PZ Is Ailing

Our Cephalopod Overlord got the kind of phone call from his doctor’s office that no one wants to get, the one that says, “Get to the hospital, like, NOW, and if your university has a time machine, we suggest you use it to get there sooner.”  Now he’s wearing the latest in hospital fashion and waiting to see if they slice-and-dice or merely poke a few holes in him in the ay-em.

I’d be a bit more worried about him if my grandfather’s ticker hadn’t outlasted his mental faculties, and this in an age when cardiac medicine was a bit more primitive than today.  There’s an excellent chance PZ will still be one of the Horsemen when I’ve become a doddering old fool.  Still, one worries a little.  Okay, a lot.

And wonders what should be sent in lieu of flowers, because flora just seems wrong somehow. And I doubt they’d let a bouquet of sea anemones in the door.  So, balloons!



And something warm to cuddle up to in those drafty hospital corridors:



Best o’ medical science to ye, PZ!

Get Well Wishes for George


Elitist Bastard extraordinaire and friend of the cantina George W. just had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad birthday. Last thing you expect is to end up in the hospital.

Kudos to Mrs. DoF for getting him to the ER, the doctors and nurses who are getting him better, and all the lovely science that made it possible.

We’ll keep your chair empty and your glass full until you’re ready to belly up to the bar again, mi amigo. Let us know if you need anything in the meantime.