One hour into "The Singing Detective."

I'm over at Larry's with my DVD of "The Singing Detective," watching the first episode of it while I'm doing laundry. The show, which first aired in 1986, is completely looped. Michael Gambon's spending most of the scenes in the first episode covered with makeup. It makes it look like he has a sort of bleeding psoriasis head-to-toe. His skin is decaying, though his body is still alive. He's unable to move without incredible pain, so he's having these delusions about a song-and-dance detective story. At least, that's what I can tell from watching the first hour or so.

Robert Downey Jr. was in a movie remake of it this year, and that got a lukewarm reception. (I didn't see it, even though it was at the Madstone, because it was only playing one time a day during its first and only week there. I took that as a sign of its quality.)

The BBC miniseries, which I'm watching now, is supposed to be one of the greatest moments in all of television.

I thought Larry and David might want to watch it with me while I was over here doing laundry, but they went to the New Order, which is this older-leaning gay bar behind the Publix at Ansley Mall. Occasionally during the week, I think a woman comes in and plays jazz standards, encouraging people to come up and sing with her. I always, you know, wanted to do that. But everytime I've been in there, they look at me like I should be accompanied by a parent or guardian.

So I'm doing my second load of laundry, watching a BBC miniseries that my father told me yesterday that he liked. He said it was too weird to be boring, even if it made as much sense as "Twin Peaks." I'm seeing for myself that he's pretty much right about that.