I could have said "trunk," I suppose.

The plan was to go to a car show on Saturday in DC. I'm always into showing people how metropolitan I am, so any excuse to go into the big city is usually a good enough one for me. I agreed to this on Friday night, the day before the show, after watching some seven or eight episodes of House season 3, if that gives you any idea of the mood I was in.
Its unfair for me to imagine anyone else has an idea of what mood that is, and further detrimental to the story if no one knows the main character's state, so I'll elaborate a wee bit on that point. House is a show with Hugh Laurie and little else as far as I'm concerned. He's so good and gets so much of the screen time that the rest of the show is tolerable: the friends and co-workers pushed to their limits day-in, day-out, the seeming non-events that span the time in-between medical mysteries fit for the world's greatest pathologist and diagnostician, the failure to approach the details of medicine with even a remotely gentle hand (occipital lobe, you idiots, its called the back of the brain, do you know front from back?), and for all the writers' attempts and pushing the show in new directions, it still falls short suffering from acute main-character-itis; the fact that no matter what happens in the episode, everything will be just the same as ever in the next one.
Oh sure, they try at story arcs and plots twists and recollections from ep to ep, but either these recollections turn into direct retellings (that is, not rewarding anyone for having watched the previous episodes) or they serve to write off events that could have taken place rather than exploring them more (bullet wounds, anyone?).
Every time, it could be an auto-immune disease, cancer, or an infection. Week in, week out. You shouldn't watch this show if you like medicine. You should not watch it to figure out what the nature of the illness is. That would be tragic and awful and boring and you wouldn't get to watch Hugh Laurie act circles around that gang of hooligans or enjoy yourself in the slightest. If you want answers like that, keep reading your pre-med text book and stop interrupting.

The reason you should watch the show is that it is Nero Wolfe. Sure, we have medical mysteries instead of murder mysteries. We have an eccentric anti-social genius doctor instead of an eccentric anti-social genius detective. We have a team of the best doctors around in place of Archie Goodwin, Saul Panzer, Fred Durkin, Orrie Cather, and occasionally Johnny Keams. And you know what, you never really read Nero Wolfe mysteries to find out whodunnit, either. You read because that brownstone apartment on west 35th street in Manhattan is your apartment. The men inside it are your family and friends. Their trials are yours and their victories are too. Rex Stout lets you get to know these men while you read.
The same is true for House, and it is this fact that makes the show so good. Who the hell cares if it turns out to be sarcoidosis, septicemia, amaloydosis, non-gonacoctal eurethritis, rheumatoid arthritis, scurvy, lupus, cancer, or pox? Show us the actors chewing things up with the scenes and each other, just keep the following things in mind:
House rarely actually does work. Most of the episodes have him suggesting what leads to the answer, not him even finding the answer.
The answer is in the most mundane places.
The doctors will discuss everything but the job while doing the job; whoever ends the conversation by mentioning some discovery about the medicine in question loses the argument.
Answering questions about medicine is actually an adult game of tag.
Doctor Cuddy also doesn't actually do any work, but is better at making it look like she does than House is.

Anyway, all that is about the mood I'm in while watching House. I don't give a damn about the medicine, because if you do the show will be torturous. I give a damn about feeling at home with friends, and the show delivers.
And then Darryl walks in the door and pipes up loudly about going to a car show the following day, and after deliberating with myself about the benefits of going to DC versus to drawbacks of having to be around Olga for more than a few minutes, I decided to go along.
Granted, she was at the time I was deliberating making my decision harder by conjecturing loudly about the outcome of the case on the screen. Loudly enough that I couldn't hear the TV, and in that special sarcastic tone of hers that makes my skin crawl and makes Darryl climax apparently.
And I went along because a supposed majority of the hivemind was going to be there and what the hell, I actually like riding the metro into DC so there's no way the whole thing could be a wash. Nothing I had planned recently seemed to be coming up right, so why not give someone else's a go?
I had other reasons for going.

The next morning we're on the trip out and the company on the voyage is about as unpleasant as I expected. It is nice to know, sometimes. Anyway, a stiff dose of pretty distractions can take the edge off of that, so I only had to wait until we were at the car show. Except there was a cover. Darryl hadn't told me there was an entry fee, although I should have guessed. I had guessed, but my guess was about one-third of what the actual price was. I'm not sure why they had to charge so much at the door, I asked if it included boxed lunch or something and I was told negative.
Well scuppering buggerfish, I wouldn't have it. I figured I would chillax with the others while waiting for the rest of the entourage and then cast off in another direction once everyone was safe. Darryl agreed to call me after they got out and I cast off, making Olga envy me because I got to go to not a car show while she was stuck at a car show. Must be annoying to be with your loved one all damn day.

I went walking around DC. I walked from the con center to 13th and U near the U street metro exit where rests Mocha Hut. I ordered a large and filled it with their Creme Brule and sat outside and sipped while the sky darkened because the inside was filled with college kids making use of the wifi. Before I got there, though, I met a woman in a chair who asked me to help push as I passed. I was the ideal candidate for the job, so I walked over and found the handles on the back amidst the various baggage, mostly garbage bags and padding of different kinds and colours, and helped her up the hill while I asked where to. She just needed a little push to the bus stop as the motor was going low on juice. The sky was clear then and the wind biting. She asked me a few general questions and told me about herself and her life, although most of it I could gather from the extended period of examination I got once the motor kicked out on our way into the bus. She flagged the driver on saying she would catch the next one around. She told me about herself while trying to bundle up by withdrawing a glove from one of her bags and bunching up the left sleeve of her sweater about the other hand. Her sweater and hat were inside-out to help keep them clean and fresh. She cried gently all the while talking to me, with no effect on her tone. Most of what she had with her were wrappings and padding of all kind, so much that she was on the edge of the seat, propped against the great pile of them. Doubtless most of it of double or more use. I didn't ask her name and she didn't give it. She didn't ask mine and I didn't give it. There was no need. I learned she will be 62 in February, she had a 21 year old son, she once saw a heroin addict with crutches and no sense of shame, she eats the peels of apples, oranges, and potatoes along with the rest of it, she knows her way around the city and a couple places to get good coffee, and a few other tidbits.

So no, I'm not a source of pity. Just human presence and kindness. I had no words of scolding for how she may or may not have earned what she got, nor words of charity or encouragement as if I knew what she needed to hear to help her out. I didn't say any of that crap because it would have been a little wrong, a little out of place, and a little out of character. I'm not a champion or a deity, just a guy who will give a chairperson a push when she asks.

I walked for hours. I thought of walking for more or sitting down some place, but there was a considerable menace in the air for people not doing anything in particular like myself, and anyway it would probably be hours still until Darryl, Dan, Kat, and Olga were done not getting their money's worth (an aside, Libby opted out for feeling sick to her stomach, and I toldya so), so I decided to head home. I hopped aboard and went back to the Springfield station, disembarked the train and walked home. I certainly walked more distance and more time in DC that day, but man did Springfield feel longer and harder. I had some delicious rice to look forward to as well.

So pardon me if I don't feel like taking the stairs for a few days.

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