‘House’ recap: Experimental haze
Well, we knew from the start that it would be difficult to top Foreman’s dead-body sewage explosion from last week. But this week’s House ick factor, a food fur ball, certainly gave it a run for its money. Gross, I know, especially if your dinner consumption coincided with the exact moment a hairy, menacing growth flashed on the flat screen. Thankfully the diagnosis was surprising and freak show enough to save this episode for me despite a tepid patient story line.
I’ll jump to the solved/unsolved mystery here because, until that epiphany from House, I was just focused on hating this week’s continued subplot, which revolved around the Watsonian sidekick to Sherlock House, a PI named Lucas Douglas. That character reminds me too much of those goofy crime solving show protagonists on Monk and Psych. I know those series are supposed to be good and pretty entertaining, but I’m sorry. Do. Not. Get. Them. This personal glitch made me realize that I miss the Wilson-House rapport just as much as House does. An entire episode without resolution left me feeling as frustrated as House did when Cuddy took his cable away and he couldn’t watch his favorite soaps.
Well played, House writers, because now I’m hooked and shall return next week in hope that my favorite TV couple can patch up their palship.
This week’s medical drama, which featured Clueless’ stoner cutie, Breckin Meyer, as a crappy artist who secretly participated in scary clinical drug trials to make coins and tricked his pretty girlfriend into thinking he is a money-making Picasso, was a wee bit lame. If you are having brain issues, and are in the hospital, and will possibly die, why would you keep it a secret that you have been sucking down non-recreational drugs with unknown side effects? Who among you, my fellow hypochondriacally inclined, would leave out this key piece of info while filling out the hospital intake form — or at any other phase of your treatment, for that matter? If death is a your next big option, I am pretty sure you aren’t going to skip over the question “Are you currently on any medications?”
Okay, drug addicts will lie, but the diagnostic-test marathon was boring compared with last week’s, when a patient got to have the top of her head sliced off by the hot surgeon Dr. Chase, who seemed so nonchalant about it that he might well have been making a sandwich using her cranium as a deli counter.
NEXT: Wrong diagnosis