I had a beer before strolling home through the Fort Bragg night, streetlights faintly aglow. The sidewalks had that special smell that said it had just rained, or maybe was raining, and it got heavier as I walked home until it was streaming down my head. My hair started to twist into clumps which would later develop minds of their own and plot world takeover. The nice thing about the rain is that it’s hard to tell if you’re crying or not, so if a cop drives by you can totally fake it.
“Oh yeah, officer, everything’s cool. Golden, even.”
We watched Goodnight and Good Luck, and it was good. Edward Murrow was an interesting man. I have a lot of respect for a man who believed in something strongly enough to throw his career away over it, I tell you what.
I stayed out of the movie debate entirely, too focused on my own inner thoughts. The rest could have settled upon pretty much anything and I would have watched it, mutely, not really comprehending the plot in the slightest. Sometimes that’s an advantage in large groups of people arguing over a movie. I should hone that skill.
I had the song “TV Star” stuck in my head, and as I walked home I sung, under my breath:
“I’m in love with a tv star…drove me home in her Lexus car…”