The Evening Parade at the Marine Barracks at 8th and I in DC was a great way to spend an..er, evening. Before the show itself in the courtyard of the barracks, some of the Marines put on what was practically a comedy show ("No flash photography is allowed during the such-and-such....but that doesn't include now *strikes pose*"). The marching bands are top notch, natch, and the silent drill team is amazing (the only unfortunate part being that there isn't as much of that as in the Sunset Parade). The gals do get a chance to get pictures taken with cute Marines afterward, though.

Heretics of Dune, by Frank Herbert. Of course, I could gush about anything one of my favorite authors writes, etc. I will note a certain fierce pleasure in even understanding the novel, however. I had to read some of the chapter-segments repeatedly, but it was worth it. In Heretics and its sister-novel Chapterhouse Dune have an interesting pattern embedded within them - a plan or intrigue or what-have-you (or several) is set in motion in the beginning of the story. Over the course of the story, clues and even between-the-lines instructions are given, and the astute and persistent reader can solve the various mysteries (I will say with some consternation that it took me to the very last line of Heretics to have any solid revelation, though when I did it combined knowledge of martial arts, religious references, and the kind of quantum mechanics and existentialism from last semester's philosophy).

The Longest Yard, with Adam Sandler and Burt Reynolds. Through some of the jokes seemed forced and the McDonald's thing was just annoying, pretty good, overall. That is, I generally don't like comedies, but this was worth the matinee price, at any rate. And it had what any good football movie should have: awesome slow motion moves. Cousin Freddy cautioned back East that if one had seen the original it wouldn't be a good idea to see this one.

"Irritated one afternoon by a business partner's negativism, I snapped that we had enough problems without him playing the Mercutio in our garden. He was a red-headed Irish-American lawyer, a graduate of Georgetown, no less, where he lost his religion to no comparative effect. He turned beet-red with ire. I thought he would slug me. I still can't figure out what he imagined I was accusing him of, maybe masturbating, but the thrust of my jibe was utterly lost on him."