Good Night, and Good Luck

Saturday night we went to the Grove (with a lobby right out of Grand Hotel) to see a film that couldn't have been more in contrast with the surroundings. "Good Night, and Good Luck" was a superb motion picture. It ought to be seen by every one in the country. So go, now, and see it. See it for all the Karl Roves of the world. Alas, the only special effects were the seamless blending of newsreel footage into the film; not a hobbit or explosion in the entire flick. Thus, it will probably be seen only by the predictable handfull of usual suspects in the Blue States.

Damn, but that was one elegant lobby. The only thing missing was an espresso bar, with one of those huge old-fashioned copper espresso machines. That and perhaps Garbo or Bette Davis gliding elegantly past. We had to settle for seeing Jeffrey Sanker blabbering away into his cell phone.

Sunday night, the thunder and lightning was so fierce it set off all the car alarms on the block after one explosion. It was a quick morphing from"These are a Few of My Favorite Things" in "The Sound of Music" to the scene from "Poltergeist" where I found myself counting "one thousand, two thousand, three thousand, ...." Then another "boom!" knocked a poster off the wall.

Monday night was even worse. I rolled over in bed and realized the roof was leaking... right next to me. I ended up, much later, laying down on my sleeping bag just before dawn. I'm still drying out the clothes that soaked up the dropping rain. So much for their "unsinkable" new, unleakable roof.

Today it is supposed to dry out. I even had a glimmer of sun for a brief moment, but I'm not going to put too much hope on it holding out. Maybe by tomorrow I'll find myself back in the Southern California I know.

Perhaps it was the lunar eclipse, but it was a bad day all around: my nephew had his car stolen, my brother lost his cell phone, the manager of the building had his apartment broken into (but at least in his case the perp was caught... he never got further than the far end of the block).

With all that was going on, I forgot to celebrate Karl Rove's fall from grace.

Monday night's "CSI: Miami," while featuring a horrificly trite script, did offer a brief, but inspirational glimpse of Adam Rodriguez that was a true testament to the Men of Miami. Yeah, I know he's actually from New York, but he and Eddie Cibrian (who actually is Cuban-American), Naveen Andrews and Matthew Fox, and Freddie Prinze, Jr. (yet again another sit-com with a recycled sophomoric script, but I could watch him with the sound off) make it worthwhile to watch tv. That and my nightly dose of "Sex in the City" re-runs. Still the most intelligently written show on the tube, and it's what? five years old now? Did I forget to mention Josh Duhamel? I'm afraid I'm over the gardener. Jesse Metcalfe may have all the prerequisites, but he's just too... I dunno, whiny and easily forgotten. Bree's breakdown alone at the dinner table at the the end of season one was one of the best acted moments in television I can recall in a very, very long time.

Just where are all the gay "Lost" fans, anyway? Someday should have started a fansite by now. I got a kick out of someone on the net figuring out how to get the numbers (and if you watch the show at all, you know what numbers I mean) to correspond with lattitude and longitide to a location in the South Pacific. Cool. But even with a $340 million jackpot, I'm not planning on buying a lottery ticket.

How I stumbled across it, I don't even remember, but the little webclip of Paul and Frank of the BS Squad was downright hilarious. I don't care if they're really gay or not... if they don't secure the needed funding for any project they have in mind, it's only because of their own lack of marketing skills. That, and more invitations to Fire Island than they could possibly respond to (or want to).

Screaming babies... and they're not any of my nieces or nephews (the little darlins'). So I'm outta here.