The sacrifice-him or sacrifice-the-integrity-of-the-news moral dilemma that television news producer Holly Hunter (Jane) reluctantly approaches in her relationship with the lovable but vapid reporter/anchorman William Hurt (Tom), who has faked tears while reporting a story, seems a tempest in a teapot now.

Still…. as I began the yearly first-sorting of the tax receipts yesterday,  I watched the movie again.  And what still holds up is the razor-sharp dialogue, most of which comes out of the mouth of the wonderful Albert Brooks, who, by the way, sure as hell should have been nominated for an Academy Award this week for his work in “Drive.”

Great moments in “Broadcast News”:

TV news employee who has just been permanently laid off: “You know I’m just old enough to be flattered by the term ‘ early retirement.’”
Paul, newsroom boss (warmly):  “That’s wonderful.  What a lovely line. Now, if there’s anything I can do for you….”
TV news employee who has just been permanently laid off:  “Well…. I certainly hope you’ll die soon.”

Jane:  “So you like me, huh?”
Tom:  “I like you as much as I can like anyone who thinks I’m an asshole.”

Paul (sarcastically):  “It must be nice to always believe you know better, to always think you’re the smartest person in the room.”
Jane (sincerely):  “No…… It’s awful.”

Aaron:  “Wouldn’t this be a great world if insecurity and desperation made us more attractive? If “needy” were a turn-on?”

Tom:  “What do you do when your real life exceeds your dreams?”
Aaron:   “Keep it to yourself.”

Universal CityWalk Cinemas Stadium 19 IMAX
Los Angeles, California

One of the many sloppy sentimental behaviors that I have demonstrated towards my two dogs over the years has been to croon to either girl that she always has been the “dog of my dreams.”

Lola has just stared at me patiently, waiting for the moment to pass, but whenever I have gazed into Red Dog’s big brown eyes, she invariably has broken the mood violently by affectionately trying to lick my nose.

Yesterday morning, the unrelenting face-licker and most playful of dogs, died.  Up until her last night on earth, I was still wrestling Red Dog for possession of deteriorating tennis balls, still having to go re-roll the toilet paper in one of the bathrooms that she had gleefully spun off of  the holder, and still playing hide-and-seek with her up and down stairways.

She was probably 13-years-old.  We don’t really know her age because one of my best friends found her wandering hungry and thirsty on an Arizona highway when she was about 2 or 3. The dog became the third member of a canine pack allowed to wander unmolested through a 20-acre property in the desert.  However, she also created her own pack by befriending a group of wild javelinas with whom she ran on a regular basis (A javelina looks like something you get if you mated a Vietnamese pig with a Tasmanian Devil).

No one ever officially gave her a name.  Because this wasn’t the first dog to be rescued by the Arizona family, she remained without a monniker until a home could be found for her.  That had not happened after a year, and the family members just kept referring to her as the “Red Dog,” because of her stunning auburn coat.

Red Dog would have permanently remained in Arizona, but, unfortunately, she drove her adoptive family nuts.

“Do you want another dog?” queried my friend Martha somewhat desperately over the telephone more than once,  “This dog whines all the time. She needs too damn much attention.”

“Bring her to The House of High Need,” I finally said.

Red Dog and Martha both got what they craved.  After Red was deposited here, the dog instantly received 99.9 percent of the petting she sought.  If she howled because we had stopped scratching her or giving her our undivided attention, we simply laughed and howled right back at her, leaving her blinking and stupefied.

And quiet for a while.

We all absolutely adored her.

It was terrible to get up this morning and not find Red Dog parked beside my bed, her eyes springing open, her ears up, the minute she thought I was showing signs of alertness. My husband is lucky — for once — to be swamped with work this week, and my son university schoolwork, following his return to northern California after the long holiday season visit.

Lola and I, who remain at home,  are going to have to work a little harder at not missing our fallen friend.  I think we will use this opportunity to take some long walks, snorting and sniffing our way through the neighborhood with new fascination.

Very, very, unlikely  …. but …. “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”

Quick now, voracious readers, from what book is that quote, and who wrote it?

(Hint: it has nothing to do with the license plate or its sentiment)

“I like your bag,” said the housewife as she pushed her shopping cart full of groceries and one female toddler past me on her way from the supermarket to her car.

I liked my bag too. It was a Spiderman tote that I had picked up in gross quantities at my local 99¢ Only Store about a month before the Los Angeles County law banning plastic shopping bags went into effect.

Not that I lack tote bags.   I must have 20 or 30 of them floating throughout my house in varying strengths and sizes, all of them printed with advertising or spouting big thoughts. But the idea of loading my food into Spiderman bags tickled me. Besides, I didn’t want to cough up the 10¢ per brown paper bag the markets now are charging for bags that once were free.

It’s almost impossible to live in Los Angeles for any length of time without blundering into a television show or movie being filmed.  This can be a charming or downright annoying event, depending upon the street traffic or the amount of lighting equipment blocking the entrance to your favorite shopping destination.

Not so long ago my husband and I were about to dig into a couple of shrimp salads at the “Bubba Gump’s Shrimp Co.,” located in the Universal Citywalk, when we were almost blown off our window-side seats as the USC Marching Band stomped by, appearing literally out of nowhere.

The band’s performance was part of a parade for an upcoming episode of “America’s Next Top Model” being filmed that night at the Citywalk. The theme of the season, or this particular episode,  was Great Britain, and the parade boasted young, topless men whose chests were painted to match the British flag. Sailing by in convertible cars also were show regulars, photographer Nigel Barker and tranny diva J. Alexander, better known as “Miss J.” There also was a balloon-covered float containing what apparently were the contestants of an upcoming season waving happily to the cheering crowd of tourists.

There was, however, no Tyra Banks.  She had not down floated down from Mt. Olympus for this particular shoot.

My husband ignored all of commotion.  I could not, and wandered outside to see if there was a photo to be had.

And this where you really hate the entertainment industry, because of the arrogance and sense of entitlement that often goes right along with it. The producers of “America’s Top Model” were very happy to include the roaring crowd of tourists in their shots, as well as all of the accompanying free publicity for the show received by literally stopping the Citywalk visitors in their tracks for a good half an hour at least. Yet, these same producers wanted to control what was photographed by those tourists.

Working hard for their money were black-shirted ATM storm troopers marching along the route who, with exquisite timing, whipped out giant pieces of cardboard  to block a shot, whenever someone as about to snap a photo of the float full of girls.

This, I assume, was being done to protect the identities of the contestants before the season could air.

All it really did was piss off the photographers, most of whom just trotted ahead of the slow-moving parade to get a better shot.

Well, a least one photographer…..

Victoria Gardens parking lot
Rancho Cucamonga, California

Electric windows, power steering, anti-lock brakes, and eyelashes optional.