Monday, July 28, 2003
What About Bob?
To recap: I'm on a 5-6 hour cycle with my pain medication. Waking up is the worst part of the day because it has been up to 10-11 hours between pills. I leave a Vicodin and a laptop on my nightstand; when I wake up, I take a pill and then fire up the wireless internet connection so I can surf for about 20 minutes while I wait for the pain-killer to kick in, and then get out of bed. This morning, I went online and learned that Bob Hope was dead.
Side note: there is a crazy lady in my office, I'll call her "Liza", who plays a perverse game with her brother to see who can be the first person to call their mother whenever a celebrity dies. Hey, I didn't make the rules, that's just what they do. Bob Hope has always been the Brass Ring, the Golden Snitch of the game. Whenever someone died - Buddy Hackett, Katherine Hepburn, Mr. Rogers - we would hear about Bob.
Back in bed, at this point I didn't know if Mr. Hope had been dead for 5 minutes or 5 hours. My Vicodin hadn't kicked in yet, but I knew I had to call Lisa - I mean Liza. I climbed out of bed and staggered to the phone. Ow. Ow. Ow. It was sort of like a horror movie where the hero gets slashed by the monster and then struggles to get to the gun to save himself. I made it to the phone and called the office, and her assistant answered. I'll call him "Curtis". (and why wouldn't I? That's his name.) This was no time for pleasantries, so I just yelled into the phone "Bob Hope! Bob Hope! Bob Hope!"
Alas, I was not to be a hero today. Curtis just laughed and said "you're way too late." Liza had already spoken to her mother, and won the Golden Snitch. I crawled back to bed, secure in the knowledge that this Morbid Madness had finally come to an end.
Yeah, right.
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To recap: I'm on a 5-6 hour cycle with my pain medication. Waking up is the worst part of the day because it has been up to 10-11 hours between pills. I leave a Vicodin and a laptop on my nightstand; when I wake up, I take a pill and then fire up the wireless internet connection so I can surf for about 20 minutes while I wait for the pain-killer to kick in, and then get out of bed. This morning, I went online and learned that Bob Hope was dead.
Side note: there is a crazy lady in my office, I'll call her "Liza", who plays a perverse game with her brother to see who can be the first person to call their mother whenever a celebrity dies. Hey, I didn't make the rules, that's just what they do. Bob Hope has always been the Brass Ring, the Golden Snitch of the game. Whenever someone died - Buddy Hackett, Katherine Hepburn, Mr. Rogers - we would hear about Bob.
Back in bed, at this point I didn't know if Mr. Hope had been dead for 5 minutes or 5 hours. My Vicodin hadn't kicked in yet, but I knew I had to call Lisa - I mean Liza. I climbed out of bed and staggered to the phone. Ow. Ow. Ow. It was sort of like a horror movie where the hero gets slashed by the monster and then struggles to get to the gun to save himself. I made it to the phone and called the office, and her assistant answered. I'll call him "Curtis". (and why wouldn't I? That's his name.) This was no time for pleasantries, so I just yelled into the phone "Bob Hope! Bob Hope! Bob Hope!"
Alas, I was not to be a hero today. Curtis just laughed and said "you're way too late." Liza had already spoken to her mother, and won the Golden Snitch. I crawled back to bed, secure in the knowledge that this Morbid Madness had finally come to an end.
Yeah, right.
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