I am spending a few days in Houston and it is hot. Since today is my birthday, I thought it would be nice to go down by the hotel pool and have a drink.
When I asked if there were drinks anywhere, the front desk lady asked me if I meant cookies.
When I asked if there were cookies, she said no.
When I explained that I was thinking it would be nice to sit by the pool and have a drink, she looked really confused.
Drink? What is drink? Eventually she sheepishly confessed that there’s a pub next door to the Shell gas station.
Not exactly next to the pool, but okay, I went for a walk.
The ambience was exactly as you might expect.
I stood inside the door for about a minute, trying hard to reconcile my desire for liquor with my need to get away from the smell.
It reeked of sadness and dead dreams; meth is a hell of a drug. I left, dejected.
So, now I am back in the hotel room watching a Bernie Maddoff dramatization.
With Hank Azaria.
I am a little sad now. Not how I intended to spend my birthday.
Bernie Maddoff is sad.
Robert De Nero is Maddoff. He is also sad.
Hank Azaria in a serious role is just as bad as Owen Wilson or Vince Vaughn. They should stick to what they are good at and stop ruining movies by broadening their range.
When he delivers his lines, all I can hear is Moe Szyslak.