![[personal profile]](http://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Thank you all for the birthday wishes. Much appreciated. I am only now catching up with emails and LJ and whatnot. I didn't have much time or web access during the past ten days. Wendy and I were down in Anaheim at Disneyland, which was lovely. I hadn't been there in an unconscionably long time and I had a great time riding rides and prattling on and on to poor Wendy about all the Imagineering trivia stored in my throbbing melon-like skull. And grumbling loudly about various minor changes I disliked. Though I did enjoy the Johnny Depp animatronics in Pirates Of The Caribbean. Every girl should have one, really.
I'm 39 now, which, famously, was Jack Benny's eternal fake age in his radio and television shows. Also, Jack and I were both born on February 14, so I may just stay 39 for the duration, depending on the vagaries of the plastic surgery budget. Which at present is modest.
During the week, we spent some time with my ex-brother-in-law and his ex-wife and their lovely daughter. Somehow, despite all the complications, we're all still family, and that's a very nice thing. We also got to spend a few good hours with![[livejournal.com profile]](http://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
explosivo on my usual mad incompetent dash to the airport. On my birthday, I was given a huge "happy birthday" button, which contained a hidden mind-control chip causing all the Disney cast members to respond cheerfully with preferential treatment across-the-board. Free food, premium ride seating, frighteningly obsessive birthday greetings, you name it. A good day for the ol' broad.
All of this was not, alas, enough to fend off the exotic collection of Flus From Many Lands to which I was exposed, so I've been sick since I got back. Last night I had a fevered dream where I was filming a Pennebaker-style documentary of a low-key concert starring my dad and Rick Danko from The Band; on the flight home the pilot intentionally crashed the 747 into a group of protesters who for some reason were picketing the flight; the pilot's last words were "Everyone get your cameras out and on the count of three, everybody smile and say DIE!. One---two---three!" and the plane smashed into the ground. Somehow I survived, rescued my recalcitrant ex as well as Melanie Lynskey, and tried to save Shelly Long, who was in steerage with what looked like the pool boy. Ms. Long declined my generous offer of rescue. "Nah," she said, groping the pool boy, "We're gonna stay here and fuck."
Then the plane exploded in a horrible, cheesy, Manimalesque video overlay.
Probably I need antibiotics. I have an insane fever. Also, among countless other similarities, my dad and Rick Danko were the same age when they died. I did not know that.
I don't know much else. I'll try and get caught up on LJ when lucidity permits. Hope you are safe and well.
I'm 39 now, which, famously, was Jack Benny's eternal fake age in his radio and television shows. Also, Jack and I were both born on February 14, so I may just stay 39 for the duration, depending on the vagaries of the plastic surgery budget. Which at present is modest.
During the week, we spent some time with my ex-brother-in-law and his ex-wife and their lovely daughter. Somehow, despite all the complications, we're all still family, and that's a very nice thing. We also got to spend a few good hours with
explosivo on my usual mad incompetent dash to the airport. On my birthday, I was given a huge "happy birthday" button, which contained a hidden mind-control chip causing all the Disney cast members to respond cheerfully with preferential treatment across-the-board. Free food, premium ride seating, frighteningly obsessive birthday greetings, you name it. A good day for the ol' broad.All of this was not, alas, enough to fend off the exotic collection of Flus From Many Lands to which I was exposed, so I've been sick since I got back. Last night I had a fevered dream where I was filming a Pennebaker-style documentary of a low-key concert starring my dad and Rick Danko from The Band; on the flight home the pilot intentionally crashed the 747 into a group of protesters who for some reason were picketing the flight; the pilot's last words were "Everyone get your cameras out and on the count of three, everybody smile and say DIE!. One---two---three!" and the plane smashed into the ground. Somehow I survived, rescued my recalcitrant ex as well as Melanie Lynskey, and tried to save Shelly Long, who was in steerage with what looked like the pool boy. Ms. Long declined my generous offer of rescue. "Nah," she said, groping the pool boy, "We're gonna stay here and fuck."
Then the plane exploded in a horrible, cheesy, Manimalesque video overlay.
Probably I need antibiotics. I have an insane fever. Also, among countless other similarities, my dad and Rick Danko were the same age when they died. I did not know that.
I don't know much else. I'll try and get caught up on LJ when lucidity permits. Hope you are safe and well.
