Haines His Way

Oh DR CILLA LIZ - when you're meeting up with Scout today, don't forget the Putnam County Playhouse - we're doing TKAM this September and anything that you can get for our display case will be appreciate.  We will of course reimburse you!

Thanks!

Lets put him together correctly:

Richard Brinsley Sheridan (manager, Drury Lane Theatre)

der Brucer

Friday , April 21, 2006
PORTLAND, Ore. — An Oregon man who went to a hospital complaining of a headache was found to have 12 nails embedded in his skull from a suicide attempt with a nail gun, doctors say.

Surgeons removed the nails with needle-nosed pliers and a drill, and the man survived with no serious lasting effects, according to a report on the medical oddity in the current issue of the Journal of Neurosurgery.

The unidentified 33-year-old man was suicidal and high on methamphetamine last year when he fired the nails — up to 2 inches in length — into his head one by one.

The nails were not visible when doctors first examined the man in the emergency room of an unidentified Oregon hospital a day later. Doctors were surprised when X-rays revealed six nails clustered between his right eye and ear, two below his right ear and four on the left side of his head.

How about an Angie dance, DR derBRUCER?

Sorry.....  

Well, she spent the last half hour under the desk locked in mortal combat with Fletcher over a faux bone - having finally snatched the bone, she has retreated to her bean bag where she promtly dropped the bone in favor of a rope one. Four months. and already a fickle women!

Marty is now muching on the faux bone and Angie is back under the desk pestering Fletcher. Maybe when she tires (G_d willing) I can get a picture.

der Brucer

Alone Together
22 Apr 2006 02:35 pm

Eating dinner at a bar the other night, I sat next to a sales rep for a company that produces portable home dialysis units. He was drinking pretty hard, celebrating a deal that he'd just closed and telling me how soaring diabetes rates were going to create ever greater demand for his revolutionary product. I thought he was going to propose a toast to kidney failure.

But what bothered me most about our conversation was the streamlined plastic phone device implanted in his right ear and connected via Bluetooth to the Palm Treo lying on the bar in front of him. Every minute or two the earjack would light up, suddenly pulsing white and blue, and I'd forget whatever I was saying to him or whatever he was saying to me. Finally, I asked him what the light was. "That just means the thing's turned on," he said. As he said this, he was looking at his Treo screen, which he did about every thirty or forty seconds. His face changed -- had some important message arrived? Still speaking to me, but without much focus now, he tapped out a line or two of text with his amazingly prehensile thumbs. He'd left the scene, I sensed; he was somewhere else. At headquarters, perhaps. And I'd been placed on hold.

I didn't like it. I never like it. And it happens constantly. I'll be in the middle of what I take to be a sincere human interaction with somebody and they'll start cutting in and out -- checking the Blackberry, texting on the cell phone, stylus-ing the electronic calendar. No apologies, either. No 'excuse mes.' As though a mixture of physical proximity and electronic separation is the accepted new mode of social togetherness. I swear I've seen couples out on dates who speak to each other only when the menu comes, to negotiate their appetizers, and then drift off into conversations with others until the check arrives.

And yet they call it "communications technology."

When the dialysis salesman returned to earth, I committed a faux pas by asking him what he'd just been writing about. I thought I was entitled to ask this question because he'd been conducting his business in front of me. I found out otherwise. He glared at me. What kind of spying busybody was I? The warmth between us never returned and we ate our salads in different universes, staring at the TV behind the bar. The light in his earjack pulsed. I paid my tab. When I left, I mumbled a goodbye, but the salesman didn't acknowledge it. He was tapping on his keys.

--Walter Kirn

Harold Prince and or Stephen Sondheim (separate meals so I could do both) are also on the list.

Before I go, Larry, do you know anything about a song called "The Torpedo and the Whale" The composer's last name is Audran and it's done by the Columbia Stellar Quartette in 1918. Anthony has found a couple of wonderful sites full of old cylinder and 78 recordings and he came across this song. We haven't done much research yet but he thought you might know something. It sounds like a theatre song.

I am not sure that "Would you like to change into something a bit more comfortable, Mr. Barrett" would be considered a conversation, TCB.