Oh, come on.  Do I have to spell it out for you?  Pheochromocytoma. 
Franny and I enjoy watching House on Tuesday nights. It’s good fun to see who gets the diagnosis first. We don’t have great diagnostic skills, but we are quite adept at picking up the clues that the writers plant. I think I beat Fran to the undiagnosed leprosy and the porphyria of last season. Last week’s premiere was rollicking good fun up until we shouted (from opposite parts of the house), “Pheochromocytoma!”

Rick likes House, too, which is unusual for him. Medical dramas just don’t cut it with him. He was enjoying the show. Up to the mention of adrenaline. When you’ve had the tumor of the week, it is not so amusing. (Pheos show up on TV more than you would think. They are a little weird, have strange symptoms and a big name. Removing them in real life is not nearly as easy as the TV docs make it look. Unlike some tumors, they are not snipped out immediately and quickly.) The hat tip to people who do not let their adrenaline turn them into raging maniacs was appreciated: See, you only overcame one of them.  Well, let’s just give Clarence a free pass, hmmm?  Course, you’re probably going to piss off all those other pheo sufferers who managed to control their rage attacks and become lawyers, race car doctors, and even doctors.  Removing that tumor puts a stop to those random shots adrenaline, but doesn’t absolve him.

Last night’s show was good, too. At dinner we had been discussing how totally convincing Hugh Laurie’s American accent is. For an extra degree of difficulty, he did the American accent compounded by nasal congestion. The man is a veritable Meryl Streep.