They were showing Harold Lloyd movies all night on TCM. That was enjoyable, even though it meant that I got nothing done. They've moved on to a bunch of Eleanor Powell movies now, but I can't stay up to watch those. I have to limit the amount of time I spend in the twentieth century. Anyway, I always have a hard time watching the one- Born to Dance- in which they were unwise enough to make Jimmy Stewart sing. I'm cruel enough to say that he was no Brando. Hell, he wasn't even a Shatner.
Some deer were afrighted again tonight, but it wasn't my fault this time. I happened to be outside when they were grazing in the yard on the corner, and the automatic sprinklers there came on, making that loud, choking spurt that sprinklers make when that first burst of water and trapped air shoots out, and the poor, dampened deer went bounding up the street in terror. Still, it was less pathetic than Jimmy Stewart singing.