So after I drop Calista off at school I stop by the Comal County Courthouse to do my civic duty and vote early for the Texas constitutional amendment election (more on that later). In the front parking lot of the Commissioners' Court building, there's a film crew set up. Tracks on the pavement. Big expensive camera. Lighting crew. A table with muffins and "Kudos" bars piled up (no, I didn't swipe one). One of the crew, a sound guy I'm guessing because of the headphones he was wearing, was getting some coffee.
"What's up?" I ask with well-honed journalistic inquiry. "You guys filming a commercial?"
"Actually, it's a small film."
"Really?" I say. Then, with all the slow-motion inevitability of a train wreck, my brain locks up and I hear these awful, asinine words blurt off my lips: "Good for you!"
Do I ask the name of the film? Do I ask the prduction company? Director? Actors? Writer? No. I say the exact same patronizing, condescending thing all those little old blue-haired ladies said to me at my booksignings when they had no intention of buying my book, but felt bad for me because nobody else was, either.
"Good for you."
I am such an infinite goober.
Now Playing: The Police Message in a Box
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