! One moment, Dr. McCartney.”
“What no? Have I violated the innocence of your doorknob?”
“Clinic time.”
McCartney paled.
“Ah. Yes.”
“You’ve passed it off or avoided it too long. You leave in a day.”
“But I have several. . .”
“Your patients will be cared for.”
“I don’t. . .
“No? Good, then consider yourself dismissed the instant upon you refusal to perform your clinic duty. Her Majesty’s government requires you to do charity work on a regular schedule. Please Doctor. Please, refuse again. I hear Portugal is a lovely work environment for Doctors.”
McCartney was expressionless.
“When?”
“This weekend.”
“Where?”
A large eat-my-warm-stinking-shit-smile stretched across the lips of Administrator Smythington as he said:
“The last place left to serve is . . . Liverpool.”
“Bastard.”
“To those who deserve it? Absolutely. Enjoy the homecoming.”
The very next day, Dr. McCartney was standing in the middle of a city. A city that was not London. Oh, so not London.
“How could it all still be so bloody grey?”
It was late Friday night, and Dr. McCartney was standing on the street he was raised on, brow furrowed, eyes annoyed and heart full of strange emotions. He was a child here, raised by loving Parents in a harsh culture. There were poorer neighborhoods in Liverpool, but not many and not by much. Row after row of identical council flats and homes, grey streets, grey walls, grey people shuffling about brought Dr. McCartney to the days of young Paul bouncing about, going to school, avoiding the gangs of toughs that wandered about looking for the more fortunate ones to oppress. There weren’t a lot of escapes for the residents here, and few ever even tried. But the McCartney family were movers, and planned to keep on moving. Young Paul excelled in his studies, and was strongly pushed by his nurse Mother to become a doctor. Her illness when Paul was a teenager sparked his curiosity and after his mother was released the hook was set. Paul watched the doctors cure his Mum, and wanted their abilities, their power and their respect.
So, Paul buckled down and got busy. His grades got even better, he got rid of his thick Liverpudlian accent, and made it to Cambridge, and thence to Medical school. As soon as possible, he moved his family to London. In the fifteen years he’d been doctoring, he’d moved them three times, each time to a larger and swankier home. He’d also helped his extended family move out of Liverpool, and tried to never think of the place that he’d tried so hard to escape. Particularly after finding his associates in college and in professional life would often casually insult the North and it’s denizens.
And now here he was. Back again.
He turned his back and got in the cab. The cabbie didn’t bother to turn around to ask, “So, Where to next guv’nor?”
“London.”
The cabbie didn’t bother to comment on the impossibility. The doctor sighed.
“The Hotel Cinthareon, please.”
“Be needing any companions tonight? You know, of the female variety sir? I can lead you to the cleanest prettiest young ladies in all Merseyside.”
“Thank you driver, but no.”
The cabbie shut up after that without another word, not wasting any politeness on the unprofitable. A silence Dr. McCartney could respect
Young Dr McCartney
Paul McCartney’s mother was a nurse, and she had encouraged young Paul to pursue a career in medicine, which he did. When his mother died of cancer, it turned him off the med’s and onto the guitar and into the band of John Lennon. But if his mother had survived, I believe his career path might have been very different.
“Paul is dead.”
“What?”
“Your dear Doctor Paul is dead on his feet. You’d better go rescue him.”
“Cor. Stone the crows.”, said the second nurse in a panicked tone.
The two nurses split apart, and walked in different directions down the hall. One went to her proper destination down in maternity. The other scooted along to the break room, where an open door revealed a soft snore and a sleeping doctor, still in lab coat and stethoscope.
The doctor’s face, already boyish, was positively cherubic as he slept on the lovely leather sofa, finer than anything the nurse could afford on her salary. The nurse stopped for a couple of seconds and just stared at him.
“Blimey. You couldn’t be any prettier if you tried, could you?”, she said in a soft voice full of self rebuke. She sighed and then kicked the sleeping doctor’s stomach. The somnambulant seraphim stayed sleeping, moving only to turn away from the nurse.
“Oh yeah? Well, this calls for harsher measures.” She said through gritted teeth.
She went to the sink by the refrigerator and filled a Styrofoam cup with water, walked back to the couch and dumped the wet contents on the dry doctor. The angelic face twisted instantly as the body under the face sprang out of the couch, sputtering and wiping the liquid away.
“Bloody hell! What the bleedin’. . .”, said the doctor in a thick Liverpudlian accent.
“Careful doctor. Talk like that and everyone here might find out that you’re a Scouse from Liverpool and send you back.”
“That would make you happy, wouldn’t it?”, snapped Dr. Paul McCartney in clear and precise Oxford accent.
There was an instant’s pause of a painful memory before she said, “You know what would make me happy.”
“That I do.” There was a few seconds between them. “But. . . .”, said Dr, McCartney, his face open and eyebrows arched. “. . . there it is.”, he said with a casual finality that had pissed off every girl who had ever heard it. They had been lovers recently, until Nurse Johnson had demanded a more serious commitment. He ended the relationship immediately, without even break-up sex. It was a common pattern in the lovelife of Dr. Paul McCartney, General Practitioner.
“Now, why the bath? Or was it for pre-existing reasons already mentioned?”
“You’re ten minutes late for your meeting with the hospital administrator.”
“Well then!” Paul flashed a tight grin and sprinted from the room. While hustling down the hall, he straightened his tie and coat and adjusted his damp hair. While running past the nurses’ station at the intensive care unit, a blonde head caught his eye and he almost skidded to a stop.
“Hello Nurse Pattock.”
“Why ‘ello Dr. McCartney.” Said the nurse, her voice heavy with expectation.
“Things quiet today in the intensive?”
“As quiet as can be expected, Dr. McCartney.”
“So you’re getting along all right here, then?”
“Oh yes, all the nurses have been very helpful.”
“Yes, we do have a must accommodating nurse’s staff here at St. George’s.”
An older nurse passing by interjected,” Accommodating? Is that what they call it these days?” The older Nurse then laughed like MacBeth’s Witches. Nurse Pattock’s face flushed deeply.
“Oh don’t mind her. She’s still trying to get over Prince Charles’ wedding. A quite jarring
experience for the poor girl.”
Nurse Pattock laughed appreciatively.
“Now, there’s that lovely smile. A grin like that could brighten up even the darkest hole in Calcutta, now couldn’t it?”
“McCartney!!!!” Came a bellow down the hall.
“Oh cricke!” said the named Doctor, as he ran toward the sound of the shout. Before he had gone
ten feet, he sprinted back to the desk just as quickly, and came to a completely still stop directly in front of Nurse Pattock.
“See you again soon, I hope?”
“You know where I work.”
“That I do.” The with a cartoon gathering of himself, he sped off to the Bellow. He didn’t have far to go, for Mr. Smythington, the hospital administrator was a mere twenty feet away.
“Having fun Doctor?”
“I was Just maintaining communications with the nursing staff in order to improve interdisciplinary relations.”
“Oh, so you do read the memos I send out? I’m not impressed. Let’s go. You’re late enough and unlike some people, I actually have no time to waste.”
Like a caught schoolboy and the catching teacher, the two proceeded along until arriving at the admin’s office. After the door was closed and both were seated, the admin let out with a long sigh.
“Doctor, doctor, doctor. . . what am I going to do with you?”
“Feed me, wine me, promote me.”
Mr. Smythington blinked, unamused.
“Sorry. I thought you were asking for suggestions.”
“I think you’re far too suggestive for this hospital already, Dr. McCartney.”
“Really? I haven’t heard any complaints.”
“And my job is to make sure there aren’t any complaints or scandals or other hullabaloos.”
“Hullabaloos? In our hospital, sir? Shocking!” said the Doctor in false alarm.
“That attitude is not helping your case.”
“What case? I have a case?”
“Dr. McCartney, we are one of the leading hospitals in London, and thereby in the world. And we have a reputation to uphold. Your performance leaves something to be desired.”
“That’s a lie.” This time there was no humor in Dr. McCartney’s words. But neither was there any anger.
“I am not in the habit of. . .”
“Can it Smythington. My record as a physician is the finest in this entire bloody place. My success rates are top notch, my patients are as healthy as the British Taxpayer can make them. I’m sorry I stick in your craw (whatever a craw is), but as long as I am tops in the field, you will simply have to make the necessary adjustments in your life to adapt to my sticky craw.”
“Dr. McCartney, this is not a television hospital with hijinks and jokes.”
“No, it’s decidedly not and I find it disgraceful.”
“And despite your record, your amorous behavior will not be tolerated for much longer.”
“That’s enough.” Dr. McCartney stood up. “I am an adult, as are all the people I associate with. We are free to make all decisions concerning romance as we are consenting adults without your approval or knowledge, ta very much.”
“You can’t continue to walk around with your willie in your hand. The times are changing. That type of behavior is not going to be tolerated in the future.”
“Well, Mr. Smythington, I give you full license, if you ever see me with my member in grasp, to give me the sack with all due haste.” Dr. McCartney made to leave the room.
“Well, then please do continue in your habits. I’ll appreciate the rope you’ll be giving me. Good day.”
“Good day sir. Thank you sir.”, said the Doctor impersonating a schoolboy.
As Dr. McCartney’s hand touched the doorknob, Administrator Smythington stopped him with an extremely perky sounding, “Oh! One moment, Dr. McCartney.”
“What no? Have I violated the innocence of your doorknob?”
“Clinic time.”
McCartney paled.
“Ah. Yes.”
“You’ve passed it off or avoided it too long. You leave in a day.”
“But I have several. . .”
“Your patients will be cared for.”
“I don’t. . .
“No? Good, then consider yourself dismissed the instant upon you refusal to perform your clinic duty. Her Majesty’s government requires you to do charity work on a regular schedule. Please Doctor. Please, refuse again. I hear Portugal is a lovely work environment for Doctors.”
McCartney was expressionless.
“When?”
“This weekend.”
“Where?”
A large eat-my-warm-stinking-shit-smile stretched across the lips of Administrator Smythington as he said:
“The last place left to serve is . . . Liverpool.”
“Bastard.”
“To those who deserve it? Absolutely. Enjoy the homecoming.”
The very next day, Dr. McCartney was standing in the middle of a city. A city that was not London. Oh, so not London.
“How could it all still be so bloody grey?”
It was late Friday night, and Dr. McCartney was standing on the street he was raised on, brow furrowed, eyes annoyed and heart full of strange emotions. He was a child here, raised by loving Parents in a harsh culture. There were poorer neighborhoods in Liverpool, but not many and not by much. Row after row of identical council flats and homes, grey streets, grey walls, grey people shuffling about brought Dr. McCartney to the days of young Paul bouncing about, going to school, avoiding the gangs of toughs that wandered about looking for the more fortunate ones to oppress. There weren’t a lot of escapes for the residents here, and few ever even tried. But the McCartney family were movers, and planned to keep on moving. Young Paul excelled in his studies, and was strongly pushed by his nurse Mother to become a doctor. Her illness when Paul was a teenager sparked his curiosity and after his mother was released the hook was set. Paul watched the doctors cure his Mum, and wanted their abilities, their power and their respect.
So, Paul buckled down and got busy. His grades got even better, he got rid of his thick Liverpudlian accent, and made it to Cambridge, and thence to Medical school. As soon as possible, he moved his family to London. In the fifteen years he’d been doctoring, he’d moved them three times, each time to a larger and swankier home. He’d also helped his extended family move out of Liverpool, and tried to never think of the place that he’d tried so hard to escape. Particularly after finding his associates in college and in professional life would often casually insult the North and it’s denizens.
And now here he was. Back again.
He turned his back and got in the cab. The cabbie didn’t bother to turn around to ask, “So, Where to next guv’nor?”
“London.”
The cabbie didn’t bother to comment on the impossibility. The doctor sighed.
“The Hotel Cinthareon, please.”
“Be needing any companions tonight? You know, of the female variety sir? I can lead you to the cleanest prettiest young ladies in all Merseyside.”
“Thank you driver, but no.”
The cabbie shut up after that without another word, not wasting any politeness on the unprofitable. A silence Dr. McCartney could respect
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