Sometimes there are inexplicable bursts of hopefulness or good humor. I reflect suddenly and wantonly and apropos of no other input than the haunting and reverb-soaked strains of Bennet’s ‘Tender is the Night’ from my computer speakers; on such things as David Hedison’s face and khaki demeanor on the bridge of the Seaview, or Ray Walston hamming it up in a sailor’s cap on a beach in South Pacific. Looking 80 years old even then.
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