Last night on House: The doctor who singlehandedly increased the appearance of the word "curmudgeon" in entertainment mags triplefold appears all healed up from last season's gunshot wound / ketamine coma. See Greg run! See Greg skateboard (badly)! See Greg remain Vicodin's bitch! House and the House-ettes tackle two patients this week, one of whom has scurvy, the other of whom has... brain damage? Addison's disease? Pituitary gland problems? I still don't really know. I do know that Cuddy follows House's hunch and cures the guy, and Wilson doesn't want his BFF to know or his head will get too big. As if House's head could get any bigger.
Oh, the joy that filled our vermin-infested abode last night. Our #1 TV hottie of all time returned to our small (read: 13 inch) screen last night, radiating hotness powerful enough to defeat all the world's mice.
The episode was far from the best House, continuing an awkward season premiere tradition in which the actors wrestle with clunky, exposition-heavy dialogue, as though to say, "Welcome, new viewers! Let me get you all caught up on the 48 episodes you missed! No wait, don't change the channel to 7th Heaven reruns!" It also saw the recycling of the classic tune "You Can't Always Get What You Want" over the ending credits, as though to say "The rights to this cost a fortune! We better milk Mick Jagger for all he's worth! No wait, don't change the channel to Anderson Cooper 360!"
The Patient(s) of the Week plotlines were confusing, but the crux of the episode seemed to be House wrestling with his emotions (or lack thereof.) Now that he's as limber as Christina Aguilera and drug-free, Greggy-poo can't block out all those pesky human feelings with Vicodin. He takes on non-interesting patients because he wants to help, and then becomes so uncomfortable with this that he subjects them to a barrage of painful tests just to spice things up. It's kind of like what would happen if Spock stopped being whatever he was (OK, I never watched Star Trek) only funnier. By episode's end, House is forging Wilson's signature on a prescription for his trusty Vicodin. Must... defeat... the kindness...
Jeanette and I related to this theme perfectly. We both pride ourselves on having no souls (we even have the script memorized for our imaginary program, "The We Have No Souls Show") but of late we've found ourselves inexplicably moved by... well, the types of things ordinary folks find poignant. For instance, we both... cried... over summer reading. It's really weird - is this a hormonal, twenty-something thing? Or delayed reactions after years of repressing things without the aid of prescription drugs, but with the sheer willpower that must wear off at some point?
I hope it doesn't last, for us or for House.
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