So the local old-movie theater is running the "final cut" of Blade Runner. I'd seen some version of it a few years ago, so we figured, hey, why not, y'know? Lots of fun, and I think a bit more gore than the version I'd already seen. But my memory of it was kinda hazy, so I'm not entirely sure it ended the same way.

I was kind of surprised to see Harrison Ford in the lead role, since I seem to have confused it with equally hazy memories of Runaway, which stars Tom Selleck.

Coming out of the theater around seven, we decided to get a burger or something at Charlie's, and started walking the block or so to that fine establishment, when we were overtaken by aethucyn, who was also going to dinner and also considering Charlie's, so we invited him to join us. The new beer garden was full; the downstairs was full, so we went upstairs. The jukebox was loud ("you kids turn down that music!!") but we managed a conversation in between and over the top of the music. Always a pleasure.

During dinner I was groping in my mind for the movie I'd confused Blade Runner with, and also couldn't come up with the name of Tom Selleck. My word-painting skills are insufficient to conjure his picture, so vivid in my own mind, in anyone else's, so the conundrum waited til this morning for a solution.

Calcifer seems to be the name we've picked for the orange kitty. It suits his fiery temperament and his orange color. He and the two dogs hung out with us on the bed in the guest room for a while last night, and beyond an occasional hiss to remind the dogs to keep their distance, there were no incidents.

Poor Rocky hates fireworks. He sat on the couch last evening panting and shaking. When we went up to visit the cat, I ended up sitting with him on the floor; he shoved his ribs up against my leg and that seemed to calm him.

And now, it's Saturday (again). A week can never have too many Saturdays.