The drug of a nation

A brief glimpse into my private world. In the course of our phone convo last night, MB mentioned that she was getting ready for her big Thursday night line-up of Gray's Anatomy and Private Practice. Yeah, I know, wow; same here. Never having watched Gray's Anatomy or Private Practice because, well you know, I don't have a vagina, I'd dismissed Gray's as General Hospital with younger, prettier actors for a younger, prettier audience. Oh, and it is comes on at night. Private Practice, I mistakenly thought, was that Bill Shatner/James Spader legal boilerplate. That's Boston Legal, apparently. No, I didn't really care either.

But MB did and rushed to defend her stories, assuring me that Gray's was hardly a General Hospital knockoff. Why they've got real storylines involving real medical issues. Oh. And Private Practice is actually a spinoff of Gray's. Before I could offer, "You mean Private Practice is the Port Charles to Gray's General Hospital. Far out," she provided an example of the realistic medical issues the show tackles: some chap has had the misfortune to go and get worms in his brain. Bummer. I suppose the writers thought having the character die in a car accident after sleeping with his sister's husband only to come back to life as his father who's really still himself was a bit over the top. Whatever, just get to the pretty folks getting it on.

One of supposed benefits of being sick this week is that I've had plenty of time to flip around the channels and catch all those programs that I'd otherwise ignore. So when I stumbled across VH1's 100 Greatest Songs of the Last Days, or maybe it was the 90s. It doesn't matter. If it does then perhaps it's time to do those sledgehammer/head experiments you've been hoping to get around to. Anyway, the particular song I caught was Ricky Martin's Livin' La Vida Loca and after the requisite 'wisecracks' from professional quipsters, the announcer provided that Mr. Martin hopes to one day adopt a child from each continent. Wow. Brangelina, the gauntlet has been thrown down. Consider yourself warned, Antarctica.

No reason was given, but what else has Rick got to do these days? Personally, I'm kind of looking forward to the Martin family Christmas photo. The Rickster, his 6 little kids of varying sexes/continental backgrounds sitting around the hearth in yuletide bliss while his seventh son, a burly, bearded dude in a heavy-weight parka and snow boots, throws back another tall boy. Livin' La Vida Loca, indeed.