Jones. Bond Jones.

Reviews for the new James Bond film, Casino Royale, are starting to pour in, and they’re almost uniformly glowing. Even the SF Chronicle loved it! They don’t love anything.

Time was, the Hollywood marketing machine had me squarely in its sights. Any decently assembled promotional campaign was enough to set me vibrating in my socks at the prospect of being first in line to see the latest essential release.

I’m long past that. I’m forty years old now! But I’ve still got a serious jones to see Casino Royale. My sister Suzanne, who long ago surpassed my own once-considerable movie-mavenhood, is coming to visit in a couple of days. She’d be the perfect Casino Royale viewing companion — but she’s vibrating in her socks so much that she can’t wait and is going to see it tonight.

Maybe while Suzanne is here, she can watch the kids while Andrea and I go see it. But Andrea and I get out together so seldom that it’s hard to justify spending two hours sitting still, neither looking at nor talking to each other.

What’ll I do? What’ll I do? (*smack*) Quit whining and do what James Bond would do: go it alone. Parachute in in the dead of night, get in, see the late show after the kids are asleep, get out, get the job done.

Update [18 Nov 12:40am]: Saw it. It rocked.

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