I have promised myself -- and you -- that I wouldn't let this go the way of my old website, with months between updates and, eventually, silence. Maintaining a website is a lot more work than keeping up with a blog, so hopefully this is one promise I will keep.
On the other hand, being a full-time freelance writer makes its own demands and the bank that holds the mortgage on our apartment is even less forgiving than people who read a blog. (Hmm, I wonder if the bankers are reading this blog . . . naaah.) And Walter and Stella, our cats, insist on being fed regularly. So when an editor at the Jewish Journal of LA asks for a story on an art exhibit, I gladly agree, even though the time might be as well spent watching a film for the benefit of you lovely people. And when the lovely and wise Margo, my better half (or as the late Earl Wilson used to call his spouse, the b.w., i.e., beautiful wife), says "Let's watch a crime show on BBC America, I need to see lots of people being killed artfully," I have to concur.
Okay, she never puts it that way, but I know what she means.
All joking aside, you have to watch movies to write about them. That seems, by the way, to be the part of this job that defies political pundits when they mix in our business. Consider the explosion of would-be film critics that preceded the opening of Spielberg's Munich. I am no fan of Steven Spielberg but I try to see his movies before I pan them. Silly me.
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