Actually, we have a house. Or we have an agreement to rent a house for a while. Wahoo! It is on the southern side of Santa Monica - not quite walking distance to the pier or Third Street Promenade, which is actually fine with us as congestion tends to surround those places. It is, however, ten blocks from the beach and a few blocks from Santa Monica College, which supposedly has a very nice community pool. It's in a very quiet and boring neighborhood full of single-family homes. There are three apartments crammed in a sort of giant shack out back, but other than that it's a plain old house and we have it all to ourselves. The kitchen is tiny, but it has a gas stove and is bigger than my last kitchen (thank God). It comes with a fridge, which can be rare out here. The bathroom has a tub. There's closet space, hardwood floors, a fireplace and a crazy little mirror/drawer thing built into the wall.
We looked at it last week at an open house and almost immediately were looking at each other wide-eyed. "I know," Art Boy said. "Shh, there are other people here." We took an application and went to fill it out in the car, so the other viewers wouldn't think "oh shit, this place is happening, we need to fill out applications too." After everyone else had left, the landlord came out to ask what on earth we were doing, so we explained our strategy to him. Art Boy likes to think that's why he called US yesterday to offer us the place.
By the way, I am now openly referring to him as Art Boy since, as my roommate, he is no longer able to pay me calls. (My parents' opinion of this situation is yet to be determined.) He was a nice gentleman-caller, but he's an even nicer Art Boy.
By the way 2: Kelly, we both thought Superman was great. I couldn't believe how many tightropes it walked without falling: the Christ imagery; the, yes, stupidity of Lois; the voyeurism of Superman; the nastiness of the "Weren't there two of those?!" scene with the dogs, which made me laugh out loud even though it's the kind of thing I normally hate. (It's Parker Posey's delivery that does it.) Thinking it all over puts me in mind of Snake in his wallet-inspector scene: "Oho, I can't believe that worked!" But it so did. The sweetness and poignancy of the Superman legend holds the whole thing together - he'll always be lonely, and even his mom can never really be his mom (didn't it kill you that she had to wait outside at the hospital?). I love the passing-the-torch storyline that develops - the final scene in the bedroom just gave me goosebumps. Very Tattooine-esque. And the scene where he takes Lois up ("But not like this") was the sexiest completely chaste love scene ever. But poor James Marsden, always being the comic-book cuckold.
Anyway, Art Boy and I will hand out our address when we find out the zip code. Rock!
Update: Apparently we are contributing to an area-code shortage! How strange. As if figuring out the freeways here wasn't hard enough.
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