The Big Chill

So I'm in the Philadelphia Public
Defender's office.

My clients were the scum of the earth.
Extreme repulsivos.

One of them got caught
in the house.

He and his friends beat up
the husband, rape the wife...

...then tried to blow the place up.
When I ask what happened, he says:

"I was in Montreal at the time."
Who'd you think your clients would be?
Grumpy and Sneezy?

Huey and Bobby.
I don't know.
I just didn't think they'd be...

:27:28 guilty.
And then?
Then I left.
A law school friend is at a firm
in Atlanta doing real estate law.

I went to see them.
The offices were very clean...
...and the clients were only
raping the land...

...and then of course
there was the money.

El greedo strikes again.
Sarah has that robe.
Not this weekend she doesn't.
I always jump her
when she wears it.

Harold, don't you
have any other music?

Like, from this century?
There is no other music in my house.
There's been a lot of terrific music
in the last 10 years.

Like what?
How about you, Michael?
Tell us about bigtime journalism.

Where I work we have
only one editorial rule:

No writing longer than an average person
can read during an average crap.

I'm tired of having
my work read in the can.

People read Dostoyevsky in the can.
But they can't finish it.
This certainly is a familiar scene.
I'm feeling very guilty about it.
I'm happy to be here,
but I'm sick about the reason.

I'm going to bed.
I'm sorry.
We could talk about something else.

That's okay. I'm exhausted.
Good night, everyone.

I'll be up in a minute.
Good night, Sarah.
Harold, I'm sorry.
We all feel that way.
I forget what this is like.
In L.A., I don't know who to trust.