Thursday, October 26, 2006
The weather in Dallas was unusually foggy Wednesday and I found myself out and about with camera in tow. I took a photo of the enormous light at LBJ & Preston, and I got a space-shippy future-echo of the light due to its reflection somewhere in the camera mechanism. Coolness. Golly, I love my camera.
I eat sometimes at a diner where you may end up seated next to strangers, and invariably one overhears conversation whether they want to or not. Generally, it's very congenial and invites comment from strangers - a pretty friendly atmosphere. Today, however, I was sitting quietly trying to digest my magazine when a clucking trio of hens were seated next to me.
These ladies were of a certain age and talked about their hysterectomies ("I had mine in '99" one said) as though they were members of an elite club. THAT was bad enough - I had to choke down my lunch while hearing about people's female troubles. Ick.
But it got worse. So-and-so was violently ill and went to her doctor and he prescribed one antibiotic after another until one day, he wasn't even in the office and they referred her to a urologist, who miraculously cured her mystery illness with one little pill. With the same breathless reverence you would use to describe the town's most exclusive caterer or interior decorator, one woman said "urologists are so great!" and the other ladies twittered their hearty agreement.
She went on to say that her urologist had many famous patients, including a rock and roll superstar whom she named. Somehow, I doubt one of England's all-time superstar rockers stops between L.A., NYC and London in Dallas for a quick check of the old plumbing. I could be wrong: said urologist may be declaimed far & wide on graffiti in the hallowed pissing grounds of the rich and famous, but then again, who gives a rat's ass?
I think if I had the sad occasion to visit a urologist, I'd keep mum about the whole event and try to put it behind me, as it were. But that's just me. What do I know?