"Politicians are like writers, mercurial and unsatisfied, in a way, alive only when they're invested in a passion." Yasmina Reza

Here's a view from Plymouth last night. As I've mentioned before, my folks weren't holding their annual beach house party, so we had to make do by establishing a new tradition, with some old friends--dinner at Isaac's in Plymouth, followed by fireworks at 9:30.

I'll share some additional photos later, but it was a nice, if not spectacular, evening. The company was great and the food was good, although we had a mousy waitress ("Second day on the job," she mumbled) who kept forgetting things, such as knives to cut the steak or ketchup for Theo's hamburger, looked scared to death when you asked her for anything, and forced you to wait for an eternity to finally have two halves make a whole. Most unforgivable: she forgot the drawn butter for my lobster, and I had to make due, butterless, until I was only left with only two claws.

The hardest part was the drive home. Plymouth only has one road that leads you out of town, so it was literally a two-hour drive home, half of which was spent stuck on the main road of Plymouth. I have to admit, however, it was awfully fun people watching.

###

One element of my "summer of simplification": rather than read the books that have accumulated around the apartment, I've opted to try to plow through the back issues of the New Yorker that have accumulated through the years, which for some reason I 've felt reluctant to throw away until I've read each one from start to finish.

I've always been that sort of magazine reader. I know, I know, it's something of an obsessive compulsive disorder. When I was a kid, I used to subscribe to Omni magazine, and had the same sensibility. Of course, the end result was usually quite the opposite, a hopeless pile of insensibility: numerous stacks of unread back issues, which I eventually relegated to the garbage bin.

One thing I've found is that while I adore the single issues, anything longer leaves me cold. I love the layout and design of the single issue; I love the slick feeling of the pages as you flip through them. I like the variety of subject matter and mixture of short pieces with three or four longish articles along the likes of "Sheldon Adelson's quest for global influence," or "Scenes from a Pennsylvania girlhood." And, I never ever read the fiction, unless it's written by a Chinese author. Chinese writers knows how to tell good, interesting short stories.

However, for some reason, I simply cannot get through the double issues. Of the twenty issues that I have yet to read, half of them are...um, "special."

This is a rare instance in my life of bigger not being better. It just seems to be too much of a good thing. What's appealing about a compact issue becomes tedious in something twice it's size: it's too hard a slog from "Talk of the Town" to "The Critics." By the time of "The Critics," you know you're at the finish line, and you can breeze through to the end like a valedictory lap. But with a double sized-issue, you have to run twice as far to get there, and the issues are usually themed, so that if you don't really care much for a particular subject, it truly is like running uphill.

One article on the mangrove forest of Begal may be just fine. A whole clutch of similar stories? Count me out!

"Did you know that July 4th really shouldn't have occurred on July 4?" Corb asked me, as we were exiting the supermarcado.

Like an explorer wending his way through the jungles of Africa, I struggled to slice my way through the syntax of the sentence. "Why's that?" I asked.

"Well, turns out that the Continental Congress voted for the Declaration of Independence on July 2, not July 4. And, no one signed it until August. John Adams said that the second of July was going to be the most famous day in the history of America. But the thing is, the year after that, Congress forget that they should do something to celebrate the signing until it was too late, which is why we celebrate it on July the 4th."

I started to place the groceries inside the car.

"What do you think about that?" he asked.

"I think it's a good thing we celebrate July 4th on the 4th, because it would have been a big pain in the ass to ask Thomas Jefferson and John Adams to die on different days," I replied.

"What are you talking about?"

"Both Jefferson and Adams died on the same day. On July 4. In fact, John Adams' last words were, 'Jefferson lives,' which actually isn't true, because Jefferson had died a few hours before he did. He just didn't know it."

"Oh. That's weird."

"Actually, I think it's a good thing. Kind of a weird, wacky, magical coincidence." Suddenly, I was struck, out of the blue, by an idea. "In fact, I know what we should do! We should pass a law so that ALL of our presidents die on July 4th! How American would that be?"

"You want to start killing off ex-Presidents?" asked Corb.

"No, of course not! Just the ones who get really, really old. When they're not doing well, or look as though they're going to kick the bucket soon. Whenever they get the word, from a President's wife or Barbara Walters, Congress could get a committee together and work it so that the ex-President ends up dying on the 4th. The television networks can can make a big deal out of it, too, and we can all celebrate with fireworks and corn chowder, and the ex-Presidents will get to make beautiful final speeches, and everything!"

"Before they cross over to the other side..."

"Exactly!"

Corb closed the back of the car, groceries dutifully loaded. "You're a real patriot, Ted," said Corb. "Write your congressman, okay?"

The Premature Burial, Antoine Wiertz, 1854

It's been a while since we caught up with Corb's mother and his grandmother, so yesterday, we took the kids over to Raynham to have lunch at Friendly's with them.

I've actually developed a bit of an almost David Lynchean obsession with Friendly's. I'm not exactly sure why that is. I think I like the faux 1950's sameness of all the restaurants. The other day, I told Corb that my goal this summer was to try and eat at every Friendly's in New England. (Sidebar: I just checked www.friendlys.com, and that isn't going to happen, soon.)

Corb's mother just arrived home from a week in Montreal, and of course, I had to fill her in with all the information on Annie's wedding. She made me promise to wrangle her an invitation to the new wedding location.

And, we talked about ashes. No, not Ashes, my cat-like daughter, but the ashes that you find in urns. As in, cremation.

"My sister Laurie is coming home in July," I explained. "And she was going to bring her partner Jennifer with her. My mother said Jennifer was bringing her dead mother with her, and they were going to bury her somewhere in New England."

"When did she die?" asked Corb's mother.

"In March, I think."

She moved her plate away, shocked. "Please tell me she was cremated!"

"That was the thing." I smiled. "Mom said she wasn't, that they had kept her somewhere all this time. Turns out she was wrong--she WAS cremated. And, that they already disposed of her ashes. She's not coming after all."

"Thank god," said Corb. "I can just see them bringing her on the plane."

"I've sat next to worse," I pointed out.

"My second husband was cremated," said Corb's mom. "Remember, Corb? They delivered the ashes to the house when you were there."

"Oh, God," I moaned. "Please don't say you knocked them over, Lucy."

"I remember," said Corb. He turned to me. "And yes, there was a story, only not that kind."

"Did you glue your hand to the urn?" I asked.

Corb glared at me. "Actually, they packed him in the wrong urn. So, I had to call them back, and they arrived and had to open up the package and pour the ashes into the right one. And my mom called in the middle of that, and I told her not to come home, but it was too late, she was pulling into the driveway. She enters the kitchen, and there they are, pouring the ashes from one urn to another, over the sink. My mother freaked."

"So they just put them in the urn?" I asked. "Don't they protect it all?"

"They usually seal the ashes in a strong plastic bag," said Corb's mother. "A little bit heavier than a ziploc bag. But nowadays, they usually hand you the ashes in a plastic case, which I don't think is very secure."

"Well, it makes for nice freezing, though, I suppose," I grinned, taken with the image. "Can you imagine? A little old widow, on her wedding anniversary. First she takes out a piece of the wedding cake that she's frozen for years in the freezer...then she takes out her husband's ashes from the freezer, places them down on the table next to her..."

Well, I thought it was funny. I probably laughed, a bit too loudly. The kids just looked at me as though I had two heads.

Honestly, I don't think I'd want to be cremated when I head off to the Great Beyond. I've told my son Theo that I want to be stuffed and that he'll be forced to keep my stuffed dead body inside his house. I said I'd arrange it so that my hands are placed in front of me, so that he can put a game controller in my hands, and still be able to play video games with me. He didn't seem very happy with that news, for some reason.

But really, I don't think I'd do that, either. Stuffing seems too messy. How about if I was really still alive? That's why I don't like the idea of cremation, either. I once saw a James Bond movie where...I think it was Roger Moore...no, no, it was Sean Connery, the last one he did...well, the last GOOD one that he did...where he was stuck in a coffin and about to face cremation. It didn't look very pleasant.

I think I'd actually prefer a green funeral. Just place me in a box and plant me underneath a shady tree. That seems to me the most sensible way to go.

And also, if I were actually still alive, it'd be the easiest way, I think, to escape. I think there's a good possibility that I'd be able to claw my way out of a cardboard box. A thick pine coffin would be a hell of a lot more difficult.

Just to be on the safe side, I think I'll attach a little buzzer inside the cardboard box. Well, I mean, a button, that I could push in order to activate a buzzer, sort of like what you get at a restaurant, when you're waiting for a table. I'd bequeath the buzzer to Corb in my will, and if, for whatever reason, I woke up inside the cardboard box, I could just press away, and he could come and dig me out.

Of course, I know there are those out there who will point out that this is merely a variation on a system developed in the late 1800s to prevent premature burial, which is where the phrase "saved by the bell" came from. And, you'd be correct.

For whom the buzzer rings. If it buzzes for Corbett, he sure as hell better answer.

"We don't really know much about this Kate Perry situation, do we?" I said to Corb on Monday evening, as we headed into the supermarket.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Well, I mean, I like the song and all, but it really doesn't tell us much, does it? Other than that she kissed a girl and liked it. I mean, we know that much, because she says it about a gazillion times."

"What else do you want to know?"

"Well, in the first place, why isn't she sure that her boyfriend would mind it? Most straight guys love the thought of their girlfriend getting it on with another girl. In fact, the only reason I can think of that he would mind it is because he couldn't watch. You know?"

Corb grinned and walked through the automatic door. "What else do you want to know?"

"Does she actually like the taste of the cherry chapstick? She doesn't really say. I mean, I guess she does, since she liked the kiss. But she doesn't really say so, she just keeps mentioning that she was wearing it. Maybe she liked kissing her but found the taste annoying?"

"I think she liked it, Ted."

"But how can you be sure? And also, where was her boyfriend? She really should have tried it in front of him. I keep thinking of her like she's one of those college girls who get all drunk and snog with their friends. He'd be perfectly cool with that, I'm sure."

"I'm sure."

"Unless, she feels guilty about the whole thing. Do you think she feels guilty about the whole thing? maybe she liked it more than she wants to admit."

Corb stared at me, cooly, for a moment. "Anyway. What do you want to eat, tonight?"

###

The next night we ended up eating at 99. The restaurant was just about to go through a refurbishment, so that they could make it brand-ier, which I think, personally, is a stinking shame. Now THAT's exactly what we need in this world, he says, sarcastically. More brand awareness.

As a result, they were holding a silent auction, to sell off the kitschy items on their walls and ceilings, for charity. Corb pointed out a few items that he'd like to take home with him.

My eyes focused on a sign in the far end of the restaurant, advertising a Lobster Pot company. It had a large red lobster in the center, carved out from a wood frame.

"I want that lobster," I said. "Only, I wish it was large and more three dimensional, so that the claws would stick out."

Corb grabbed a handful of popcorn. We were waiting for dinner to arrive. "Why do you want that, Ted?"

"You know in those old horror movies, where there are those paintings on the wall where the eyes follow you? I'd want a lobster sign that I could hang on my wall, and I could hide behind it, and operate the claws so that they could pinch people on the nose, by surprise."

"You are completely insane, you realize," said Corb.

"What's so bad about that?" I asked. "I think it'd be fun."

A few minutes, he caught me staring at the lobster again. "What now?" he asked.

"I've changed my mind about the lobster," I said. "I want to put a bee's nest behind it."

"Why in the hell would you want to do that?" he asked.

"So you could pull a claw a honey would squirt out," I replied. "That would be useful, I think."

"Who in the hell would want that much honey?" he asked.

"Okay then. Fair enough." I paused for a moment, and then it hit me. "Okay, the other claw could pour out maple syrup. That'd be good for pancakes, don't you think?"

"Oh, So you're going to have a maple tree behind the sign?"

"Nope, just a beehive," I said. "I think we could get some of them to create maple syrup. They're industrious little fellows. I think if we gave them that as a goal, they could handle it, don't you?"

Oddly enough, Corb wasn't convinced. Seriously, I think we could make a fortune with some of these ideas.

One of the good things about 2008 is that my work has decided to limit the number of vacation days that people can carry over each year, to fifteen. Since I have 50 vacation days built up, that means that I have to use about seven weeks of vacation time between now and the end of the year.

Since our major trip for the year was Disney, that means that I've got a lot of time on my hands, and I'm not planning to do anything terribly dramatic with it.

There is one thing that I do plan on doing: simplify my life. For many years, I've enjoyed living a three ring circus, but these past six months have shown me that what I really want at this point in my life is to focus more on fewer things.

Those would be: my kids, Corb, my work, and my art. Will that be theatrical or creative writing? That I need to really sort out, still.

In any event, I'll be taking three week-long vacations, and also, taking Fridays off all summer. At least. Today, even though it's a Monday, was my first day off.

So, I woke up this morning, and drove to the Registry of Motor Vehicles, to turn in the plates for the car that Corb totaled in May. It was much easier than I thought...pretty much, just five seconds, no waiting, and I was done.

Then I called my insurance company and took the car off the policy. And, because Josie was listed as co-owner of only that vehicle, I took her name off the policy entirely, including as a listed driver. That should save me money, which I'll need, since Corb was at fault for his accident.

Now, I work on the last piece of financial information I need to submit to proceed forward with the divorce.

Then I pick up the kids and enjoy the day!

"Daddy, look!"

Annie scooped up the tree frog from off the top of the mailbox and shoved her hands to my face.

Corb made a face. "I hate frogs."

"You don't!"

"well, maybe I don't mind looking at them, but I hate touching them. Wash your hands when you get upstairs, okay?"

Last night was all about Ashes.

Theo was at a friend's house for a birthday party, so Corb and I had her all to ourselves.

We took her out to Friendly's for supper.

We rented scary movies about seances and vampires.

We even bought a birthday cake the celebrate the birthday of Edward Cullin, who turned 107 on Thursday, apparently (Ashes is not certain about this.)

I like summers. Things seem to move more slowly during the summer. I don't have to worry about school projects or rehearsals. I don't have to worry about lunch tickets or getting up ridiculously early in the morning.

Life is good, especially because I'm not a tree frog stuck on a mailbox.

"I think that Hayley's fecal matter is ending up in my eye," I said to Corb the other day, as we were driving to the supermarket.

After he had regained control of his car and avoided swerving onto the sidewalk, after he had finished laughing, Corb looked over at me in disbelief. "Ummmm...WHY?"

"No, I'm serious," I said. "You know the way she uses the kitty litter box. She always aims wrong and it ends up dribbling over the side of the box, onto the floor. Well, who do you think picks those messes up?"

"Do you pick them up with your eyelashes?" asked Corb.

"No, I pick them up with my mouth, silly," I replied. "It's when I sneeze that they fall into my eye." I paused. "No, seriously. I pick them up with toilet paper, but I feel as though some of it ends up on my hands. And then, if I'm wiping my eye...well, you get the picture."

Corb shook his head, sadly. "Yes, I think I do. For some reason, I decided to get involved with an insane person."

"It's not insane! This is a serious thing, Corbs. My right eye's been itching all day, and I think it's Hayley's fault."

"Well, I'll be sure to talk about it with Hayley when I get home," said Corb. "Right after I make a few calls and check you into an insane asylum."

Hmph. No respect, I tell you.

###

Is it me, or am I the only one who finds this "Bleeding Love" song to be kind of creepy? "If you cut me open, I'll still be bleeding love"...I mean, what is that all about?

What kind of sequel are we going to get? "If you clip my toenails, I'll still be nailing love?"

I just think it strays a little but beyond romantic into...I dunno...a Freddie Kruger movie or something. Why would anyone want to cut her open to see if there was love in her blood? Wouldn't that hurt? What kind of boyfriend does she have there, anyway?

###

In case you haven't seen this video, it provides about all of the reasons I can think of to vote Republican this year...not. No, seriously, if you haven't seen it, it's worth a look. Pretty much sums it all up!



###

And finally, one of my favorite actresses of all time died yesterday. I loved Cyd Charise in Snging in the Rain, Silk Stockings, and most especially, The Band Wagon . "Dancing in the Dark" was a beautiful song with beautiful choreography, and she looks like she's in heaven, if you ask me, dancing with Fred. Scenes like that don't come around but once a decade...if ever again.

"When I row on the varsity crew..."

“Mmmmmm, I was waiting for this moment,” said Corb, his blue eyes looking me up and down, beaming.

“What moment is that?” I asked, and reached deep inside.
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Somehow, writing even a few lines makes the person who does it more substantial and real. In geometric terms, it's like the difference between a point and being a plane. Ian Frazier

On opening week-end
Opening night we had an audience size of 240, with only 70 tickets left to sell. The audience was incredibly enthusiastic, and I think that's what did the trick.

I was quite proud of my cast. We went from barely getting through the show on Tuesday ("A four hour production of Anything Goes," grumbled my costume designer, Daniel) to a good, but not great, dress rehearsal/free Vets performance, to an opening night that was just fabulous.

I downed three martinis last night, at our local watering hole. Corb sat next to me, watching, amused, as I progressively slumped further and further into a merry buzz. It had been the first time I had anything to drink for months, but I felt I deserved it. That night, it was all about celebrating life.

I read the first review of the show on Monday morning. "The director uses the 1987 version and creates a high energy musical masterpiece...Ted shows his versatility in the excellent direction of the dialogue. His blocking of the show ensures that all the performers are seen at all times creating some splendid picture post card moments."

So, I guess I pulled it off. I deliberately set the bar high, and made this production challenging. It could have been easy, but I decided not to take the easy road, this time around.

And yes, for those wondering, that old high school friend who tried out, Kevin, did show up to opening night.

On Obama and Hillary
Of course, political junkie that I am, I've been avidly following the end of the Hillary Clinton/Barak Obama campaign with great interest. I surf the lefty channels as much as I can. I particularly like Michaelangelo Signorele, who never fails to be interesting.

One thing I don't understand, however, is why so many individuals on both sides of the Hillary/Obama divide are so vitriolic about the opposing candidate. But perhps that's because I'm such a relativist, and can never see anything as black or white.

Personally, I think Obama would be well advised to take Hillary as his running mate. She did win almost half of her party's delegates, after all, and, according to which source you choose to believe, the majority of the popular vote (I think, by the way, that last statement is highly debatable). The point is however, that he would be smart to select somewhat who clearly has struck a chord with a large number of Democrats. Frankly, I think they'd be unbeatable together.

What I find very surprising, though, is the amount of hatred some Obama supporters have for Hillary. Come on, already...your guy won! Now's the time to play nice.

In particular, there are quite a few women for Obama that seem to be particularly nasty about Hillary. I'm really not sure why that is frankly.

I know that Josie wouldn't vote for Hillary. "I couldn't trust a woman president," she said. "She might have her period and blow us to bits." I found that attitude quite puzzling, particularly since I think Hilary's long past her fertile cycle.

The common word I hear is "bitch." And that makes me sad, because I feel she's fought a mostly honorable race. She has been aggressive. Even today's news that she would consider the vice president spot was kind of ballsy. But, so what? It reminds me of something Lyndon Johnson would do. But of course, when a man does something like that they simply are said to have balls. Why can't a woman have balls without being called a bitch?

On Chemistry
For over twenty years, I've had this work connection with a very nice lady named Lou.

Well, actually, her full name is Guadalupe. She's originally from Ecuador, and decided somehwere down the line that Lou was easier for people to say.

We originally started working together before I was married, at a sad little place called Chadwicks. After a few years, I moved on, and a year after that, she moved with me.

About eight years ago, I moved into a writing position, and Lou stayed where she was. We’ve kept in touch, although it’s gotten a bit infrequent these past few years.

Just on a whim, I sent her some information on Anything Goes, because she always enjoyed my whimsical little productions.

And later, that exact same day, I was eating lunch with Sarah, who recently joined our department and sits next to me. And she mentioned her husband, who also works for the company, and the person who sits to her, named Lou.

Turns out that her husband sits right in front of Lou. And I sit right in front of Sarah. What are the odds, in a building that contains over a thousand people?

I don’t know, I find it weird. And, I like the connection. There's a certain comfort to it.

###

Beluga!

"Dad, how long has this chicken been here?" Theo asked me, just the other day.

We were looking inside our refrigerator, and I was ashamed to admit that I think it had been there since Corb went to Georgia. "You don't want to know," I said, glancing at the picture of Bette Davis that we keep on the second shelf. "I think Baby Jane is younger than that chicken."

That'll be the nice thing about getting this show past me. Cleaning out the fridge. Wading through the pile of receipts that I have on my desk. Paying bills on time. Having my evenings to myself. Having my lazy Sunday afternoons back to myself, more than anything.

This has been fun, but there's been a lot of turmoil that has made things difficult. Some of it fun, like Disney. Some of it not so fun, like Corb's accident.

I'm looking forward to the next chapter. And, of course, I'm nervous about tonight. Will everything go off as planned? Fingers crossed!

So, how's the show going? Well, tomorrow night is opening night, and we had our first preview performance last evening. There are still pacing issues that need to be worked out through practice, and a few costume/sound glitches took place last night, but I like the changes I made to the show, and if the group can kick it up a notch, I'll be satisfied!

In fact, I wish I had changed even more. I sorely wish I had been able to use "Take Me Back to Manhattan," and have Erma sing it as a neurotic New Yorker desperate to jump off the ship and return to her concrete jungle. That would have been hysterical.

The pulse is good in the cst...tired, but pleased with their work. The audience was quiet last night, but they were mostly older--it was a free veteran's performance, and there were a few disabled people in the audience. They reacted very strongly to "Blow Gabriele," where I have an old lady in a wheelchair suddenly "find salvation" and jump out, doing a cartwheel. People always respond best to things that come closest to home.

Anyway, more photos underneath...I threw some beefcake in..more to come...
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"When that ineffable compound of depression, sadness (the two are not the same), anxiety, self-hatred, sense of failure and fear for the future begins to steal over you, start telling yourself that what you have is a hangover...you have not suffered a minor brain lesion, you are not all that bad at your job, your family and friends are not leagued in a conspiracy of barely maintained silence about what a shit you are, you have not come at last to see life as it really is."

Kingsley Amis

Last night, after shopping for cars, Corb and I ended up at a restaurant that Buns and josie and I used to frequent, many years ago. It's a Rhode Island tradition called Greggs, and the air was filled with the smell of vinegar from the french fries and the harsh sounds of thick Rhode Island accents. Good food, though.

We sat in back of an older couple who were evidently on their first date. He was wearing a big cowboy hat and a jean jacket with "Loretta Lynn" embroidered on the back. She had a mop of tossled grayish hair piled atop her head, and a commanding voice immediately got my attention. Corb and I just sat there, listening to the conversation as if it were dinner theater.

"Now, I'm an alchoholic," she said. "I admit it! So if I ever do anything to embarrass you, or say something loudly that I shouldn't, I totally understand it if you just say to me, 'Look. That's it.' I totally understand it, and I wouldn't blame you one bit. Because I've done that, you know. Had too much to drink. Said things. Embarassing things. So if you, 'Time out,' I totally get it."

He had a scratchy, throaty voice, from one too many cigaretts. It was hard to hear all that he said. "No, I don't think that'll be a problem. I totally..." And then his voice died down.

The conversation bubbled up after a few minutes. "So he dove into the water, and when he came back up, I could see, clear as could be, that he had tears running down his eyes."

"How's that possible?" Corb asked me.

"And I looked at him and said, end of sentence. End of story. That's it."

He mumbled something to her.

"Yeah, my friend Janice had the same thing happen. And I said to her, 'kid, cry your eyes out, Go into a room and just let itr all out. And then, when that's all over, look in a mirror, wipe the tears away, put your make-up on, and go out there and face him again. Because that's all you can do, you know?"

I tell you, it was better than listening to Lynn Samuels.

The one thing that's been in short supply this week has been...sleep.

With the show going up this Friday, last week was our move into the theater, and it meant many late nights. Wednesday night, in fact, I didn't get to bed until three, and then had to wake up to six to get Ashes to school. Even during a rehearsal, the duties kid duties don't end!

That Thursday night, I was exhausted, but pleased with many things, including the way the set was coming together, some of the fun props that were being brought in (such as a bear-claw bathttub for Mr. Whitney to bathe in), and the projections that I'm using during the show. Oh, and the orchestra, which sounded wonderful.

Only one major flaw: the infamous "marriage" line. Come Thursday, one of the more homophobic members was actually hissing and making faces every time it was said, and the Captain, who was delivering the line, was visibly shaken, and couldn't even recite it properly.

So, I did the best thing, given the situation: I cut the line. It would be one thing if it were just a few people, but since my goal was to bring people together, not divide them, and since divisions were starting to show, and badly, I had to be the bigger person, and make the cut. If it had been essential to the plot, that'd be one thing, but it was just a dumb joke.

About five minutes after announcing it to the cast as part of my Friday notes, I received the following message from the same exact person who had been hissing the night before:
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Usually, the rule of thumb seems to be (at least, in my experience), the smaller the plane, the less turbulance you experience.

That wasn't the case yesterday. We had one stopover, and the plane to Clevland was about the size of a sardine can, but it was smooth sailing, all the way. Theo, who had spent days worrying about the flight, even said it was fun, and wanted to do it again.

"Great, you will!" I said. "Only it will be in an even bigger plane, so it will be even more fun!"

Famous last words. The plane ride from Cleveland to Orlando was choppy and turbulant, from the moment we took off.

Anyway, we're here! We spent the evening in Magic Kingdom last night, and I got to visit my Holy Land: Spash Mountain.

Last time I went on Splash Mountain with Theo he was five, and he hated the experience. He loved it up until the watery descent down the laughing hole, and then it was all downhill from there. He swore bhe would never go on it again.

Of course, that was then. Now, at eleven, he went on it, full of trepidition, and came out of it a true believer.

Annie and Josie, who were flying in a separate plane, did not have quite as much fun. Annie was planning to pick up a rental car, which I had warned her not to do, telling her that we were taking a taxi in, and that they probably had a shuttle from her hotel to Disney. When she arrived at the rental place, she was told that since she was under 25 there would be a $150 surcharge and they would hold $300 of her credit. Josie wasn't any help because her credit's shot and she could only pay in cash, which they wouldn't accept. The man behind the counter at Thrifty didn't want to hear it and wasn't interested in helping further, even though it was 11:00 at night and they were a mile and a half from the airport. Fortunately, there was an information person nearby, who took pity on them.

They ended up requesting a taxi, but he didn't show up until 12:30. Annie was a wreck, and eneded up throwing up, and jumping into nbed the minute she got to the hotel. Unsure if we'll see them today, but I think they'll come around, after they recover from their experience.

Let's hope. Today's Disney Hollywood!

Off to Disney. I need this vacation!

Perhaps the apartment management is finally making overtures to try and repair our strained relations.

Things grew bad after the squirrel episode, but ever since the infamous shovel incident in December, I haven't said a word to management, and was resigned to living life here management-free, until we move out. I even started looking around at condos, while Corb was away in Georgia.

Well, with the play taking up so much of my time, I just never got around to paying the rent, which is due on the fifth. I was going to pay online last night, but I guess I got distracted by a shiny light or something.

So, at work today, I received a voicemail message from Jeannie, our office manager. "Um, tell, can you call me...about...um, something?"

It had to be the rent, of course. Why else would she not say what it was about?

So, I called her back, preparing to be nagged about the importance of paying in a timely fashion, it's part of my contract, etc.

"Sorry about that," I said, when she got on the phone. "I've been directing this play, and..."

"Oh, really? A play?" she asked. "Where are you directing it?"

I told her the name of the college. "And what's the play?"

"Anything Goes."

"I love that play!" she said. "Do you mind some free publicity? We can promote it in our monthly newsletter. Do you have anything you could write up?"

"Well, yes, actually," I said. "I can print out the press release..."

"Do that!" she said. "And we'll include it."

"You know, I was going to drop off the check the other day, but it's past the fifth, so I figure I'd better just pay online..."

"Ah, just drop it off," she said. "You're Ted, after all."

Hmmm. What brought this on? Me likey.

Okay, so in order to start turning all this around (because it's high, high time to start turning all this around), I think I need to actually start listing the things I'm grateful for, these days. Such as:

--I'm grateful that the SciFi channel is playing new episodes of Doctor Who every Friday night, especially because we just finished watching the second series last night, and it will be awfully nice to see Rose back around, in the future. Besides, we like Catherine Tate.
--I'm grateful that Corb and I will be going off to the Cape today, just to get away. Tomorrow he leaves for Atlanta for two weeks, and I will miss him, terribly.
--I'm grateful that Ashes got on the honor roll, once again.
--I'm grateful I was actually able to get a full night's sleep, last night.
--I'm grateful that the scab on my head is drying up. Bald men shouldn't have scabs on their heads.
--And finally, I'm grateful that this day is absolutely gorgeous. The breeze traveling in feels wunderbar!

During periods of stress, people often embrace the mystical, the tribal, the occult, as a means to bring sense and order to a situation or circumstance that otherwise defies logical explanation.

“I’ve been this person, I’ve acted this way,” is the internal dialog running through your mind. “How did this occur?”

Periods of stress are when omens take on greater significance. That’s when one takes a look at the tea leaves surrounding the shattered vessel that represents one’s existence, in order to try and make sense out of it all, and undoubtedly, to read more into the shadows than are actually there.

Okay, yes...yes, there is a point to this. I promise! You see, some of my longtime friends may remember Damien, a demonic/cherubic looking lawn statue that’s figured prominently in such charming stories as “The Stoned Guest,” a lovely tale that our first cat, Thumbkin, told in his personal journal, about his attempts to violate Damien’s stoned orifices. Yes, it’s just as sordid and revolting as it sounds.

But Damien. Ah, there you go. Damien's one of those shadows.

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