Filming at the Manse

“Yeah, that was hot, baby!” is what I am pretty sure the guy with the English accent said in our yard. Was that the fourth or fifth take? I can’t recall. Vic and I were upstairs pretending not to be interested at all, but watching every move through our office windows.

We’ve got gawkers on the sidewalk, crew running cables, and our neighbor is soon destined for HDTV. And there’s that guy sounding like Madonna about the place.

Just a warning: this week, you’re fair game for having your voice or image exploited in perpetuity if you come to visit us.

While I am on the subject of Reality, I’d like to announce that I’ve become addicted to the wreck of dreams that is American Idol. Thanks to illegal posting on youtube, snarky reviews on Slate, and the fact that results are given more prominent treatment than another solider’s death in Iraq, I guess it was inevitable.

One of the horrors of this recent addiction is you find me on Wednesday with numbing songs from twenty years ago drilling a hole in my pundit-addled brain wondering about Ryan Seacrest’s sexuality and tan.

Ah! Am I surprised that Melinda was voted off. No, I am not. And that my friends, is just a tiny bit pathetic.